I believe everything happens for a reason, I bought my computer with the intention of reading all of the Sentinel Fanfiction. I must say I've done this
Bait. That's what it all boiled down to---bait. The killings were an embarrassment to the police department. Two months....23 bodies...mutilated beings left precariously in classrooms, parks, playgrounds---grimly staged in the designs of life, poised in their very professions, pointing out the geographies of life...a life they no longer had. True, they were Educator/Companion Clones, possessions of society, but the city officials were putting the pressure on Simon and that pressure, like the heat of most volcanos, toppled downward and now it flowed smack dab onto Detective James Ellison's head.
Clones were an acceptable replacement for harried working parents and frustrated "guppies" (single adults who worked at high-tech jobs and found little time nor inclination to socialize). There were Educator/Companion Clones, which seemed most apt to attract this particular killer, Nanny Clones, and Housemaid Clones. Genetically engineered humans, not quite given the status among the naturally birthed majority, but clones were a viable option as guardians of children and educators.
Educator/Companion Clones were the highest status. Programmed in various fields and stationed in Primers A, B, and C....C being College level, the clones took children through their first three decades of life. Now, one sick puppy was out there snatching these beings, torturing them into contorted grimaces that mocked the humanity that designed them, then returned to locations where they could be seen in their still-life form going about their business in the macabre world of forever, brightly packaged with yellow bows.
"Jim," Simon had told his best detective, "I don't care what you have to do now. Just stop this monster. I've got parents camping outside on the streets waiting to give me suggestions on how to run my own department. The Mayor isn't dancing anymore. He's giving me ultimatums, Jim, and I don't like ultimatums." The black man's eyes bulged, as he waived his unlit cigar about, baton-like, leading the parade of frustration and urgency.
"Whatever it takes, sir?" Jim asked, making sure he got the free-rein he craved.
"Yes, Jim," Simon said in a mocking tone, "within reason and the parameters of the law." Watching his best friend and best detective, a man who sometimes showed all the control of a bull in a china shop, Simon Banks added, sternly, "Do I make myself clear, Detective?"
"Yes, sir, perfectly." Then Ellison left his Captain alone to finally light the stogie, sit back, and plan a profession outside the police department, should the need arise.
Jim Ellison sat in Dr. Blackwell's office at the Blackwell Institute of Companionable Resourcing. How he was going to get this approved by the Accounting Department still was a mystery to him, but he had bluffed his way out of similar situations in the past. With a high conviction-rate and crime-solving record, Ellison met with very little opposition when he needed to get the job done. A good tongue-lashing from Simon might be in his immediate future, but approval would come in the end---of that he was sure.
The doctor laughed at Jim's hesitation, "Don't worry, Mr. Ellison, anyone you choose will be devoted to your family or school. You'll never have to worry about him or her. It's all part of the bonding process, part of the programming. You have no need to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed. Darwins are an acceptable replacement for companionship."
Cloning that had started out with such noble intentions was now being funded by people who saw the use of clones as an easy out. Parents chose working over the care and guidance of their children. It was far easier and safer, in the long run, to have a clone responsible for the safety and education of your children. A clone was willing to die to defend and protect. Sexually, they were ignorant, which secured the children from molestation. Educator/Companion clones were educated in human reproduction, knowing all the physiological and biological data. When used as Companion clones, it was up to the buyer to educate them as they saw fit.
"Honestly, Doctor, I'm not really sure what type of clone I'm looking for, but I think you'll be able to help me."
The doctor smiled. The cold, clear knowledge in the smile sent a chill down Ellison's spine. What kind of sicko does he take me for? Jim wondered, or more importantly, what kind of sickos has he supplied clones to?
"Well then, what do you say we take a little walk. Maybe it will give you an idea of what you're looking for."
Jim followed the doctor to the elevator. They traveled up several floors. The only means of entrance to the level was with a programmed, security card. When the door opened, they stepped into a room filled with medical equipment. Lab techs were busy creating, what Jim could only guess, were soon to be Darwins.
The tour of the facilities went quickly.
"As you can see, Mr. Ellison, we take our job seriously, not only do we seek to produce a Darwin that you find appealing, but we also make certain that it will have something in common with you." Jim noticed the use of "it" instead of "he" when speaking of the clone. The dehumanizing statement angered him and he didn't know why.
"We do our best to find you a Darwin that meets the high values of your institution or your family ideals, or, your personal tastes. If you could just give me some idea of what you want the clone for, I might be able to help you in your ordering process."
"An Educator/Companion," Jim said, not expanding on the thought, hoping the ruse could be played out to the victorious end.
The whole time the doctor was speaking, Jim took in his surroundings, paying close attention to the details of the cold, impersonalized lab. His attention was drawn to a room to his right. He watched as a young man was led inside, a yellow ribbon tied around his wrist. Jim knew he was a clone by the totally lifeless demeanor and blank stare as he stood between the two attendants in white lab coats. The blue scrubs being further indication of the mark of delineation.
Dr. Blackwell followed Jim's gaze, "Mr. Ellison, please excuse me for a moment."
Dr. Blackwell entered the room and closed the door. Even with the door closed, Jim could hear everything that was being said.
"Has everything been confirmed?" Dr. Blackwell asked the lab tech.
"Yes, sir, the last set of tests were proof positive that there is a heart defect. We also found that the eyesight is not up to standards. The hospital is aware of the situation and still wants to follow through with the transaction. There's poor blood circulation, a severe case of vertigo and acrophobia, and another 'more serious' problem."
The two men looked at each other for a long moment. The look suggested a knowledge best not spoken, Dr. Blackwell nodded. "Very well, have the forms on my desk this afternoon and I'll sign off on them."
The clone was never acknowledged by the doctor. It wasn't his practice to become familiar with the merchandise.
"Mr. Ellison, I must apologize for the delay."
"What was the problem?" Jim asked.
"That clone is faulty. You may rest assured knowing that only those clones that meet our high level of quality make it to their owners."
"What happens to those who don't meet the standards?"
"They are still very useful. I'm sure you saw the clone in there, a few minutes ago. It's suffering from a heart disorder. It is not profitable to pay to repair the defect, and even if we were still able to make a profit, the potential buyer wants a perfect product. Therefore, we sell the clones to different hospitals. They are used to save countless lives. The organ transplants are vital to the well-being of all."
Jim's stomach clenched at the thought of the young man's fate. Trying to shake the image from his mind, Jim changed the subject. "How long will it take for delivery?" Jim asked, feeling strangely as if he were ordering a customized car, not a living, breathing person.
"It takes about one year to complete the whole process."
"A year! NO!!! No way! I can't wait a year."
"I'm sorry, Mr Ellison, but there is no way we can speed up the process."
"What about the clone I just saw."
"Mr. Ellison, I just told you that clone is defective."
Jim's jaw clenched with determination as he turned an icy gaze upon the doctor.
Less than one hour later, Jim pulled his ancient truck into a parking space in front of the loft apartment. The young man sitting next to him never said a word.
"I know this must be strange to you," Jim said as he turned to the young man beside him. "I admit I'm not used to this kind of thing myself. I just want you to know that I understand and I'm going to help you as much as I can. Just do what I tell you and you'll be fine."
The violet-blue eyes turned slowly to gaze into his own electrically-pale, blue orbs. There was no sign of having understood one word he said, but Jim couldn't shake the feeling that the intelligence beneath the indifferent facade was burning brightly. There was something about this kid that had Jim feeling protective.
"Well, let's go up. I'll show you your new home, for the next few weeks."
For one brief moment the kid looked lost, frightened and unsure of himself. Jim turned and opened the door and the kid mimicked him move for move. Jim came around the truck and the young man did the same meeting him half way in front of the grill.
Jim smiled to himself, took the "kid"---he just couldn't think of this beautiful young man as a thing, a clone---until he figured a name out for him, he would have to call him "kid." At least that wasn't as impersonal as "clone"....took the kid by the shoulders and directed him towards the building with a dress shop and bakery below.
They entered the loft a short time later, the kid quietly following behind, showing no emotions. Jim had to literally pull him inside. He still wore the blue scrubs of the Institute. Clothes would definitely be the next order of business. The kid was still genetically human...true, cloned, but still susceptible to all the diseases and maladies that plagued adults. The weather was getting cold in Cascade.
"Sit down, why don't you. Would you like some coffee? It will help warm you up."
Turning blue eyes on Jim, a strong determination replied, "Yes, thank you." The soft voice was polite and quiet, but the way the kid held his head, the angle of chin line and firm set of the jaw, showed Jim Ellison that the kid was well-aware of where he was and his status in the scheme of things. The kid was showing his new owner that he had pride, self-knowledge, and above all, dignity.
He pointed once more to the couch and watched with a satisfied smile as the young man walked over to it and sat down.
Jim busied himself making the coffee. He was totally pre-occupied in his preparations when his senses went out of control. A loud noise, a heavy, steady beat, assaulted his audio nerves. He started zoning out, all his nerve endings pulled towards the loud sounds from behind him. Then the Seizure Patch kicked in, the small electric impulses began seeping into his nerve endings, burning every fiber in his body. The Patch, designed to ward off seizures in epileptic patients, was the only remedy he could think of to help bring him out of the fugue states he often found himself falling into. Simon Banks was the only other living being who knew of these fugues, but Simon wasn't always around. Jim had bought the patch in a last ditch effort to control the outages of his mind, when one sense became overloaded with sensory input.
He pulled himself back by the last vestiges of reason. Turning, he saw the clone pushing buttons on the stereo, slowly undulating his hips in a wild and erotic display of "getting down."
Jim walked angrily towards the young man and shut the stereo off. Nausea and a blinding headache overpowered him. He turned abruptly to the kid whose eyes were closed, hips swinging in and out, hands lifting to the music that moments before pelted the air.
"Goddamn it! You don't have to blare the damn thing."
The kid's eyes popped open, a quiet terror filled the blue depths.
"Blare the thing, that's all I meant. You can play it, but don't blare it." Jim said softly, not wanting the kid to be so frightened of him. Realizing that he must look like a madman to the stranger. The kid had no way of knowing what the loud noises did to him.
The kid backed slowly away from Jim and the stereo, only stopping when the couch blocked his way. Knowing that there was no true escape, he slowly sat down and tried to push himself as far back into the cushions as possible.
"I need to find a name for you," Jim said as he realized he wanted to make the kid seem more real, more human, something more than just a bought item.
Rubbing his head, pushing away the anger and pain, he asked, "Do you have any preferences?"
The confused look on the kid's face was enough to tell Jim that clones were not used to making these decisions for themselves. 'I can choose my own name...He's going to let me choose my own name' this is just too unreal, who do I want to be?' It took a few minutes to review all the names of people he had read during his studies at the clinic, he wanted a name that spoke to him, something that evoked a strong emotion, only one thing came to mind. Only one word had been spoken to him in his short life that evoked any form of emotion in him.
"Blair." It was said dispassionately, quietly, but still firmly. The kid seemed to be taking a firm stand on issues even when he pressed himself out of sight and seemed so fragile. Jim was getting a bit confused on who actually was calling the shots.
"Blair? You want to be called Blair because I asked you not to "blare the stereo?" Jim thought maybe he got a mentally defective clone to top it all off.
"Yes, Blair. It's a simple word and a simple name," Blair replied, knowing that the word and the meaning it held for him would also serve to remind him of how easily his owner's anger could surface, a reminder to be on guard. He didn't want to disappoint his owner, he didn't want to be sent back to the clinic.
Jim mentally said the word in his head a few times and for reasons unknown to him, he admitted the name seemed to fit the clone. "Blair it is."
The rest of the evening found the kid doing his best to keep as much space between himself and Jim as he could. At first Jim was content to let the kid have his space, wanting him to relax and get comfortable in the loft. The words of the doctor kept playing over and over in his head as Jim watched the kid watching him: "Mr. Ellison, you must understand that this is highly unusual. Not only is the clone's programming incomplete, but you yourself have not undergone the training. " Dr. Blackwell was still trying to convince Jim that he was making a big mistake.
"Training, why would I need training?" Jim asked, confused.
"'Yes, Mr. Ellison, training. You will be taking on a large responsibility when you take your clone home. It's true that it will be an adult, but the clone's entire existense has been here at the center. It will have little working knowledge of the outside world other than what it has learned from books. It will understand how things work, but not always the effect. Basically, you will have an adult with the curiosity of a child on your hands. Clones adapt quickly, but during this time they require complete supervision. We usually suggest a month's supervision, by a trained instructor. Just daily instruction to guide the clone through its work environment, teach it the basics of operating equipment necessary for its purpose and function, that kind of training."
"Dr. Blackwell, after my time in the army and my current job with the police, I can assure you that I am able to take care of a clone." Besides, he thought to himself, I only need him to trap a madman, then I can donate him to some institution or return him to Blackwell...return him for what...donor organs. Jim decided he didn't want to go there right now.
"Very well, Mr. Ellison, I see I can't change your mind. So let me give you the facts as quickly as I can. It is important you set the ground rules right away, as I've said, the clone will adapt quickly and will start pressing the limits, just to see where it stands. If you don't begin right away, a year down the road you may find yourself with a clone you can't control. Studies have shown that it is best to complete the bonding on the first night. It's the only way to show the clone its role in life, and show it who is in control.''
Jim had stood in silence after the doctor stopped speaking. He didn't know what bothered him more: the doctor's use of the word 'It', or the doctor's view of how to 'control' the clone. Jim found his voice and started speaking before he knew it. "Dr. Blackwell, thank you for your concern, but, again, I feel I can handle the situation. As for his purpose in the scheme of things, I know what it is, and that's all that matters."
Returning to the present, Jim directed his attention back on the kid. Perhaps the doctor had a point afterall. Some kind of courtship dance was going on right here, right now, but Jim didn't know the steps. His thoughts derailed as he saw the slight tremors running throught the small frame, but this time they had nothing to do with fear. The loft had grown colder as the sun went down. Although the cold never bothered him much he knew that the opposite was true for the kid. Making it worse was the fact the he was still dressed in the hospital scrubs. The thin material and short sleeves were doing nothing to ward off the chill in the air.
Jim stood up slowly and went upstairs returning a short time later with a pair of sweat pants, sweatshirt, and boxers.
"Come on, kid, let's get you cleaned up before dinner."
"I prefer Blair."
Jim stared at the young face, all innocence and simplicity, but he knew he was being put slowly in his place and he didn't like it one bit.
"Like I said, come on, kid."
The young man followed Jim without question into the bathroom. Jim placed the clothes on the counter by the sink as he reached over to open the shower curtain and start the water. He spoke into the electronic voice module that controlled the electrical appliances, faucets, toilet, and heating and cooling units.
"All appliances in this place are voice activated or timer controlled," he explained. No need to get the kid's voice recorded on the master module, he wasn't going to be here that long....hopefully not long at all.
"You'd better get in before the water gets cold, this building doesn't have hydro-pipes, yet," Jim said.
Blair hadn't moved, Jim noticed him fingering a yellow ribbon that was fastened around his wrist.
"What's the purpose of the yellow ribbons?"
"Identification, Educator/Companion clones are yellow; Nanny clones are red and housemaid's are green. The ribbons are the only thing we have to call our own---they're pretty," Blair said, with a sad smile on his face at the memory and explanation.
Jim nodded his head, trying to offer understanding and sympathy with the gesture.
.Blair moved past him and waited patiently until Jim left the room.
The comm-unit beeped signaling an incoming transmission. Jim entered the little office across from the kitchen, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could keep tabs on his new "Roommate." Thumbing on the unit, Jim wasn't surprised to see the face of his Captain, Simon Banks.
"Jim, we've got another one." Jim could detect a defeated tone in Simon's voice. "Jim, this time the body was discovered by a child."
Jim's blood ran cold at the thought of a child finding the body. The murders had been growing more gruesome as the killer grew bolder. Some of the images still plagued Jim's dreams and he was a cop trained to deal with such sights.
"Jim, I trust that you are working on this." Simons voice had regained its authority, the command was clear.
"Yes, sir, I've taken steps today to speed up the investigation. Have the Silab forward their findings to me at home, I'll compare them to the others." The screen went black as the call was disconnected. Jim ran his hands across his tired eyes, sending up a silent prayer that his plan would work.
That night, Jim laid fresh sheets on the couch. He brought out the spare pillows he kept in the hall closet and a warm blanket. When Blair started to climb beneath the covers, fully dressed, Jim grabbed his arm.
"Don't you think you should undress?"
"What?" The puzzled look tugging the face was almost comical, like the kid was faced with an implausible situation.
Jim turned and ran upstairs. Moments later he returned with a pair of pajamas he never wore...a gift from his ex-wife when they were first married.
He quickly stripped the figure down to his boxers and helped him dress in the warm, flannel pajamas. Jim noticed for the first time exactly how small the man was. He knew the slight frame was not malnourishment, it was just the side effect to the rapid growth cycle of a clone. Even understanding this, Jim vowed that he would fatten Blair up as soon as possible.
The intelligent eyes of the younger man began studying the garment that draped his arms, he ran tender, almost loving fingers over the fabric, as though flannel were an unusually rare fabric, perhaps fine silk from the Orient. It seemed love at first sight, or feel, between the Darwin and flannel. Jim shook his head, hiding a smile, maybe it was a clone thing...genetically predetermined to bond with flannel, or maybe the kid never knew the feel of any other material on his skin save for the cotton scrubs.
Jim sat on the couch and rolled the sleeves up so the hands, lost in the folds, could at least be functional. He was not surprised to see the yellow ribbon was still safely in place around the kid's wrist. Then he did the pant cuffs. When the hems were high enough to keep the kid from breaking his neck, Jim rose and pointed to the makeshift bed once more. Blair quickly scrambled in. He laid on his back with his head facing up to the ceiling, his hands stiffly at his side, as though ready for the coffin lid to be closed. Jim pulled the blanket over him.
The loft was filled with so many sounds he couldn't relax. That, coupled with the fact that he was alone, made it impossible for Blair to sleep. True, Jim was just upstairs, but Blair was used to sleeping in a room with other clones, in a room not unlike a military barracks. After several hours, Blair gave in to the overwhelming need to be near someone and quietly crept upstairs. He gently eased himself onto the bed in such a fashion that the mattress hardly wiggled. His intentions were to be gone before Jim ever woke up.
Jim heard the quiet, cat-like maneuvers. Unsure of the unfamiliar clone's intentions, Jim feigned sleep. Even in the darkness, he could see the small form, buried in the folds of the large pajamas, stealthfully inching his way around the bed. Then the mattress tipped, ever so slowly. Moments later, not touching, but close enough to be felt by a Sentinel, Jim felt the body next to him on the bed. He singled in on the heartbeat. The rapid beat of caution and trepidation, now was replaced by a steady, even rhythm.
All was silent, then moments later, he heard the deep, contented exhalation of breath and sensed the young man relax into a peaceful slumber. Jim followed closely behind, although his dreams were anything but peaceful. His mind kept replaying what he remembered seeing at previous crime scenes. The only difference was this time his mind was substituting the image of the young man beside him.
Not sure how the killer was choosing his victims, Jim decided that he would need to retrace the steps of each murdered clone, which meant he and Blair would need to be highly visible. What better way to display a new purchase then to buy accessories.
Jim never realized buying clothes for another human being could be such an eye-opening experience. The first hour was spent just learning the correct sizes to buy. Though the kid was cloned, body sizes could not be controlled precisely. The kid was the general height and weight and physical structure on the order placed, but he still had irregularities, just like other people.
At first Jim was happy that Blair seemed apathetic to the whole buying experience. It was common knowledge that young people placed high value on clothes, colors, trends, and price tags. Jim didn't have the patience to deal with the childish quirks of self-images based on outer trappings. Afterall, Blair was a clone, he belonged to Jim to do with as he pleased. Jim shook his head disgusted with his own reasoning. Choosing sizes larger to accommodate the familiarity with the loose-fitting scrubs, he started piling several items he liked on the counter.
"I'm not allowed to wear bright clothes."
His companion had been silent during most of the selections, showing neither pleasure nor displeasure. Now his interjection surprised Jim.
"What?"
"I'm not allowed to wear bright clothes. It stimulates my hormones and my mind." This was said in a matter-of-fact tone, but Blair lowered his gaze as though ashamed.
"That's ridiculous." Jim looked down at the pile of selected garments. They were all conservative and bland. What brought the comment up in the first place?
Jim saw a silky, electric blue shirt several racks away from the counter where they stood. He marched over to it, quite dramatically, checked the size, and brought it back for purchase. He watched his young companion for any facial expressions. None were discernible, but he could hear the excitement of the increased heart rate.
To test his theory, he went over and started riffling through some vests. As Blair stood at the counter, totally dispassionate, Jim took each vest off the rack and held it up, apparently for his own inspection, never once glancing at the kid. When he pulled the fourth vest off the rack, the multi-colored patchwork job, the increased heart rate of his roommate convinced him this was the one. He nonchalantly added it to the pile, but still never once, not in any outwardly discernible way, did Blair show interest in the purchase.
Jim didn't pick up on the little scam that was being played upon him until it came time to buy shoes.
Blair sat quietly as Jim instructed the eager young man attending them to measure his feet and bring out several styles of shoes. He would need dress shoes, slippers, and casuals. Jim gauged the heart rate to decide what the kid liked and didn't like. He would outfit him comfortably, but he wouldn't pamper him with non-essentials and he wouldn't pander to any superfluous spending habits.
Clones were in common use and store personnel were well-trained in helping first-time owners select appropriate garments for their extended families. One box that was added to the list by the clerk, but not deemed necessary by Jim was a $500 pair of Nike Pathfinders. Jim had often felt half the trouble with the criminal element and the age of most perpetrators was sports shoes. Never would he condone the purchase of a five hundred dollar pair of shoes.
Blair tried on all the shoes and Jim made him walk up and down in front of him and the salesperson to check for comfort and fit. Three pair were set aside and Jim selected a casual, brown suede, self-sealing, hiking shoe as the final purchase.
"Feet are diametrically assimilated with overall mental comfort, plus they are our erogenous zones." Once again the curt, simplistic statement from the basically quiet shopper, brought Jim up with a start.
The salesperson smiled. Eager for the commission involved in pushing the Nike's he joined in, "Yes, sir, he's right. A day spent in the well-cushioned, self-inflating, dynamically designed Nike's will have him pretty excited and happy by day's end, if you get my drift." The salesperson winked at Jim, salaciously.
Angered by the con game both Blair and the salesman were working around him, he pointed to the hiking shoes with a terse "We'll take those." He listened to the increased heartbeat, but this time the slight heart murmur became more pronounced and Jim felt a twinge of guilt. Still, he thought, I will not be manipulated by him. I'm on to his little Helpful Hannah routine. He remembered Dr. Blackwell's comment that clones were sexually ignorant...only knowing the biological aspects of reproduction for the education of children. Blair was not supposed to know anything about sex, even if Jim had purchased him as a Companion clone and sexual partner. Something was not right here.
As the salesman collected the boxes in a neat pile and headed off to tally the bill, Jim looked down at his still-seated protege. The increased heart rate had slowed, but there was something else, a dejected crease in the lower lip that pronounced the disappointment in the final purchase.
"I will not be controlled, manipulated, directed, or bamboozled by you. Got it?" Jim said in an angry, barely-controlled voice.
"Yes, I got it," came the quiet reply.
When they left the store, Jim wondered how after spending nearly $3,000 on the kid's new wardrobe, he could still feel like a self-centered, parsimonious asshole. The murmur now echoed in his head, as though the steady drumming were played out by a one-armed drummer, who lost the will to play.
On the way home, Jim drove quickly through the Order Drop. Fast food restaurants had long ago been replaced by red and white awninged buildings known as Order Drops. Chinese, Mexican, Taiwanese, Italian, and American foods could all be ordered under one bright red awning. Fried chicken, burgers, fries, tacos...all could be quickly picked up at these wonderful little oasises in any bustling metropolis. Jim talked to the robot who attended the drive-thru.
"Four cheeseburgers, non-healthy versions." Jim ordered.
"Cholestoral, fat, processed meats. They are bad for you." Blair made the statement by neat rote, no emotions creased the edges.
Jim's jaw muscle tightened, he started a slow count in his head. Then he looked over at the kid and realized if he didn't own the clone, if he hadn't purchased this pre-fabricated human for whatever use, he would have allowed him a choice in the selection of his own meal. Well, he had no right to clog the kid's arteries.
He slowly turned back to the robot and spoke in a controlled, level voice, "Make that two cheeseburgers, non-healthy versions, and two tofu-bean replicas, healthy, but throw in a large order of fries, natural and loaded." This last part was said with a curt nod of his head, to punctuate some small triumph on his part.
"You need some fat in your body. No wonder you're always shaking when the temperature drops a little. I bought the clothes a little on the loose side. I have plans to fatten you up a bit." That's the least I can do for you, he thought, as guilt overcame him briefly. When he saw no response evident in the strong-featured face, he added, "Who knows, you might even enjoy it."
When they got back to the loft, Blair helped carry the packages up.
Jim instructed him to take them upstairs. He put the carry out, self-heating boxes on the counter top. Going into the refrigerator he pulled out two beers.
When Blair came back down, Jim was already sitting in a chair in the living room. He motioned for Blair to join him and indicated the cold beer that sat on the coffee table. Blair sat down on the sofa, reached for the beer, studied it for a few seconds, then leaned his head back and savored the cold liquid. When he lowered his head, he smiled at Jim. It was the first smile Jim had seen on his face and it threw him off line.
He had called the kid into the room to set down some ground rules, but God that smile was so warm and charming. The kid looked vulnerable and young sitting there, obviously more pleased with his shopping spree than Jim initially could discern. Now, the beer was a pleasant treat to top off the kid's pleasure meter.
"It's good." Then he watched as Jim set his own bottle on the table and mimicked the actions. Both men leaned back in their seats and eyed each other.
"Blair, I want this relationship to work. I know you were initially programmed for another buyer, but I'm pretty easy and I'm not all that fussy. As a matter of fact, not knowing your complete educational and programming requirements allows me to get to know you, little by little---just like a real...." he stopped realizing how that must sound to the clone. I can't tell him I bought him to lure out a madman who tortures and mutilates clones. I can't tell him that when this is all over with he'll be traded or returned or donated---or maybe even dead.
Blair gave no indication of insult or discomfort. He sat still listening to Jim as though viewing a particularly intriguing commercial while having no real interest in the product.
"What I'm trying to say is I won't be manipulated or lied to. If you want something or like or dislike something, just tell me. There's no reason for the games you played today." Jim reached again for the bottle. Blair did the same.
"And stop doing that!" Jim said sharply.
"What?" Blair asked, totally confused.
"Mimicking my movements constantly."
"May I speak freely?" Blair asked, simply, but the look in his cobalt, blue eyes dared Jim to deny him.
"Of course. It's what I want from you."
"First off, I don't lie, cheat, or deliberately manipulate, as you call it. I might obfuscate and from my educational programming there is a world of difference. You 'buyers,' you say you want us to be individuals to fill in the gaps of your lives, but you want the images that were created in your own mind---you want ideals. Did you ever stop to consider that the man who originally wanted me, wanted a free thinker, an educated companion to agree and disagree, to imagine and create, to converse and debate, to meet him step for step. You were quick to take me, because from what I heard, you didn't want to wait the one year required to have your ideals met. Well, I am what I am created to be. You may simply have gotten more than you bargained for."
Now, Blair put down the beer bottle, while Jim still held his. He watched and waited, for surely the ax will fall, and from the look on Jim's face, probably damn near his neck. Instead, he saw the large man nod his head slowly as though digesting some information he didn't find half as disagreeable as he at first assumed.
"You're right, I probably did get more than I bargained for," Jim said irritably. Then he took a deep, cleansing breath and started over. "Okay, let's make a deal. You come clean with me. You be the person you were programmed to be. Don't hold back, don't play games with me. Let's see where it takes us. I might like the learning experience myself." Hell, I might need to know more about clones and how they work for future cases. The kid might teach me a thing or two.
Blair thought this over for a few minutes, then he nodded his head slowly. "Deal." He smiled shyly and slowly raised his eyes, "I'm really kind of hungry. Shopping was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Can we eat?"
Jim laughed and both men rose together with their beers in their hands and walked into the kitchen. Jim started talking to Blair giving him instructions, plates in the cupboard, silverware in that drawer, and the two companions sat down to their dinner.
Blair heard the door close as Jim left for work. Although he still wasn't sure what Jim did for a living, Blair knew it was important. He also was able to surmise it was a position with authority. The man carried himself with confidence and when he gave commands it was with a certainty of absolute obedience. A bit intimidating, Blair admitted, but it was also comforting in a way he could not explain even to himself.
Jim had never said anything about finding Blair in his bed, the next morning, so now it seemed to be a regular routine. Blair would start out on the couch and eventually work his way upstairs. One night, Jim just said "Let's go to bed," and pointed upstairs. The pattern had been established.
Jim would awake in the morning, shower, and begin his normal routine. Blair would wake later, come downstairs and if Jim was in for the day, they would eat breakfast together.
Three days a week Jim worked in the little room downstairs. Never allowing Blair inside the room, always closing the door quickly when he entered, Blair was only granted a quick view of computer equipment and electronic gadgetry filling most of the space. The other two days, Jim had to go out to do his work. Blair hated the days Jim was gone, he was so lonely and bored. Not permitted to turn on the wall unit or leave without Jim, he soon found his hours dragging at a snail's pace. The small library that filled the bookshelves with out-dated books were mostly criminology and the psychology of crime. There were a few travel books and some Jack Kerouac. Blair was pre-programmed with a concentration in anthropology and a minor in psychology and sociology---so they held nothing new or exiciting for his hungry mind.
When he did pick up one of the books, craving the small glimpses into this world he was now a part of, his head would begin to pound and he would be forced to stop in frustration. Then he would pass the rest of the time sleeping, waiting for Jim's return.
Rolling over, Blair tried to snuggle down into the warmth of the bed, He opened his eyes for a second to check the digital display on the table beside the bed. Although it was dark outside, the display read 7:30 a.m. Blair's eyes caught on an object lying beside the display: Jim's ID/Currency Card. Knowing that Jim would need the card to function outside the loft, Blair bolted from the bed, grabbed the card, and headed downstairs, never stopping for his shoes or a coat. The morning sky darkened by large storm clouds. The cold November rain beat a steady rhythm on the ground. Blair never noticed the rain or cold. Seeing Jim as he climbed into the cab of his truck, Blair smiled broadly, pleased with his own efforts at helping Jim out.
Jim was about to switch on the ignition when he saw Blair emerge from the building. Containing the anger that boiled within, he slowly exited the cab with a scowl on his face. He knew his anger telegraphed to the young man approaching. Blair's smile faded quickly and was replaced with confusion and fear. Jim's glare magnified his displeasure when he noticed Blair was without a coat or shoes. The small figure began to shiver.
"Blair, what do you think you're doing out here? You know the rules."
"You left your card....I was just bringing it to you." Blair's voice was barely a whisper.
Jim took the offered card, his eyes never losing the cold expression. "Blair, take your boney butt back into the loft and dry off. We'll discuss this when I get home."
"Yes, Jim," Blair replied, meekly. Turning around with a dejected slump to his shoulders, he slowly made his way back to the apartment building.
Waiting to make sure his command was obeyed and the kid was safely within the building, Jim climbed back into his truck and headed to work.
After a warm shower, Blair dressed in the sweat suit that Jim had given him the first night in the loft. Knowing Jim was angry with him, he spent a good deal of the time contemplating his fate when his owner returned home. There were things that Jim demanded of him. Some were small things, others large. Every one of them was very important in Jim's eyes so Blair tried his best to obey the rules Jim established, even though the list seemed to be growing all the time.
The digital-audio display upstairs sounded: "Time to eat;" and, although Blair wasn't hungry, he got up and entered the kitchen to retrieve the meal Jim had prepared for him before leaving for work. Eating was "BIG" on the rule list, and Jim decided to make sure Blair didn't forget.
Blair smiled when he opened the stay fresh container that was waiting in the cooling unit. Inside was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich---his favorite. The first time Jim had made him one, he had panicked when the gooey substance stuck to the roof of his mouth and he couldn't talk. It was one of the few times he had seen the large man laugh, and Blair decided that he liked that sound. The contagion of laughter soon had him grinning from ear to ear, still fighting the obstinate substance that took root inside his mouth. Once his panic had abated, he decided that he loved the rich taste of the peanut butter and the tangy jelly, such a change from the bland food in the center. Blair managed to eat half the sandwich before he lost interest in it. He didn't understand it, but for some reason it didn't taste as good today.
Walking over to the couch, his head started to spin. Something was definitely wrong. He just didn't feel like he normally felt. Curling up on his side, he pulled the blanket down from the back of the couch and nestled deeply within its warmth.
Jim had spent the day thinking about what had happened that morning, his anger growing with each passing second. Inserting his ID card in the lock, he pushed his thumbprint on the pad for the security check. The door opened quietly on its hinges. The contained anger, cherished and polished with reason during the long hours of the day, soon gave way to concern. Not stopping to hang up his jacket, Jim walked directly over to the couch and the sleeping young man. Placing his palm on the kid's forehead, heat eminating up between the space, he grimaced at the temperature reading. The kid was burning up.
"Jim!" Blair started, but was overcome by a bout of coughing. Amazed at how quickly the cold had set in, Jim could hear the rattle in Blair's chest every time he inhaled or exhaled. Blair's face was pale and sweaty, and dark circles were starting to form under his eyes.
"Damn, I knew this was going to happen. You should have listened to me. If you had stayed inside like I told you, you wouldn't be sick." Jim reached down and pulled Blair up into a sitting position.
"Come on, let's get you in bed."
After helping him change into the flannel pajamas, Jim put him to bed. Leaving his side only when he was sure Blair would be warm enough. The kid needed something to help bring the fever down, but he wasn't sure what would be safe to use. There was no one he knew well enough to consult about the care and nurturing of a sick clone. That only left one option, the doctors at Blackwell Institute.
Having made his choice, Jim retrieved the information he would need from his office across from the kitchen. Thumbing through the stack of papers, he found the right number. He spoke the number into the comphone. It was answered immediately by a brisk, efficient voice. Jim was connected to the lab tech on call.
"Yes, sir, may I help you?" the tech asked.
Immediately identifying the voice as that of the lab tech on duty the day he acquired Blair, he laconically stated his case, "I have recently acquired a clone from your facility, he's sick. I need to know what type of medications are safe for him to use."
"Sir, are you sure? Our clones are of top quality, they have vaccines and are incubated against major disease."
"Listen, I know when someone is sick. Just tell me what types of medicines are safe."
"Well, give me the code numbers for your clone, I'll pull up its file."
"SAN-1969"
"Oh, yes, I remember, you were advised and signed the waver. You were fully aware that you bought a faulty clone...."
"I'm quite aware of what I bought," Jim said, barely concealing his anger. "Just give me the information I asked for."
"Well, the records show that your clone is suffering from a heart murmur. I would suggest you avoid anything containing alcohol, actually, I would suggest children's medicine in the specified dosages."
Deciding that was the most useful information the technician would supply him with, Jim turned off the comphone.
Activating the comphone again, Jim spoke clearly, "Pharmacy."
When the medicine arrived by Quikenger, a standard delivery service, Jim went upstairs to wake the sound-sleeping figure.
"Blair, come on, you have to take some medicine. It will help make you feel better."
The sleepy figure sat up, hair falling in tendrils around his face, eyes warm and heavy with sleep. Jim placed the small cup of orange-flavored medicine in Blair's hand.
Blair took the medicine without complaint. His level of obedience still threw the stoic cop. Yes, he understood that Blair had been programmed to do as he was told and to never question, but Jim still found it eerie. It was also the same reason Jim found it so hard to understand why Blair had disobeyed his order to stay inside that morning.
Deciding that he would wait until Blair was feeling better before starting in with his lecture, Jim took the bottle of medicine back downstairs. He put it in the medicine cabinet for the next, appointed administration. Then he poured a small bowl of the soup he had heated for his own lunch and took it upstairs to his patient.
Blair wasn't sure what time it was, only that it was still night. His whole body ached, he had never felt this way before. Even under the blankets and pressed against Jim he was freezing. All he wanted was to feel better. He lay there for almost an hour before he remembered the stuff that Jim had given him hours earlier. He remembered how he had begun to feel a little better after drinking the orange liquid.
Carefuly removing himself from Jim's bed, Blair crept downstairs. He remembered the cabinet in the bathroom where Jim kept his razor, he remembered that Jim also hept his aspirin and such there. A quick inspecton of the contents of the cabinet and Blair spotted the clear bottle of orange medicine. "Nectocane.... for Children," Blair read the label. No wonder I feel badly, I'm not a child. Medicine in the Institution always worked faster than this. Finding another bottle this time holding a Blue liquid Blair picked up the container and read the label, this one promised to cure all his symptons and allow a good night's sleep. Squinting his eyes Blair tried to read the directions, but the words were too small, giving up Blair retrieved the cup from the bottle and filled it. After drinking the full bottle, he returned to bed. The false sense of well-being eased him back into a deep sleep.
Jim woke soon after Blair's return to bed, at first he wasn't sure why he felt the tingling of alarm bells going off. Listening carefully, he heard the racing heartbeat, the murmur straining to be heard in its quiet beat. He reached over and tried to wake the sleeping form. Jim checked his eyelids and immediately swung into action.
Sitting in the waiting room he focused his hearing on the room down the hall, where he heard the agonizing protests coming from inside the room. The doctors had managed to wake the young man from his drug-induced coma, but immediate treatment was still needed to reduce the amount of drugs in Blair's system. The doctor came out and explained that the overdose of the cold remedy had accelerated the Darwin's heart rate, causing added strain to the already defective heart. The brain was not getting enough oxygen. The prescribed treatment would have induced vomiting, but rather than stress the heart further, the old fashioned stomach pumping method was suggested.
Jim sat and tried to steel himself to the cries and struggles. Pausing briefly to take a deep breath, he charged down the hall. Entering the room he saw two large male nurses holding down his wide-eyed Darwin. The none-too-gentle grip that each man exerted on the protesting form touched some inner chord in Ellison.
"Let him go!" His voice was loud, firm, and authoritative. Both men immediately released their hold. The doctor holding the long tube looked up, startled.
"Mr. Ellison, you are not allowed back here. We are taking care of your Darwin and this is the best method. We are not hurting him; he is choosing to be obstinate."
Jim walked over to the side of Blair's bed. The huge blue eyes looked up at him, frightfully pained, brimming with terror. "Get out." The quiet statement scattered the two attendants in a haste that gave new meaning to the term "code blue."
The doctor remained, still holding the tube. Jim looked up at him and nodded his head, indicating the need and understanding for the procedure, allowing the doctor to remain.
"Blair, look at me," he commanded.
The pools of turquoise focused on his own blue orbs, looking for understanding, begging for mercy. "I know it's unpleasant, but it has to be done. I won't let anything happen to you and I wouldn't let them do this if there was another way. It needs to be done. Do you trust me?"
Jim had no idea why he was asking a clone, a possession, if he trusted him, but the answer he waited for meant more to him than he was able to understand. He took Blair's hand and held it between his two huge ones, asking again, "Do you?"
"Yes." A simple statement said with the simplicity and sincerity of the innocent. Jim nodded to the doctor. He immediately brought the tube up and told Blair to open his mouth.
During the whole uncomfortable procedure, Jim stood there holding the hand, stroking the outer bones with small circles of assurance. Blair's eyes pooled. Tears streamed down the outer rims and the pillow was soon wet. Jim moved one hand slowly down the side of his face and gently dried the area. He vowed he would not be so lax in watching over his charge from now on. This would not happen again, he would see to it.
The doctor discharged Blair as soon as the procedure was completed, never once asking how he felt or if he was in any pain. Blair's ministrations at the hospital only served to confirm Jim's feelings about what he had witnessed at the Blackwell clinic, when he purchased the kid. It seemed that clones had not reached the level of acceptance in the medical community that they had in the rest of the world. Somehow Jim knew he should have expected the doctor's attitude, in their eyes clones were only the means to an end in saving human life, or in the Blackwell case, making money. The well-being of the clone seemed to be unimportant once it left the walls of the clinic itself.
Standing in the kitchen reading over a list of things Blair should avoid because of his medical history, Jim noted two major items on the list: the first being alcohol, Jim was already aware of its danger, tonights episode served ample proof. The second item on the list was large doses of caffeine, this would be the hard one. Blair had already developed a taste for coffee and colas. Monitoring the kid is going to be hard, but I've got to keep Blair healthy in order to solve the case. Placing the list on the refrigerator door as a reminder, Jim turned his attention to the living room and the conversation he had been putting off.
Blair lay curled on his side watching TV. The taut silence from the man in the kitchen told him Jim was angry. If the man could send hospital attendants and doctors scurrying with one look---Blair had his own fear of hospital techs from the Institute---what fear he could evoke in him. The possibilities kept flipping over and over in his head, the most drastic of the options was that Jim would change his mind about choosing him, and that he would be sold to the hospital after all.
Reaching down Jim placed his hand on Blair's forehead, he was still running a fever, but at least it wasn't going up.
"How are you feeling?"
Blair looked up into the cold blue eyes, shock belying the fact that he was not used to people asking after his comfort and well-being. "My throat hurts," he whispered, all his raw throat allowed for at the moment.
Jim felt his heart clench, remembering what the kid had gone through in the Emergency room. "Do you want some ice to suck on?"
Shaking his head, Blair turned his attention back to the television.
Coming around to the front of the couch, Jim pulled Blair up to a sitting position then took the vacant seat.
"We need to talk. Just what were you thinking when you took that medicine last night?"
Confused eyes looked back at Jim. "I wasn't think anything..."
"Well, that was obivous, you took enough of the stuff to kill a healthy person. Don't even try to play dumb here, Blair, it's not like there wasn't a warning on the bottle."
"I didn't see it."
"You didn't see it?" Blair flinched at Jim's outburst.
Jim noticed the terrror, but chose to ignore it.
"You didn't see it?" Jim stood up suddenly and stormed into the bathroom returning a minute later with the bottle, all but throwing it at Blair.
Gathering his courage, Blair looked up to meet Jim's intense stare before looking at the bottle in his hands.
The trepidation of the increased heart rate, the clear, open-eyed expression, and the defensive slump of his shoulders, indicated fear, but Jim refused to feel guilty over his interrogation.
Blair blinked his eyes several times trying to bring the tiny writing into focus, when that failed to work, he began to move the bottle closer, then further away. Finally in a fit of fustration, Blair threw the bottle down.
"I can't read it. Damn it, are you happy now?" With each raspy word, Blair's heartbeat accelerated, his breath hitching in eager gasps.
"Not only did you buy a clone with a faulty heart, you got one that can't see either. I hope you kept your receipt so you can get your money back, but I think I was a sale item---buy as is."
The room was spinning now, Blair could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. It was over now, surely Jim would see the mistake he had made in choosing him. Fear of being returned to the clinic or turned over the the hospital made his already queasy stomach begin to roll. I don't want to die, I don't want to die, kept running through his mind. It was strange, before he met Jim he had never really cared about what would happen to him.
Quiet echoes of desperation reached the Sentinel's ears: increased heartbeat, blood raging through veins, body heat increasing by degrees, Oh Damn, not again.
Grabbing Blair by the shoulders, he spoke calmly, "Blair, Relax......Breathe...come on, kid, I don't have time for this." After the words left his mouth he could have kicked himself, it wasn't as if Blair's condition was his fault. The kid needed time to recover. The strain on his heart and the trauma in the emergency room had left him weak, and in need of rest---not another ordeal.
Finally Blair looked up at Jim, the tears in the crystal pools cut right through him, but it was the words that broke the older man's heart. "Sorry, so sorry." Simple words barely spoken, but the emotion behind them were more than he could bear. Reaching out, he pulled Blair close to him.
He wasn't sure how long they sat there on the couch, his arms holding Blair tightly against his chest. "There's nothing to be sorry for, it's okay, now." Jim spoke softly to the still shaking figure as he began slowly rocking. Arms tentatively reached around him, hugging him back. The dampness penetrating his shirt signalled a breaking point, then the small figure started crying softly repeating the words over and over "so sorry, so sorry, so sorry," like a litany for the damned.
The days passed and Jim worked in the small office with the doors closed. Blair occupied himself watching the huge wall screen, laying propped up on the couch. After several classes in kitchen techniques and food preparation, Blair felt confident enough to tackle lunch and he even did a passable breakfast, although Jim had suggested the eggs be cooked a little firmer.
Now he heated the soup in the small micro-cooker and set out the crackers and spoons. Several pre-packaged sandwiches were in the Cooljet unit and he put them on the table on small plates. He walked over to the door and softly knocked. Usually a knock wasn't even necessary, as Jim always seemed to know when lunch was ready. Returning to the kitchen he poured himself a large glass of the milk. Even though Jim had warned him to stay away from coffee, Blair had suggested coffee with a good dollop of milk might negate the caffeine effect. So caffe latte's were allowed as an after-dinner treat.
Sitting down, putting his napkin in his lap, he picked up his spoon. Odd, what's keeping Jim? he thought to himself. Cautiously approaching the door, he hesitated with his hand near the door, ready to knock. Instead he placed his ear against the glass and he heard nothing. Worried by the absence of keys being slammed or the roll of the casters as Jim often travelled from desk to files in his chair, Blair slowly opened the door.
There Jim sat in what appeared to be deep concentration, staring at his large monitor.
"Jim, I didn't mean to come in here, but I did knock," Blair ventured forth cautiously, hesitant to enter any further.
There was no answer. The large man sat immobile. Blair came around the side of his chair. Placing a hand on his shoulder he looked into the blank face that looked like the occupant of that body had long gone. Blair remembered something about the educational programming he had received in the major field of Anthropology. Long ago, tribes had men genetically predetermined as Sentinels. Men so genetically primed with their senses that they oftentimes focused on one sense blocking out all the others and the world around them. Blair remembered the section on Guides and how these men spent their whole lives together, a pair bound by loyalty and need. Often times when he would sleep at night, he would dream that he was a Guide, that someone wanted and needed him solely for himself.
Placing both hands on Jim's shoulders and spinning him around in the swivel chair, Blair caught a brief glimpse of the screen. There on the monitor was a bloody picture of a mutilated body, sitting propped up against a tree. From the clothes and books piled high around him, Blair suspected it was an Educator/Companion. His stomach threatened to do a sommersault, but he quickly looked away focusing his attention on Jim.
The blue eyes stared off intently on some object on another plane. "Jim," he started off softly, gently.
"Jim, you've over-focused. Listen to my voice and concentrate on following it back. Come on, I'm right here." He gently shook the shoulders, emphasizing "here."
Slowly the red blood that had been bursting upon Jim's inner mind started to fade, first pink, then lavender, then blue. No, the blue were the eyes that were intently gazing into his. Then, blinking his eyes, Jim recognized Blair.
"I must have had an attack," Jim said, lowering his head and rubbing his forehead.
"How long have you known?" Blair asked, backing away as Jim rose.
"Known what?" Jim said somewhat sharply, irritated that Blair had found him in such a vulnerable position, "and what are you doing in here?"
"Oh, hey man. Take it easy." Blair said. He had increased his attitude and his vocubulary in the past few days. Television had many personas to emulate and he was having fun trying out a few. "Chill, why don't you? You might pop those senses back into overdrive."
"I thought I told you not to come in here." Jim's voice eased off, how could he complain, the kid had brought him out of the zone out and he realized he didn't have the head-splitting headache that often followed the patches.
He saw the look in Blair's eyes: concern, warmth, understanding, and, yes, there it was even humor...the kid looked almost smug in his stance.
"Okay, I admit it. I've known for some time about the senses, but how did you know? How did you know what to do?"
"My educational programming concentration was Anthropology. The client who ordered me had an interest in the subject. Sentinels are known guardians for very primitive tribes."
Jim started walking out the door towards the table. The warm smells of the food now drawing him out. "Come on, let's eat. I'm starving."
"Hey, did you know that every Sentinel had a Guide. Maybe I could be your Guide. How does that sound?"
"Don't get any ideas, Junior. You helped me over a spell, nothing more. Anyone who knew about talking me down, could have done it," Jim said, angrily, but he knew damn well in his memory that Simon was never able to bring him out this easily. Simon often had to shake and yell and once he had even slapped Jim lightly across the face.
"You know, you paid for me, I'm yours. You might as well use me for things I'm good at," Blair reasoned with all caution thrown to the winds.
"Okay, Darwin, tell me more about this Sentinel/Guide relationship," Jim said as he placed the napkin in his shirt and contentedly joined his friend for lunch.
Blair was no longer banned from the computer room. Now while Jim worked, the door remained open. Often times Blair would come in and check on Jim, no obvious perusal of eyes or posture, but a friendly, "What's that on the monitor?" or "How do you retrieve those pictures?" Seemingly simple, curious interest into Jim's line of work, but both knew it was a way for Blair to monitor Jim's senses and keep him on line at all times.
One such time, as Blair brought Jim a cup of coffee, the most recent victim of the clone killings was profiled on the huge screen. The yellow ribbon tied neatly around the victim's neck, like a carefully wrapped present, was angled pefectly in the camera lens. Blair looked in closely at the ends of the ribbon, then pulled back as though stunned or shocked by some revelations he found hard to believe.
"What's the matter?" Jim asked as he held the hot mug in his hands and watched the reaction.
"Nothing. This case you're working on, it seems all the victims have been Darwins?" Blair asked thoughtfully.
"Yep, some sicko out there's been knocking them off at a rate of six a month." Jim said, comfortable discussing the case with his "helper."
"Oh, I see." The simple, seemingly unemotional response screamed at Jim like no shout ever could.
"What do you see?" he pushed.
"Nothing, I just see that this is what's held most of your attention since you purchased me." Then Blair turned and left. Jim rose to follow, not quite comfortable with the conversation. The communication console rang once, "Jim, it's Simon, pick up."
"Yes, sir, what's up?"
"We got another one, owner just had him a month. The Castlebury Estate. Mr. Castlebury found the Darwin in the library, positioned in his leather reading chair. Same M.O., Jim, down to the neatly tied yellow ribbon."
"I'm on my way," Jim said as the comphone disconnected.
As soon as Jim was out of the loft, Blair went back into the office. The console had gone into "sleep" mode, but Blair coughed...it was one of the few sounds he could make to mimic Jim. The monitor immediately kicked on and the last picture came on the screen. Blair looked closely again, the edges of the yellow ribbon on the right half were cut about an inch apart. Hardly noticable, unless you were a clone and you understood the loneliness of the lab and the hard life of education.
However, these ribbons were not the small yellow ones they wore on their wrists. These ribbons were three inches wide and large enough to tie around the clone's neck and hang in soft banners down his chest. Blair took his own ribbon from his pocket. He kept it with him always, loving the very first possession to call his own. He looked down and saw his own small notches in the ribbon, memories of his own successess and failures.
So it all made sense now. Sadly he pulled the ribbon into his chest and tears began to well in his eyes. He was bait, nothing more.
He sat there for over an hour, feeling sorry for himself. There is no future with Jim. He's only keeping me around to use me as a last ditch effort to catch this Clone Killer. He probably hopes I'll be killed in the final effort; save him the hassle of disposing of me. Well, the least I can do is serve the one small purpose he bought me for.
They had been waiting in line for almost an hour before they finally made it to the counter at the Registration booth. Despite the amazing computer technology they possessed and used on a daily basis, this had to be done in person.
Placing the ownerhip documents on the counter, Jim watched as the mousey little man with limp, blond hair reached for his glasses.
Blair fidgetted nervously at his side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, anxious to be out of the instituional-like office.
"Would you be still, we're almost through."
"Your the one that made me wear this stinkin' shirt, I told you it scratches." Blair complained. "I wanted to wear the flannel."
"You should have said something about it before I bought it."
The clerk behind the counter watched the little scene play out before him, not sure what amazed him more the clone's attitude or the fact that his owner was allowing it, he smiled tolerantly.
"Excuse me, Mr Ellison," he began, "will this be a joint ownership?"
"No, I'm the sole owner."
"Exactly what type of clone is it?"
"Educator/Companion." Jim's reply earned Blair another look from the clerk.
"What name have you chosen for your clone."
"Blair Sandburg."
"Unusual name for a clone. Most folks just give them first names."
"He's an unusual clone." Then Jim smiled and toussled Blair's hair in an affectionate gesture. Blair smiled back, somewhat startled by the display.
Forms were stamped and signed, fingerprints and blood samples taken. "Well, Mr. Ellison, the wheels have been set into motion, you'll receive your registration and your Darwin's ID within the next two weeks. Until that time, he is unable to travel by himself."
The clerk handed Blair a small, yellow passcard with his name and Jim's ownership number on it. A small hole had been punched in the top left corner, supposedly for hanging on a chain. The clerk opened a drawer and put a small piece of tape over the hole on both sides before handing it to Blair. As Jim signed the last of the papers, Blair played with the card, fitting it into the ridges of the divider and tapping it on the counter. Jim put his hand over the recalcitrant card, stopping any further performance.
Pulling Blair out of the office, he ushered him towards the old truck.
"Oh, hey, wait, I left my card on the counter," Blair said. It earned him a stern glare from Jim, but a simple thumb jerk in the direction of the door, sent him scurrying to retrieve his new possession.
As Blair moved in front of the line waiting to be processed, he approached the counter. A new clerk was now taking care of the next scientific pairing of man and clone. Blair smiled charmingly at the two, who stood close to one another, the owner's arm warmly snuggling the Darwin. Blair realized their relationship must be more on the Companion level. He knew about the sexual education some clones went through once purchased and he was glad Jim didn't have those designs for him.
Turning towards the door, he noticed the clerk who had attended to them folding some paperwork up at the QuikCopy and stuffing it in his pocket, surreptitiously looking around. Blair saw the small yellow ribbon peeking out of his pocket. Then he raced towards the door, not wanting to anger Jim any more by dallying.
All the eyes followed him as he walked beside Jim into the area the cop had called the bullpen. Eyes could hurt, he mused, as much as words sometimes. The cold assessments made by the ill-informed and the uninformed left burn marks upon a person's soul. He was getting used to it, but he still wanted acceptance.
Lately, the feeling of being watched was becoming more and more prevalent when he and Jim left the loft. Sometimes, even when alone, he felt like he wasn't and the thoughts were beginning to disturb him.
Pointing to a chair by a desk in the corner of the bullpen, Jim motioned him to wait, then moved forward into the glass, enclosed office. Blair immediately lowered his head, but behind the curtain of ill-tossed curls, he watched the scenarios around him.
"Sir, you gave me freedom to handle this case any way I saw fit."
"But a clone, Jim....you're inviting trouble. I've got not only the Mayor but that clone rights group breathing down my neck to solve this case before another Darwin is murdered, and you tell me you're using a clone as bait to trap the killer. Damn it, Jim, we could have sent a cop undercover if you'd only told me what you suspected."
"I thought of that Simon, but the killer is too smart. He'd know the difference between a clone and a human," Jim argued.
"How! How would he know the difference?" Simon demanded.
"The innocence.....the pure, unadulerated innocence. I've spent less than five days with Blair...."
"Blair? Who's Blair."
Sighing, like only the persecuted can, Jim continued, realizing this was going to be harder than he thought. "Blair is the Darwin I purchased. As I was saying, sir, I've spent less than five days with him and the differences are too great."
"Jim, what about the issue of expense? There is no way I can clear the funds to purchase a clone....how did you get him anyway?"
"I've taken care of it, Simon, there will be no expense to the department. When I'm through with him, I'll donate him to a teaching institution or the..." he paused before saying the dreaded hospital word..."or some other worthy charity and claim him as a tax deduction."
"And what are you going to do if your little plan works, Jim? What if he does attract this sicko and he winds up dead. Can you live with that?"
"That's not an option, sir, I won't let anything happen to him....right now I need to know I have your support."
I never realized that there would be so many selections, he thought as he browsed through the racks of frames in the waiting room. Once brought out of the examination room, he had been led over to a chair and mirror. The optician began placing some suitably-framed glasses in front of him. Looking up, he noticed Jim standing next to him.
"They said that once I picked out the frames I wanted it would only take five minutes."
Before Blair could even finish speaking Jim started placing frames on him. Nodding his head at one, then shaking at another, tilting Blair's chin up with each new placement. Thirty minutes and forty sets of frames later he was no closer to choosing a pair that he liked for the kid. Blair suffered through the whole ordeal without a word. There seemed to be no end in sight.
A woman walked over to Jim, removing the next set of frames he held in his hand and replaced them with a small, thin set of frames that had been on a rack nearby. She smiled at Jim's questioning look. "They won't take away from his eyes." She smiled at Blair then turned away.
Looking down nonplussed by the frames in his hand, he shook his head and placed the frames on Blair. The bright blue eyes were showing through, the thin frames neither too large nor too small seemed to fit the face perfectly.
Feeling eyes on him Jim looked over his shoulder. The woman was watching, she smiled and nodded before leaving the store.
Jim sat on the couch reading the folders he had brought from the station. The key was here somewhere, he just needed to find it, that one piece that just didn't seem to fit or that one silent coincidence that tied these dead Darwins together. All Darwins came from Blackwell in Washington State, so that didn't help much. There was no way they could be random. Why not kill Nannies or Maids, why only Educator/Companion?
"Coffee?" Blair asked him, as he set a mug down on the coffee table and brought his own treasured treat to his lips. Smiling at the taste, then sitting down on the opposite end of the sofa, hugging the mug lest Jim take it away from him, he looked puzzled.
"Still no idea who the killer is?"
"No, but I will." Jim set the files aside and reached for the mug. "Thanks," he said as he looked over at the kid. Odd, he thought to himself, how much I've come to accept him being around. How much he seems to fit in. Blair had come to know Jim's little peccadillos, his tenacious focus on solving cases by ignoring other people around him. Blair seemed to take it in stride and instead of shouting his presence along the sidelines, he eased his way around the perimeter waiting for Jim to come close. Then when the Sentinel caught sight of him, Blair would take the opportunity to pull Jim through and keep him out of the case long enough to eat, or sleep, or maybe watch a game or two on the wall monitor.
Not like Carolyn who had bitched and moaned and demanded Jim react to her, notice her, and give her the attention she needed. Blair could accept being ignored, perhaps, because he felt he had no right to expect anything else.
"What if it was a Darwin?"
"What?" Jim said, roused from his musings.
"What if the killer were a Darwin, himself?" Blair said, matter of factly.
"No way. Clones, well, Darwins aren't cloned for that. The genetic process is repeated enough to ensure non-aggressive behavior. You should know that." Jim said, looking directly into the blue eyes.
"Well, I wasn't perfect. I was scheduled for recycling." Blair looked at him daring him to deny it.
"That's not true, you were...." but seeing the strong knowledge those eyes reflected, he changed direction, "well, er...how did you know?"
"Darwins talk among themselves. They think we're ignorant and only know what they allow us to know, but we know everything. We know when we are to be destroyed." Then lowering his head, barely audible, he said, "I knew."
Seeing the lost look that flashed across his companion's face, Jim realized the horror that knowledge must have carried with it. What must it have been like for him, standing there watching the verdict over his existence passed by Dr. Blackwell with not so much as a thought to his feelings. How does one stand so rigid and unassuming when being judged inadequate?
"Blair, the system isn't perfect, God, I know that. Their methods of 'recycling' are not acceptable to me, but there are groups out there working to change it. There are other uses for all Darwins. Just know one thing," he said as he watched his friend take a sip from his mug, hiding in the dark, strong liquid, "I'm glad I was there and I'm glad I took you home."
"You're right, Jim," Blair said, looking out the window, passed Jim and the loft and the life he was getting so comfortable in, "you're right, there are other ways of recycling."
"Just what is that supposed to mean, Chief?" Jim asked, somewhat irritated with the route this conversation was taking.
"Nothing!" Blair said, irritably. Rising from the couch, he went to stand by the window looking out over the dark city, the soft lighting making it look warm and cozy and quite inviting. He remembered nights at the institute, after dinner and a complete day of lessons and programming. He remembered being forced to bed, whether he was tired or not. Everything was done on schedule and everything done to the convenience of the doctors and technicians. The lights were out by a master switch and he would lay in his bed fingering his ribbon, taking it off his wrist, as all the clones did in the darkness---fingering it and marking it with the memories of the day: two close notches, passing a particularly rough exam, one notch, an epiphany of sorts, a v-shaped cut, failure.
He saw Jim through the glass darkly, reflected back at him in the alternate world of reversals, where lefts become rights and rooms gets changed around. A world where city lights joined the soft lighting of the loft and captured both realms in glass. Pulling his own yellow ribbon from his pocket, he looked at the steady progressions of two notches evenly spaced, the periodical single notches that got progessively more predominant as the realizations of his own failings came to the forefront. Then the final v-shaped notch, the complete failure and rejection of his own life.
Jim needed his help, well, he would give it to him. Slowly turning around, cutting the stillness with his movement, he offered the yellow ribbon out to the detective. "Here, if you have your Silab check these ribbons out closely, they'll notice notches similar to mine. Darwins mark their ribbons with their accomplishments and failures. No one knows about this marking system, except clones. It's always been considered a sin to tell a human."
Jim took the ribbon and looked at the minute markings on the edges.
"I don't belong in either world anymore so I guess it's really not betrayal, and they don't deserve to die." This was said so sadly, with so much regret, that Jim put the ribbon down and stood up.
Blair felt the warm hand on his shoulder, pulling him from his musings and regrets. The weight of that hand anchored him to the spot and secured him in some secret knowledge of home and family...a knowledge he so desperately wanted. "Kid....Blair, I know how much it took for you to tell me this, but you don't need to fit in any world anymore. You belong by my side, and that's all you need to know."
Raising his eyes quickly to the sound of the sweet words, the blue eyes met the others in the world of glass. It was a quiet place for both men and each felt remarkably comfortable accepting this fact in the flat dimension of the panel. Only Blair had his doubts, for he knew that being at Jim's side was a conditional arrangement to catch a killer.
"Okay, Jim, you've proved your point, but what does your point prove?" Simon Banks asked as he took a large sip from his huge mug. The state of the art coffee maker that shined in coppery tones behind him still hissed with the remembered drippings of cafe latte, filling the room with warm smells.
Blair sat at the table inhaling deeply every so often, tantalized by the smells of the rich caffeine.
"Sir, he called it," he said, pointing a finger at Blair who was still covetously eyeing the coffee machine. "He said there would be notches in the ribbons, and the Silab confirmed. He said only a Darwin knows the system, so it has to be a Darwin."
"Anyone could know this. You know it, Jim, what's to say some other clone didn't get all buddy buddy with his owner...Gee Whiz, Jim, they are Companion/Educator clones and we all know some end up being lovers. Don't you think someone else may have let it slip."
Jim saw the distracted look on Blair's face. He quickly walked over to the credenza behind Banks and picked up an empty mug. Showing it to Simon, he said, "Do you mind?"
Simon shook his head, and Jim filled the mug up with the hot liquid. He carried it over to Blair and set it down in front of him. "Go ahead, you've earned it."
The warm smile that cracked the lips, the bright blue of the eyes, the appreciation in the look, were all noted by Jim as well as Simon. "Hey, man, thanks."
Then he added in a non-emotional tone, "No clone remembers the system after he's defragged."
"What?" Simon and Jim both said at the same time.
"Defragged. I was never defragged, because Jim didn't go through the proper training."
Looking confused, Jim shot Simon a look that said, "Hold on, I'll get to the bottom of this." Then he proceeded to sit directly across from Blair, snatching the mug and pulling it across the table, trapping it between his own two, large hands.
"You'll get this back when you explain yourself," he said sternly, angered by Blair's withholding of this singularly important piece of information.
A hurt look colored the face with dejection. Blair brushed his hair behind both his ears. "We go through a process called defrag. Our memories are pretty much wiped out after we are purchased. That's when we are put through an intensive 24-hour programming filled with the vital information our buyer wants us to have. I imagine this is when the sexual preferences are instilled. The defrag wipes out treasured memories. When we leave, Darwins still hold onto their ribbons. Why? I don't know, but the ribbons remain important, while the memories associated with them are gone. There is no way a purchased clone, claimed by an owner, would know what the notches meant. Only those destined for recycling carry those memories with them to their extinction."
The look that passed his face on the final word made Jim cringe. He smiled at Blair and slowly moved the cup back within his reach. The eager hands snagged it and pulled it close, immediately sipping the warm liquid, seeking comfort in the treat.
The next day, Jim was out of the office. He had left early, and Blair suspected he was going to the Institute. No doubt, the lead would open doors to the investigation. Blair sat on the sofa waiting, then giving Jim the allotted time to leave the parking slot, he practically skipped into the computer room. Coughing like Jim, the monitor sprung to life. Blair sat at the keyboard and scrolled the files. Every victim's personal stats sprung to life in a cascading effect of file upon file. Using the penmouse he pointed to each file, clicked once and read the stats. There it was---the common factor. Every clone was registered by their owner on a Wednesday...that's the day Jim registered Blair.
Pulling out the small notebook he had found in one of Jim's kitchen drawers, Blair made a note. Then he scanned the ribbons for each victim. Silab had entered the data once the connection was made. Each yellow ribbon laid out nicely showing all the markings and etches and notches, noted nicely with red arrows. Identical...each and every one identical. He sat back and put his fingers together, teepeed, tapping lightly in harmony with his concentration.
"Oh, shit!" Blair jumped up and leaned forward, "Oh, man, that's it!"
He took the notebook and started writing frantically. Pulling his yellow ID card from his back pocket, he took a strip of magitape from the dispenser, he attached the note and the tape from his ID card to the huge monitor. Then jumping up, he raced out of the room, heading for the wall where his jacket was hanging.
As he reached his fingers up to snag the garment, the front door was kicked open violently. Blair backed away as he recognized the man who had registered him several days ago. Then all hell broke lose, as the bait was snagged.
Climbing the stairs, Jim was exhausted. The list of rejected clones was far more than he expected and his own humanitarian conscience was playing hardball. He felt callous and insensitive and he wondered if he could look Blair in the face now, knowing the things he knew about a clone's life at the Institute.
When he entered the loft, he dropped the list and pulled his gun. The room was a chaotic mess of toppled furniture and broken objects. "Blair!" He shouted the name as he scanned the room in a low crouch, watching for any signs of movement. "Blair! It's me, Jim!"
Still, like the dead of night, the room offered up no response.
He went to the comphone and spoke "Simon Banks." Moments later the voice of his captain broke the airwaves.
"Jim, what's up?"
"Blair's gone and it looks like he was kidnapped. The loft's a mess."
"Hang tight, I'm on my way and I'll send a Silab team."
Jim disconnected the unit and walked into the office, noting that the usually closed door was open. Seeing the small note attached to the monitor he read it out loud. "Jim, he tracks them with a small chip in their tempcard. The tape is micro chipped. Jim, he was rejected because he couldn't develop a caring nature. He singles out those that seem loved." There stuck to the note paper was the tape that Blair had pulled off of his ID card.
"Damn it, kid, you should have called me."
When Jim explained Blair's suspicions to the Silab team leader, the tape was immediately examined.
"Detective Ellison, whoever your Darwin is, he's a mighty smart one. These tapes are completely unnoticable to the human eye, and as far as I know, only some esoteric science journals talk about them. He's a clever one, I'll say that much for him. The thing most people don't know is that you can reverse the frequencies of these things, something to do with the microfibers."
"What does that mean?" Ellison asked, somewhat testily, having no patience for games right now.
"Well, we can reverse the chips on the computer and track the tracker and his tracking device. If this guy has the tracking unit with him, we can find it and him."
"Do it," Simon Banks said in a no-nonsense voice.
When Blair woke up, his head hurt, his mouth was dry, and understandably so, since he was sucking on a piece of cloth. He was laying in a puddle of water. The room around him was dark and the smell that tickled his nostrils was putrid and rank. Fighting back the urge to vomit, he tried to sit up. Realizing that his hands and feet were bound securely, he pushed himself up using his palms. Twisting his body, he positioned himself on his butt and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
There was a small light coming from a crack in the floorboards overhead. He remained quiet as he listened. Then he heard the faint sound of someone humming off in the distance. He looked down at his wrists. In the vague light he was growing accumstomed to he could make out Nylacuffs, the simple ties cops were using. Pulling his knees up he checked the ties around his ankles---just plain old hemp rope.
Suddenly a burst of light streamed down, blinding him where he sat. Looking up he saw a shadow moving towards him slowly decending the stairs. He scootched his butt back, using his heels to push. When he pressed back against a hard wall, he knew there wasn't much else he could do.
"Well, well, my little man has come around I see." The mousy man from the Registrars Office said.
"Your Mr. Ellison must be out of his mind with worry, and rightly so, rightly so," he said in a tsk tsking way like one would to a naughty child. "He really seems to be fond of you," the man said, as he toussled Blair's hair in the remembered gesture and pulled the gag down from his mouth.
"I'm not a Companion," Blair said, trying to diminish his importance in the scheme of things where murder was involved. "He purchased me as an educator for the police department. I'm a training officer, a teacher only."
"Oh, no, little man, no way." The man stooped down next to Blair to look him in the eyes. "I saw the way he looked at you, he cares, my little man, he really cares for you. What makes you so special that someone can love you and not ME!!"
He drew back his hand and slapped Blair hard across the face. "I want him to regret caring about you. I want him to see the pain and horror you went through before you died. He'll never care for a store bought thing again." The last was spit into Blair's face with all the contempt possible.
"Let's get you upstairs where I can make myself more comfortable while I begin working on you. I like to put masterpieces back in their place and you, I think I'll return you to loft, but I'm going to ship you there Quikenger." Laughing uncontrollably, he almost fell several times, lifting Blair up and over his shoulder, he carried him up and into the light.
"Detective Ellison," the Silab tech said, "I've been able to recycle the settings and reverse them, but the tapes sometimes are so sticky, the chips don't respond to the shifting and lose their power. We're getting a faint sound, but we can't hear it all the time."
Jim looked at Simon, then he concentrated his hearing on the tracing unit. "I can hear it."
It was all the affirmation Simon needed, "Let's go. Jim, you ride with me."
Picking up the tracking unit, Jim, Simon, Rafe, and Brown headed out of the loft and towards their cars.
Blair sat tied in the chair. His hands were tied down to a bar at the base of the chair, which also secured his legs by pulling them back under the chair. He couldn't kick out or pull away.
"Let me introduce myself, Blair Sandburg. How very remiss of me. I am Lasher-874. You know how they identify us don't you. They use the name of the donor of our cells for the cloning operation. So I tricked them. When they scheduled me for recycyling, because I didn't show enough compassion, enough emotions, they said I had no feelings to empathize with humans......Me! No emotions. Can you believe it? Well, I fooled them, I walked out of the hospital. I just up and walked out. Fools!" he said as he stuck his face directly in front of Blair's. "I am very emotional. I just wanted someone to love me." Now his voice trailed off, and Blair felt a moment of compassion for the man.
"I wanted to be bought and loved, like you, man. Just like you."
"You can't get people to love you, Lasher, if you keep killing Darwins. You're going about this the wrong way." Blair was trying to remember the psychology training he had in dealing with children and adults as an educator, but the stress and strain of his situation were wearing him out. He wished he had called Jim. What if Jim didn't go back to the loft? What if they didn't know about reverse tracking...he should have mentioned it in the note, but he thought he would just go to the Registrar's Office and check out the clerks, then to the station to tell Simon or maybe, with luck, find Jim there. He just didn't think. No, you never do think, do you? That's why you're going to die? Then he thought how it would even be worth that if Jim really did feel his loss.
"Now, open your mouth for me. A simple little thing to help you relax, while I begin my work." Lasher came at him with a small measuring cup filled with a yellow liquid. Blair turned his head violently clamping his jaws firmly shut. Lasher pinched his nose and waited.
As they rounded a corner near the docks and warehouses the sound was gone. "Hold it," he said to Simon as he pulled the unit closer to his ear. "I've lost the sound, damn it!"
"Jim, concentrate, listen in. Let me cut the engine." Simon shut the car off, checking his rear-view mirror to make sure Rafe and Brown were still following and waiting for them to continue.
Taking a deep breath, Jim focused in, he couldn't hear the slight beeping, some other sound was intruding. Some other soft beating sound was distracting him. "Damn it!" Jim said, trying to push the intrusion out of his ears, then he recognized the absent beat, the slight murmur, then the rapid acceleration of that same beating.
"He's here. Simon, I can hear his heart." Listening closely, he opened the door while drawing his gun. Within seconds, four fully armed and dangerous officers of Cascade Law Enforcement were racing up the steps of a small house.
Blair wanted to close his eyes, he knew he was going to die, but he didn't want to know it. He didn't want to see the face of his executioner and know the moment he sipped the liquid he would be unable to resist the pain and dementia that was promised him. He remembered the mutilated bodies and wondered how long it took for them to die.
Just then the door burst open. Jim was in, gun pointed at Lasher. Lasher reached behind him and drew his own gun, but as he backed up he fell backwards landing next to the chair where Blair was tied, never clearing the gun into Jim's line of vision. Falling slightly behind the chair, Jim had no way of seeing the gun and no clear shot.
Blair could only react, he had no time to mouth the words. As Lasher pulled his gun around, Blair rolled his chair over onto the prone figure. The loud blast of the gun echoed through Jim Ellison's head like thunder and he could feel his heart break at the realization of what must have happened.
"Well, at least we've got the bastard," Simon said, as he stood next to his car. Silab and Medteams were racing in and out of the house like flies at a picnic. Jim only half heard his Captain. He watched, waiting for the one person who mattered to him at this point: Blair.
"He saved your life, Jim. You know that, don't you?" Simon said as he lit his cigar, watching his best detective carefully.
"Yes, sir, I know."
"Luckily the gun got pushed down when the chair crashed on it. Otherwise..."
"Yes, sir, I know about otherwise right now, and I'm going to impart a whole series of otherwise on the kid." Jim looked like he wanted to wring necks and Simon conjectured one particular neck.
The door opened and Blair came out of the house supported by two Medteam members in white coats. Jim moved forward like an expectant parent who recongizes a child disembarking from an airplane after a long absence.
Seeing Jim, Blair's face cracked into a wide smile, impatient to be with his friend. Well, at least he thought of Jim as his friend. The man was a force to be reconned with once the gun discharged. Blair remembered all too well the strong arms that pulled him up and out of harms way. Then in a flurry of activity Jim kicked Lasher's hand sending the gun flying. It was only after Rafe and Brown pulled him off of the injured man, that Jim had quietened considerably. Lasher took the bullet, not Blair. A gaping chest wound and blood everywhere almost put Jim into a zone-out, but as incapacitated as Blair was, he was still able to quietly call Jim back to sanity.
Now, the look in his Sentinel's eyes convinced him he was the next one to be pummelled within an inch of his life.
"It's just a bad bruise, Detective. He took the brunt of his weight on his knee cap, he should be fine providing he stays off of it for a few days." The Medtech passed Blair onto Jim by motioning the large detective next to the Darwin. "He was lucky, though, I'll say that much for him." Both Medtech's smiled, knowing that repurcussions were forthcoming and knowing the clone's luck was about to run out.
"Thanks, guys," Blair said, warmly smiling at the men, then sheepishly looking up at Jim.
"We did it, didn't we? We got him." Then the smile faded and Blair said quietly, "I guess I served my purpose."
Jim never said a word. He walked slowly, allowing the injured man to hobble towards Simon's car. The huge black man took a good puff on his cigar and swung the baton-like object in the air, "You're lucky, kid, lucky you teamed up with this guy, but by my guess, he's lucky to team up with someone like you. Silab is still wondering how you knew about Microtracers."
"Sometimes, when lights were out, some of us would sneak into the labs after hours. We would sit behind the work tables and read their notes and magazines. I guess I just have an interest in science as well as anthropology." Blair spoke easily now, almost overly chipper. He wanted to distract the anger right off of his companion, but it didn't seem to be working...not by the dour countenance that helped settle him in the back seat.
"Don't move from this car until I tell you to. Got it?" A stern finger was thrust under Blair's nose.
Nodding his head eagerly, showing cooperation and an eagerness to help, Blair pulled himself further into the car. He knew his future was in the balance at this point and he had every reason to believe he would know it in detail within the next few hours.
Jim helped the small figure up to the loft. Blair was able to hobble, but any heavy pressure on his knee caused him to wince. Jim walked him over to the couch. The stern-faced detective still had not said one kind word to him. Blair was scared. He had never been so scared in all his life....the short one he knew of anyway.
Propping the pillows around his back, Jim raised both of his legs on the couch and started untying his shoes. "Keep your feet elevated. Call me when you have to go to the bathroom. I'll call for some crutches and have them delivered by Quikenger." Then reaching for the afghan in back, he draped it over Blair's legs and adjusted the pillows around his back.
Instead of moving away, Jim looked down into the worried blue eyes. Sighing heavily, releasing his soul, he slowly lowered his backside down onto the square coffee table.
Blair's eyes widened in fright. Jim could almost see him cringe as he waited for the ax to fall.
"First off, thank you. You saved my life. I never saw the gun and chances were he could have gotten off a clean shot before I even knew it."
"Not with your senses, not the way you can hear, see, and smell, man. No way, I didn't do..."
"Will you shut up!" Jim said, frustration creasing his face even more.
"You saved my life, risking your own...which, my friend, we will deal with a little later on, but right now I want you to know something so you can stop shaking and imagining the worst." He watched as Blair's eyes widened, not sure where this was going.
"You're staying here with me, Chief, no two ways about it. You're going to be my partner, this guide thing you were telling me about. I paid for you and I doubt the department will reimburse me, so you belong to me whether you think so or not. I'm not recycling you. You are imperfect, but by my own design, exactly what I want."
Blair smiled. Having a hard time grasping the words, not sure he could believe his own ears.
Jim reached in his pocket and took out the note Blair had left him on the monitor. "Now, Chief, what's this about 'those that seem loved?' Seems to me Lasher had better insight into things than you do, kid."
Jim's question was answered in a most unusual way. The Darwin, the kid, the one to be his Guide, but now his best friend, threw himself into his arms---and for now---it was all the answer Jim needed.
THE END