5

He stood, arms crossed, looking out the window, when Lily entered. The guard shut the door behind her. She set the tray down on the table and said:

"You're awake."

"A searingly acute observation. " He spoke without turning.

Lily smiled to herself. She could hardly fault his sarcasm. Or his attitude, since he was an unwilling guest. He still wore the pyjamas he'd been in when he'd been carried in three days before. She made a mental note to get him some clothes, then said:

"I don't miss a thing."

She set about transferring his breakfast from tray to table. The room and its adjacent bathroom were luxuriously appointed and very secure. A comfortable prison, at least for the moment.

He turned to look at her, startlingly blue eyes cool, face impassive.

"Breakfast," she proclaimed, indicating the table.

"No, thank you."

"It's all perfectly safe," she said. "I fixed it myself. No poisons, no sleeping drugs. Just food."

He glanced at the food, then back at her. "How long was I unconscious?"

She gazed at the ceiling. "About 72 hours. I don't know exactly because I don't know when you woke up today."

He came over to the table, looked without interest at the food. "It looks good," he said. "And it smells good."

Lily shrugged. "Shall I serve as your boeuffetier?"

He looked at her. "Who are you? Why am I here? Where is here and what do you want?"

She picked up the tray and glanced at the door.

"I'm Dr. Xavier's niece. You're here because he had you brought here. Here is Vermont. I'm not familiar with the area so I can't narrow it down any more than that. I don't know what my uncle wants. As to what I want: Eat your breakfast before it gets cold while I go find you some clothes to wear." She looked at his feet. "And shoes. What size shoe do you wear, Mr. ...?"

"Dante. Edmond Dante. Size eight."

"I'll see what I can do."  She picked up a spoon from the tray and handed it to him, then went to the door, nodding at it. "If you're going to start tunnelling I'd advise you to do it quietly."

When she returned he had eaten the breakfast and she could hear the shower running. She left clothes and shoes on the bed and collected the dishes.

He came out of the bathroom along with a rush of steamy air, toweling his hair dry.

"Hello again," she said, feeling her cheeks burn. "Your clothes are on the bed there." She nodded at it, becoming deeply absorbed in adjusting the cutlery on the tray.

He lowered the towel. "The service here is excellent, but I have to check out today."

Her smile vanished. "I don't think you can."

"What is your name?"

"Lily."

"Lily," he said. "Your uncle probably intends to kill me."

She met his gaze, but her thoughts were on the guard on the other side of the door. And the monitoring microphones throughout the room.

"Your UNCLE intended to kill him," she said, keeping her voice neutral as she fiddled with the fork and spoon.

"We meant to stop him," he said. "The machine he invented was dangerous."

"You blew him up," she said, still fingering utensils. "I don't blame him for being angry." She straightened up, not yet lifting the tray from the table. "I hope you enjoyed your breakfast." Look at the tray, she thought fiercely.

"Last meal?" he asked wryly. "Yes, it was very good. You--"

"If there's anything you didn't like," she cut in, gesturing at the tray, "tell me. I've been instructed to make you comfortable."

Preoccupied, he only glanced down. "It was fine."

Sighing, she picked up the tray. "I'll bring you lunch at one. There are books--" She nodded toward the tall bookcase across from the bed. "You'll have to entertain yourself."

"When does your uncle plan to start ... entertaining me?"

She went to the door and knocked, sliding her hand across the tray and disarranging the debris. She glanced back as the door opened. He was at the window again.

"Come on," the guard snapped. She left.

After the girl had gone Illya sat in the windowseat.

It had taken an unnervingly long time for his mind to become clear -- or at least what he thought was clear -- after he'd regained consciousness. He still had a headache and some blurriness of both vision and memory.

He vaguely remembered a knock at the door of his apartment. Around dawn -- he recalled that there had been some light as he'd padded barefoot to the door.

A girl. Not the girl here, Lily, but someone he'd seen before?

Alice. Of course. Alice, Mrs. Blankenship's granddaughter. A pretty, counterculture sort of girl with long blond hair. Illya had run into her a few times in the elevator or the hallway. Once, by the mailboxes, they'd argued amicably for a quarter-hour about Stravinsky.

It was Alice who'd come to his door in the wee hours, barefoot, flowered dress, blonde hair long and loose, her expression worried.

He should have been more careful. He didn't remember seeing anyone else, nor did he have any idea who'd hit him or what with.

He remembered Dr. Xavier, though, with a chilling clarity. Wondering whether the doctor wanted simple revenge or the more complicated kind wasn't a very cheering distraction. The former was unlikely since he was still alive. The latter -- being used as a guinea pig for the doctor's brain-washing device -- might make him prefer death.

Illya had seen the machine at work, and had some idea how it functioned, a variation of aversion therapy. It first broke down the victim's ego and defenses, then rebuilt them, centered around Dr. Xavier's personality and desires. Not as fast as simply killing someone, but ultimately an effective retraining tool, much faster than the old techniques, which took weeks or even months.

Dr. Xavier was clearly better financed here than he had been in Bogota; that suggested the good doctor had found himself a patron. Guards passed into and out of view on the lawn below with depressing frequency, in states of annoying alertness, and to no discernable pattern. They had a THRUSH look about them.

Lily. Dr. Xavier's niece resembled him, black-haired, black-eyed. They were a handsome family. She might be a weak link in the fence Dr. Xavier had built around him.

Inevitably, then, Illya thought of Napoleon. And rescue -- the two were synonymous.

The thought of the hangover Napoleon would have awakened with made Illya smile, even in his present situation -- mostly because Napoleon had several times gotten the better of him in their debate. He should know better than to discuss women with his partner, drunk or sober.

It would doubtless be a few hours before he would be sufficiently missed for the machinery to begin, but that still meant Napoleon had had 48 hours to begin a search -- if Lily was being truthful in telling him how long he'd been out. His physical state had backed her up, though.

He could picture the forensics team going over his apartment, Napoleon standing over them, driving them with orders like whiplashes. Then he pictured his partner wading through mounds of files, trying to determine which of their myriad enemies was responsible. Illya had to wonder if anything in those files -- even in the Bogota file -- would point his partner in the direction of a secluded Vermont house.

He made a thorough search of the rooms, locating but not disabling all the hidden microphones. He didn't need to plot out loud, after all, and if he destroyed these they might use some more obtrusive methods to monitor him.

The window in the bedroom was securely sealed -- cemented, as far as he could tell. No convenient ventilation ducts, no ceiling or floor panels to let him into crawlspaces, no matches or anything to make explosives or incendiaries with. The guard he'd glimpsed outside was large and armed. He could've picked the old-fashioned lock on the door if he'd had the tools. He didn't.

The bathroom window wasn't sealed shut, apparently because it was too small to escape through. Or was it? Illya filed that prospect away for consideration when it was dark, or when his mind was a little clearer. He felt just enough off-balance mentally and physically that he hesitated to trust himself with any extreme activities until necessary.

From the window he could see that the house was on a rise, overlooking a broad lawn that ended at the edge of the woods. In the distance he glimpsed a lake, then more forested hills rising to distant mountains. The house seemed old and large, as far as he could tell, clearly isolated. The neatly trimmed lawn was an island of civilization in a sea of pines, carpeting the slopes that descended in gentle ridges to the lake below. No structures broke the thick blanket of wilderness save for one other house, facing this one across the lake. Even if he got out of the house (when, not if, he told himself) he'd have a long stretch of nature to fnd his way through. He could as easily die from exposure, starvation or an animal attack as from anything Dr. Xavier might do to him.

At the back of his more urgent concerns he located some annoyance that he hadn't managed to put a stop to Dr. Xavier's machinations. That was a matter of professional pride. He smiled at that irrelevant thought and lay down on the bed to take a nap.

At midnight he went into the bathroom, opened the window, and considered.

Carefully relaxed, he slowly worked his arms and shoulders through the opening. That was the hardest part. There were techniques -- he used them. Finally, after much wriggling and scraping and wedged-in pauses to reconsider, he found the right angle and process and he was free, from the ribcage up.

He paused there, breathing deeply of rain-scented air, to scan the ivy-decorated brick walls and the manicured lawn below. A guard passed. Illya watched, leaning heavily on whatever god it was who saw to it that people didn't look up.

After the guard was out of sight he searched for, and found, what he'd hoped for in a house this old -- external pipes. One ran about two feet to the left of the window.

Hands flat against the clammy, clay-smelling brick wall, he heaved himself farther out, bracing his thighs against the window frame as he reached for the pipe. It shifted a little when his left hand wrapped around it, but the brackets held.

He twisted to get his right hand onto it and scraped the rest of the way out the window, clinging, elbows and knees grating against the bricks. One deep breath and another survey of the yard below, then he climbed down, dropping into a crouch in the shrubbery to breathe deeply of the chill clean air and consider his options. The second took longer.

Sticking to the road would be dangerous. Plunging into the woods, without food, water, map or coat, could be fatal. Illya decided to make for the lake. At least at the house he'd seen across the lake there might be food or a telephone. He'd try to travel out of sight, but keeping the road in view as much as possible. Some element of ego rendered him loath to have "eaten by bear" in his dossier under "manner of death."

The nearby crunch of boots on gravel made him shrink. Two men walked past.

"--commune, at the lake, naked as damn' jay birds."

The other man laughed. "Hippies. Kids today don't know ..."

The voices faded. He watched the guards until he felt he had a good idea of their patterns, and the route he could take across the yard to avoid them.

Illya darted out from the bushes, making for the line of tidily trimmed shrubs that marched alongside the drive. He scurried along behind those for a while, stopping in the shadows of an oak to catch his breath and reconnoitre.

I shouldn't even be out of breath. But a drug that knocked a man out for three days was bound to have some nasty lingering side effects. He touched his face; his fingers came away wet despite the coolness of the night air. Kneeling in shadow, blood hammering against his temples, he watched a guard pass in front of the house. He used the time to get a good look at his prison. A big old brick colonial, two storeys, columns and all. No lights shone in any of the windows. Though the guards carried hunting rifles rather than THRUSH issue, Illya had little doubt as to whence the funds for all this had come.

He sucked a deep breath into his lungs and lunged to his feet toward the woods.

"Hey!"

The shout sparked an adrenaline explosion in his gut; he ran harder, taking a zigzag course. No bullets followed, only heavy footfalls, thudding closer.

Why aren't they shooting? The question -- or rather, its likely answer -- made him run faster.

He plunged into the pitch-dark under the eaves of the forest, the guards at his back.

"Got him!" one shouted, prematurely. Illya ducked, and the toe of his shoe caught on a vine or root, yanking his feet out from under him. He sprawled onto a damp moldy bed of ivy and old leaves.

Hands seized his arms and jerked him to his feet.

"Got you, you son of a bitch," someone rasped, out of breath, and Illya was hauled back onto the lawn.

Lights came on in the lower level of the house. Three men came to meet Illya's captors, who flung him onto the grass on his knees. He started to get up and a booted toe caught him in the side, lifting him off the grass for a brief, painful instant.

The sound that escaped him led the other guard to hammer his rifle butt between Illya's shoulders and snap: "Quiet!"

Illya lay flat for a moment while his side and back shouted with pain. He breathed deeply, the grass scent tickling his nose, trying to ease muscles contracted into tight defensive knots.

"Get him up."

That voice reknotted everything.

He was lifted to his feet by his flankers and held there. The light from the house haloed the familiar shape of a man who certainly hadn't earned it.

"Mr. Kuryakin." Dr. Xavier's voice was thick with satisfaction. "So glad to see you again. I do apologize for not having welcomed you to my home earlier, but I've been very busy preparing my new project. Well, perhaps I shouldn't say new. Let us instead say the new and improved version of the project you so infuriatingly interfered with in Bogota two months ago." Anger seeped through Dr. Xavier's cool tones. He seemed to realize it, and paused. "Well, a setback, or so it appeared at the time. Now I'm inclined to look upon it as an unexpected but fortunate change in direction."

"What is your direction now?" Illya asked with but scant hope Dr. Xavier would tell him.

"Well, perhaps I misspoke. My new financers have simply persuaded me to a larger view than I had previously entertained."

"Today the United States?" Illya said. "Tomorrow the world?"

He saw Dr. Xavier nod. One of the guards stepped forward. Illya tensed just before the big man slugged him in the stomach. Illya let the men holding him absorb some of the impact, gritting his teeth against the pain. The guard was obviously a professional. The blow hurt but did no damage. His supporters shook him a little, pulling him straight, and the third guard cracked an openhanded blow across his face. Illya let his head roll with it. When he looked back, blinking, at Dr. Xavier, the scientist said:

"I do want you alive, Mr. Kuryakin, but believe me, the worse your physical condition when I return you to UNCLE, the better. No one will suspect you are a traitor in their midst if you show all the signs of having been tortured."

Illya said nothing, but Dr. Xavier either saw or imagined some slight reaction.

"Oh yes. I intend to use my brain-washing device upon you. Both sweet revenge and a step in the direction of my ultimate goal."

Illya worked his jaw. "Which is?"

"Irrelevant to you," Dr. Xavier said. He turned to the guard who'd hit Illya. "You know your job. Hurt him, but don't kill him."

The man nodded, turning to face his objective. In the darkness Illya couldn't see his face but he felt the smile throughout his entire nervous system.

"Hold him," the man said, with emphasis, to the guards, who gripped him tighter.

Illya focused on the conviction -- or belief; such plans had gone awry more than once -- that he was not going to die. Therefore all he had to do was take a beating. He'd done it before. It was a matter of balance: Enough detachment to not panic and tense up or resist; enough focus and physical control to minimize injury.

But no matter how many times he went through it, Illya thought as the guard drew back a fist -- it always hurt.

Illya came to in his room, on the bed, where he'd been unceremoniously dropped. He woke tensed, ready for defense -- then moaned as his entire body screamed in protest.

He breathed slowly, deeply, trying to relax, squinting into the morning sunlight that shone through the window. With beatings as with hangovers, he always preferred to sleep through the entire recovery process. That rarely happened.

He sat up gradually, stripped off his clothes, and moved creakily into the bathroom.

He was simply letting the hot water run over his body when he opened one eye to see the door swing inward, then close. Through the steam it was hard to tell but he thought it was Lily. The guess was confirmed when she went to the window and opened it wide. The steam began gushing out, clearing the air to reveal the girl approaching the shower.

"To what do I owe--" he began.

"No. Don't turn it off."

He stopped his hand on the way to the faucet knob, forcing his brain back into action. "Bugs in here?" He hadn't found any.

"No, but they're very sensitive. I only have a second or it'll look suspicious."

He realized then why she'd opened the window -- steamed clothes would give her away -- and he adjusted the knobs to make the flow a little less hot, thankful for the opaque shower door.

"Listen," she said. "Don't try to escape again."

"I could get the same advice from your uncle."

"There're too many men. Wait. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before. I tried ... well, never mind. I have a plan, but it may take a couple of days."

"I could be dead or worse by then," he said.

"Especially if you try to escape again," she said tartly, then noticed the steam was gone. "You're not stupid, are you?"

"I might return the compliment," he said. "What--"

"No time," she glanced at the door. "Your lunch is out there. Wait."

"If you expect me to sit here patiently and--"

"I don't care if you sit patiently. Scream. Yell, bang on the walls. Throw things. I don't care. In fact, it's probably better if you do. I don't know. Just wait. I have .. a plan. It's the only thing I could think of."

He looked hard at her, realized she was blushing, trying not to look directly at him even though the glass door effectively preserved his modesty -- or hers.

"Why should I trust you?" he asked.

She met his eyes. "It doesn't matter to me if you do or not.  But I'll tell you one thing. I'm scared to death, and I'm getting out of here first chance I get. I'll do what I can to take you with me if that's what you want." She moved to the door.

"It is--" he began, but she was gone.

That afternoon, while he was rereading Gargantua and wondering what kind of demented cretin would write such a thing, the door opened.

"Housekeeping."

Lily came in with a bucket over one arm and a pile of linens in the other. The guard closed the door as Illya gladly dropped the book, got up and crossed to her, taking the sheets and towels from her.

"We've got about 20 minutes," she said, low, and hope sparked in his stomach. "The monitors are down. Some animal got into the transformer. The power is off all over the house."

He looked at the door and Lily caught his arm.

"No. All the guards and locked doors still apply. They sent someone into town to buy some new transformer part or something."

"I saw the car leave," Illya acknowledged.

"I got up here as soon as I could. This was the only way I could think of to be able to stay a few minutes without it looking suspicious." She started to strip the bed. "This was a lucky chance. I wasn't sure I would get the opportunity to explain. I've been trying to --"

"Yes." Illya smiled slightly. "I finally figured out the cutlery."

"They don't trust me much, so they don't tell me much. They won't even let me have  a pen and paper. But I've been trying to be helpful to them, show my uncle I'm ... well, loyal, and not too clever. I'm hoping it worked.."

"I still think I ought to--"

"No!" she exclaimed, then caught herself, glancing at the door. "For heaven's sake, just trust me a little. They're going to send me into town to pick up groceries. It'll be after dark tonight. I think my uncle is going to start his process on you, but ..." She looked at him, chewing her lip. "One time shouldn't do too much harm, right?"

"I hope not. How will I get to the car?"

"Laundry," she said. "Spill a pot of coffee or a bowl of soup at dinner -- I'll bring you plenty of spillables. The bedspread--" she indicated it, now rumpled up on the floor as she tucked the fresh sheets in place. "That way I'll need to use the big hamper."

"Ah."

"The laundry room is next to the garage. I'll have to leave you there for a bit. But don't move once you're there. Those men are all over the place."

"Yes. I've been made aware of that fact."

Her face fell. "I'm sorry. How badly did they hurt you?"

"Not as badly as they wanted to, I'm sure."

She picked up the blankets, began smoothing them over the sheets. "That's because he wants you healthy for his machine, whatever it is."

"Very comforting." Illya picked up the bedspread and helped her return it to its usual place.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm doing the best I can. This whole thing...my uncle, you, the men with the guns..." She spread her hands across the bed, not looking at him. "I'm afraid." She turned away and collected the old sheets, went into the bathroom and came out again, loaded down with towels. Illya stopped her.

"I don't mean to be ungrateful. Thank you for everything you are doing."

"I haven't done anything yet." She hugged the pile of towels and sheets, eyes glittering. "I've never been really afraid." She laughed weakly. "I feel sick all the time. I think my uncle would actually kill me if ... I've never had to think that kind of thing before in my life. I'm really scared."

"Then why are you helping me?"

She shook her head. "Because it's wrong. Because I'm out of my mind. I don't know." She met his gaze, her eyes pinched with fear. "Because it's wrong."

"Thank you." He took hold of her arms, knowing what he was about to say might not have much value, but wanting to give her some reassurance. "I'll do everything I can to protect you, Lily. I promise you."

He could see that she didn't fully believe him -- or, rather, didn't believe he'd be able to do what he'd promised -- but a hint of calm returned to her face.

"I'd better go." She sidled past him and tapped in the door. The guard let her out. Illya picked up the pile of fresh towels and took them into the bathroom.

An hour later, two men took him bodily down to Dr. Xavier's laboratory, their fingers bruising his biceps. Still, he had to admit he might not have made it under his own power.

Dr. Xavier, seated at a computer console, his back to the door, faced a metal and glass enclosure that looked chillingly like a gas chamber in the center of the cold, windowless room. He turned his chair around, smiling, and placed his broad brown hands on his knees.

"Welcome, Mr. Kuryakin. My, but you are a mess. Nothing broken, I hope?"

"I hope so too," Illya said.

"It doesn't really matter. You aren't likely to live very long one way or the other. If my device fails, I'll have the satisfaction of venting some of my professional frustration on your person. If I succeed, eventually UNCLE will detect evidence of your betrayal and kill you themselves."

"You obviously don't expect to make a very convincing double agent out of me," Illya said.

Dr. Xavier smiled. "Well, yes and no. You see, part of my plan involves the instilling of fear. Doubt. Inner dissention. It's necessary that UNCLE realize I can reprogram any of their agents. For them to realize they've been duped, of course, at some point they must be allowed to penetrate the deception. You'll no doubt be executed as a traitor, but they'll never be sure, from that moment on, when they send an agent into the field, if they'll be getting a double agent back." Dr. Xavier's smile broadened. "I only wish I could see Alexander Waverly's face when he learns what you have been turned into."

Something on the panel beeped and the lights flickered. Xavier turned briefly to adjust a knob. "Of course you realize," he said, turning back to face Illya, "that UNCLE is only a test case, step one of a much grander plan."

"Of course."

"There was a time when many great men labored together to rule the world," Dr. Xavier began pensively. "Not like today, when petty despots bicker over their tiny realms, with no dreams beyond avarice. We had visions of greatness."

"You mean you and your Nazi chums," Illya said tersely.

"Indeed yes," Dr. Xavier smiled -- not at Illya, but in recollection. "In those days our aims were of the highest. Great minds with a shared vision of a perfect world--"

"I see your aim today is to bore me to death with your sick reminiscences," Illya interrupted. His guards shook him a little, and the one on the left backhanded him across the ear.

Dr. Xavier glared at him. "Your bravado is amusing, considering that after a few sessions with my device you will happily lick the soles of my boots."

"Don't hold your breath," Illya muttered.

"Put him in," Dr. Xavier said.

The guards carried him into the circular chamber, and Dr. Xavier followed. The metal floor rang under their bootheels. He struggled as they shoved him down into the padded chair, but each man outweighed him by about 50 pounds, all of it muscle, and they took no chances, holding him with bone-bruising grips on his shoulders and thighs as Dr. Xavier fastened the restraining straps.

As each strap tightened, Illya's heartrate and the pressure in his stomach increased. Groping for calm, he took in deliberate breaths of the chill air, ignoring the pain that stabbed through his battered torso. The dead cold in the room needled through his sweater.

Dr. Xavier set the electrodes in place on Illya's temples, forehead and brainstem.

The three men stepped back and watched, smiling, as Illya struggled against the restraints.

"Out," Dr. Xavier ordered. He followed the guards and closed the door, leaving Illya in the silence cold chamber, the air pressing on his eardrums.

Dr. Xavier sat again at the console, clearly visible from the glass booth. Something crackled briefly and Illya tensed, but then Dr. Xavier's voice came through over a speaker.

"I hope you can hear me. I shall be able to hear you. I would suggest that you relax if I thought it would do any good, but I feel compelled to tell you that there will be some ...discomfort. And resistance ..." He smiled. "...  intensifies it."

He flipped switches and turned knobs. The room lights dimmed, then flickered, and with a harsh buzz, the machine glowed into life.

Nightmare. Shouts, screams echoed swirling in his head. Bound, pinned, trapped, he watched ... he saw a young woman, naked, bleeding, brutally raped by one in a line of hulking, leering soldiers; an old man hobbling, cut down in bloody shreds by machine gun fire, a screaming baby tossed aloft and spitted, in a slow motion ballet of horror, on a bayonet; every brief image underlined by a voice, each word a hot iron searing guilt into his brain: Your fault. Your fault. You cannot help them. You cannot save them. Your fault. Your fault.

Despite the horror, his resistance, his denial, stood firm.

The onslaught of atrocities marched on: children slaughtered, grandmothers brutalized, innocents burned and gassed and machine gunned and ... all of it because of you. Because of you ... the voice, constant, probing, needling, insidiously low, under his defenses like a snake under a fence. Unceasing, blood and fire and screams filled his mind, blocking thought, chipping away at denial.

As his strength waned, his wall began to falter, and the images grew stronger, feeding on his fears, his deeper, personal fears.

His mother -- a vague emotion-charged blur in his mind -- shrieking his name, pleading for help as a hugely muscled brute hauled her back, ripping at her clothes, flinging her to the ground, fire erupting all around ... why won't you help me?

His father -- uniformed, proud, ramrod straight -- stripped of rank, beaten, in tatters, humiliated, hammered to death by the bullets of a firing squad ... you gave me to them, you turned me over to them ...

April, screaming in pain as knives mutilated her, cutting away beauty, limbs, life ... your fault, you betrayed me ... Mark, writhing on a table surrounded by gore-spattered butchers with hacksaws and scalpels ... you didn't save me, you didn't help me ...

Mr. Waverly -- indestructible, indomitable Mr. Waverly -- on his knees, a beaten, bruised wreck begging for mercy as the gun -- your gun -- was placed to his temple.

Napoleon ... bound, blood-drenched, face a white rictus of pain, sobbing in fear, as Illya had never seen even under the cruelest of tortures, as the knife, long and thin and very sharp, was set to the top of his thigh, to expertly flay the skin away ... and you are holding the knife, it is in your hand ... Napoleon's screams ... he screams your name, traitor ...

Illya came to in a hallway, as two men dragged him toward a door. Blinking moisture from his eyes, he recognized his 'cell' as the guard there opened the door. The two men lifted him and flung him toward the bed. He landed half on it, turned and sank to the floor in a boneless, hopeless heap, hearing the door closing, locking.

Sensation trickled like ice water throughout his body. His brain pounded in his skull. His arms and legs burned where the guards' grip had crushed them. His mouth burned; perhaps he'd bitten his tongue.

Shaking, he hauled himself up from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, stomach roiling.

He closed bleary eyes and the images behind them pounced -- blood, pain, helpless rage -- and that voice, whispering his guilt.

His body knotted and his guts writhed. He staggered to his feet and into the bathroom, vomiting up his last meal. His legs betrayed him and he collapsed onto the cold tile, trembling, gasping for air and calm.

It isn't true. None of it. It's the machine. None of it is real. You haven't done anything wrong. You aren't a traitor. You aren't.

An icy, clear thought dashed across his brain: What if you are? This is exactly what Dr. Xavier would want you to be thinking.

Moaning, he curled into a ball on the cold floor. His last coherent thought -- so coherent he even mocked himself for its pathetic helplessness -- was: Napoleon -- where are you?

The next thing he knew he was being gently shaken. Cold and stiff, he turned over.

"Get up," Lily said. "You can't sleep on the floor like this." She pulled him into a sitting position. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry."

He blinked at her, scrubbed a shaky hand across his eyes. His arm weighed a thousand pounds.

"Can you get up?" she asked. He stared blankly at the far wall. She got up. He heard the toilet flush and the tap run, then she was back, wiping his face with a blessedly warm cloth. Tears filled his eyes, spilled down his face.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated. "I heard you scream--" She stopped. He forced his eyes to focus on her. She was blushing.

"Did I scream?" he asked, a little surprised.

She nodded. "I swear we're getting out of here. Tonight." She held his eyes, her gaze a promise. "Tonight."

He sighed. "Good."

She got up once again. "Can you stand? You should go to bed, I think, for a while."

He shook his head, drawing his feet under him. "Not yet."

She put a hand to his elbow to steady him as he rose to his feet, leaning on the wall. He turned to face the shower, awkwardly pulling off his sweater.

Lily moved to the door. "Be ready after dark. Remember to spill something on the bedspread. I've brought your dinner. Soup and coffee." She gave him a faint, encouraging smile. "Have your shower and get some rest. I'll be back."

Gradually the hot water brought Illya back to life, and to what he hoped was rational thought. His first rational thought was that he had not broken. He had seen the effectiveness of the machine in turning men who had also, probably, believed they could not be turned, but even Dr. Xavier had said several treatments were necessary, and Illya's own pride would not let him seriously entertain the notion that he would break sooner than most men.

No. The images were still there, but as nightmare memories to be fought and beaten, not as any reality to be accepted.

Illya leaned against the steamy slick tiles, utterly drained. Finally he turned off the water, dried off, dressed in the fresh clothes Lily had brought, and sat on the bed looking at the food. The idea of eating made his stomach twist. He pulled the bedspread onto the floor and poured soup on it, then lay down on top of the blankets. It was a few minutes before he could force his eyes to close. He dropped into sleep immediately.