Rated: G

With Thanks to Nickovetch, divine beta,  without whom this would have far more errors.

The world is grey. No, red. Dark red.

"Mr. Kuryakin."

The world is red, and it hurts, and I have to...

"Mr. Kuryakin? Don't struggle." The red becomes sound, and the sound becomes words, and the words mean... "You've been drugged. That's why you feel sick." Drugged? There were no drugs. No drugs, only the machines that....was that what...at the edge of hearing? The machines? "But you'll be fine." Fine? Suddenly the world lurches into the present. I am - once again - in a hospital.

Which one? That was always the question. Good sheets. Perhaps the station clinic? I risk a shallow breath, only to feel my lungs catch and spasm. The scent of blood and disinfectant. Those are to be expected. Smoke or diesel fumes, but too faint for the city. Not U.N.C.L.E. At least not New York.

Hands on my chest, rubbing. Firm but not painful. Not T.H.R.U.S.H. then. More words. "Try to breath deeply." Reasonable. It is good to breath. Another shallow breath, then deeper. Not as painful this time. Only a little spasm, followed by a dry cough. My throat stings. From the drugs? But there were no drugs. Unless...Not important for now.

The hands return, to my chest and to my back, rubbing and soothing. Rather pleasant hands, even if they are somehow too small. The too-high voice sounds pleased. "Very good." A warm dampness touching my face. Water?  Too fluid for blood. And the voice is becoming louder, more present somehow. " Again please." It seems best to obey. Focusing, I press out my chest, pulling is as much as as possible against the strange constrictions somehow more within then without. I breath in, the rush of alcohol scented air bitter within my lungs. Then out, aided by the pressing hands. If feels good, even as the hard coughs come in series. Coughs hard enough to lift me further from my warm...wherever."Excellent." The voice near my ear seems quite unduly satisfied.

The warm dampness moves again against my face, brushing over my lashes and clearing away the sticky sand. When damp goes away there is light in my eyes. Red. No, white. White and... I blink, smearing the vague colors,and with painful abruptness the room snaps into focus. A young woman in an ugly green blouse looks down at me with distracted concern.  A nurse, obviously.

"Mr. Kuryakin." I consider the accent. Lower Ukraine. I suddenly realize she has been speaking Russian all along, but until this moment I had not considered that. At least not as a matter of significance. Some of the nurses at U.N.C.L.E. often will, out of courtesy. But, if I am not at U.N.C.L.E. - and I most evidently am *not* - then, where am I? More to the point, where is.....

"Do you think you could sit up a bit?" The nurse pauses, but not in the manner of someone requiring a reply. " I'm going to raise the bed." A grinding noise, and a pressure under my shoulders as the world begins to tilt. "Very slowly." A moment's vertigo, then the room is stable again. "Good. Careful  of the IV in your left hand." IV? I glance down. The world spins again at the act. No matter. My vision soon returns enough for me to see  the clear tube in my left hand. Now that I see it I can identify the sensation, but in a universe of pains it does not stand out in particular. Part of my mind takes a moment to speculate what drug T.H.R.U.S.H. has given me now. Poison? Truth serum? A deep sigh at that thought. I have always *hated* the truth serums. Sometimes more then the pain of more 'conventional' questioning. But I do not remember...? Speculation is useless. At least it appears there is an antidote. Good.

A new friction on my chest returns my attention to the nurse. "Another deep breath." The request is getting redundant, but I comply. This time the cough is minor, barely annoying. "Wonderful. Would you like a sip of water?" the nurse asks as she brushes a curved straw against my lips. The question awakens a thirst. She holds the straw while I take a deep sip.  The cool liquid feels very soothing in my mouth. I draw harder. " Not too much." She pulls back the straw. "Your swallow reflex may be weak. We've just taken you off the ventilator." Ventilator? That would explain my sore throat. But - I give my aches a quick consideration - there are no pains sharp enough for a bullet wound. Why had I needed one? "You should have a sore throat for a while, but otherwise there is no serious damage."

Interesting. I had suspected as much. My pains are mild, but not blurred as they would be were serious traumas being dulled by morphine. What I feel, I feel. Which leaves a far more serious question. Ignoring the pangs from abused neck muscles, I turn my head to the right. Not there.  Perhaps the left?

"Would you like your glasses?" The nurse is back. "Here they are."

The glasses perch awkwardly on a swollen nose, but they do help. Now, where is..?

"You have a visitor." Ah. I rest back.  That is right. I close my eyes as the nurse goes to the door.

"Not very long, please. And try not to stress him." My visitor. I feel my smile stressing chapped lips. Everything will be fine.

But the voice which answers is female, and quite unknown. "I believe Mr. Kuryakin is able to deal with stress." Russian again.

Low heels snapping against a hard floor. "Mr. Kuryakin?" A  sharp voice. Moscow accent and very insistent. I consider simply closing my eyes and seeing if she will go away. Not likely. I try anyway. She simply waits , until it is evident that I will have to open my eyes again.

As I thought. No one from U.N.C.L.E. Blonde, perhaps thirty, wearing some oversized white jacket over a uniform shirt. Military? Likely. But which one? Hard to make out the the details unless... my eyes focus and I catch a glimpse of the collar tabs. Damn. Mine.

Well, that was better then T.H.R.U.S.H., I suppose. Probably. "Where.....?" I falter, startled by the roughness of my own voice.

"You are in the Gugarin Military Hospital. How much do you remember of your last mission?" She manages to sound interested, but not insistent.

I ignore her question in favor of my own, "Where.. Solo?"

"Mr. Napoleon Solo?" Her voice takes on a smile. Most women's do when it comes to Napasha. "Your partner? He's here as well."

"Got to..." I try to rise, but the nurse presses back on his shoulder.

"No, Mr. Kuryakin." The nurse speaks  to me, but looks at the officer. A bad sign. "You need to rest. But I assure you Mr. Solo is here. You can visit him as soon as you're able to sit up."

"In a moment." The military woman speaks to the nurse but watches me. "Please." She moves her face into my field of vision. "Do you remember me?"

I gaze at her indifferent pretty face for a long moment before realizing that ...I do. Somehow. "You were there when...." Memory blurs. When what? That is the question. "What happened?"

"Quite a lot, but you're safe now. Everything will be all right." Her reassuring smile is  perfect, and almost reaches her eyes. "Just relax."

"Who?" Her face drifts out of focus as my concentration fails.

"I am Major Yelena Hovsepian. I'm with the KGB. I've been assigned as liaison during your recovery. Do you remember who you are?"

"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Section two, Number Two - U.N.C.L.E." Which she should already know.

"And your mission? What do you remember of that?"

Stupid question. Who does she think I am."I do not feel inclined to discuss that matter at this time."

"Right answer. Straight from the book." This time the laugh does reach her eyes. "Fortunately I *do* feel inclined." She pauses a moment, then begins to speak in the clipped voice universally associated with reports. "You and Mr. Solo were taking out a 'satrap' - I believe that's what they were called - in western Mongolia. Lead by a Professor Grimlove?  You believed they were working on a device to steal or disable the Volga power grid. You infiltrated with the intent of destroying his machine. You had successfully planted the explosives, but were discovered before you could complete your escape. In the gunfight that followed, you followed the Professor into his laboratory, and into what has been described as a 'short whirling tunnel'."

"I do not.."

"Feel inclined to discuss the matter? At least not with me." The smile grows even broader. "Very well. I could show you my ID, but such things are easily faked. Just rest." She reaches over to pat my undamaged hand. "Your friends are nearby. I'm sure your doctor has informed them that you are conscious, and they should be here soon."

Her glance at the nurse brings a nod in return. Whatever that means.

After a breath she continues. "The important thing is this. When you come out of the 'tunnel' we were there. Do you remember? You are with friends now, and you are going to be fine."

A smile and a final pat and the Major is gone. Strange. Very strange. I am calculating my chances of getting out of the bed when the phone rings. My nurse answers, listened a moment, then rests the speaker by my ear.

"Illya?" A flat American accent. Very familiar.

"What." My voice catches, and I swallow.

"This is April Dancer. Number Four, Section Two. Do you remember me?"

Strange question. We had lunch together just last week. "Yes." I answer.

"Good." She seemed unnecessarily gratified. "Your Doctor just called me, and I'm on my way in. You've had one hell of a shock, but you're back now, and everything's going to be fine. Just rest while I get there." I want to say I would rest better if I knew what was going on, but that might be indiscreet on an unsecured line. She pauses a bit, then adds. "And Illya? Don't let Napoleon seduce the nurses."

I ease back into the pillows and close my eyes. If that was the problem, everything *would* be all right.

Chapter Two - You Ain't Going Nowhere

Rated: PG

I take advantage of the quiet to check out the room. Not bad for a hospital. In the last few years I have had the opportunity to become something of a connoisseur of such things. One bed, water faucet in the cupboard by the wall, telephone within reach. Decent light from a large window. From the bits of greenery glimpsed through the blinds, very possibly on the ground floor. Private nurse, if I am to judge by the way my sloppily garbed companion sits reading rather then leave the room. Only one thing missing,

"Nurse?"

"Mr. Kuryakin?" She puts down her book. "Try to rest."

"My partner." The command is not as forceful as I would wish, loosing more then just volume in its passage through a graveled throat.

"Mr. Solo?" That brings the same smile I had seen on the Major. " He's fine. Not out of shock yet, but...." I try to rise but she is faster, out of her chair and beside me before I can clear the covers.

"Please, lay back!" I ignore her. If I am a prisoner, best learn that now. She pressed against my chest briefly, then releases. "Oh, very well. Dr. Bastajian said you were to be accommodated. Just wait for one minute."

One hard push to put me back on the pillow, then she vanishes through the beige door. So I can have privacy. Useful information, although just now I can not judge what to do with it. Things seem almost safe, except for my utter certainty that U.N.C.L.E. would never leave an agent alone in foreign hands. Not even 'domestic' foreign hands. If Napasha is injured and April is on her way - where is Mark? Or even one of the local hemispheric officers?

I have barely enough time to form these questions before  the nurse returns, this time with a rather large man in tow. Bad sign. But the man waits by the wall while the nurse comes over to my bed.

"Just a bit while I disconnect the IV." She smiles, reaching for my strapped hand. "This might sting."

It does, but that is the least of my discomforts.

Unhooked and bandaged, I watch with interest as the large man unfolds a wheelchair. Orderly, I decide, although these people's shapeless green clothing show no indications of rank. Once the chair is assembled and rolled up beside the bed, the nurse shakes out another blanket and spreads it carefully.

"Can you sit up?" she asks.

Of course I can. And do. After a bit, the dizziness passes.

'I'll transfer you to the wheelchair. Right leg first.."

I know the routine. A clumsy operation, although the crew seems quite competent at it.  I must start walking soon. For now? This will do. As long as it gets me to Napoleon.

The nurse produces another blanket, tucking it around me like a child. Even, for a moment, over my arms. I protest that, forcing my hands free. Bad enough that someone will push me. I must have some freedom.

An empty hall, bland with closed doors. Mine is number twelve. A very short ride brings me to number sixteen. We must be expected, because this door opens before the nurse can knock.

Quick scan. Another room identical to my own. Two chairs, one nurse, and in the bed... at least he is breathing. I can see no serious injuries, but he is so pale.

Ignoring the orderly, I reach for the wheels. One hard crank maneuvers me up by the head of the bed.

"Napasha?" I whisper. No response. Then louder, " Why is he...?"

"Ah. Mr. Kuryakin?"  Another green clad man, this one older and thinner, and wearing a stethoscope. " I'm Doctor Bastajian. Mr. Solo is still sedated. I'm afraid it required a slightly heavier dose to prevent his convulsions, but we are expecting a full recovery."

Convulsions? Was that the source of my aches? No matter, they appear to have passed without effect.

"When?" That was the relevant question. "When will he...?

"Two to five hours." By which I assume the doctor means consciousness, not full recovery. " You should be able to talk with him tonight. Perhaps after dinner." Very well, I decide. It could be worse. This seems like a comfortable place to wait.

I check the angle of the light. To judge by that, this appears to be summer. Five hours to dinner would make this just about noon. Possible. The light casts very few shadows. After a quick calculation, I decide we are on the south side of the building, and somewhere much farther north then Minsk.

*BUZZZ*

Not the telephone. A communicator in the doctor's pocket. The angle prevents me from getting a good look at it.  He speaks briefly before addressing me.

"Sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. You'll have to return to your room now. You have a visitor."

I almost refuse, but remember that April is expected. "Yes." The orderly is reaching for the handles when I ask. "Bathroom?"

"Of course." Dr. Bastajian appears embarrassed at his oversight. He glances at the nurse, who nods at the orderly. "Ragsac, if you'll help Mr. Kuryakin."

So. Now I know the man's name. And have guessed correctly at his rank.

The second door leads to an attached bathroom. Toilet, shower, tub, and sink. These are luxury facilities. The orderly guides the wheelchair near some convenient rails.

"Do you think you can stand ?" he asks. Southern accent. Maybe Turkistan.

"Yes."

"Good. It will make the transfer easier." I unwrap my blanket while he drops the rails. "Best you do this sitting. Not a problem?" I nod. Not a problem at all. He grabs my hands and positions them. "Hold the rail here, and here. On three. One, two three....." I know the routine, and manage without too harsh of a bump. "Good." He nods. I stare back. " Oh. Privacy thing? I will go behind the screen.  But you call if you think you are going to fall. You get hurt now and I do punishment detail."

Reasonable request. I will not fall.

The privacy is required for more than my bladder, which is not yet that uncomfortable. It gives me a chance to check my injuries. Minor. Scrapes and bruises, but no burns, and any stitches required have since been removed. A very good sign. Once Napoleon is awake, we will be mobile.

Still, since I am here? It is good to find that everything still works. Relived, I look behind me for the handle.

"Finished?" Ragsac steps away from his screen.

"The handle?" I ask.

"Photo cell." He points at a small red light on the lid. "It will flush when you stand up.  Ready to transfer back?"

"I can walk." At least, I suspect I could if I had to. Now is the time to find out.

"So you say. But Doctor Bastajian says you ride. And he is one man I do not argue with. So for now?"

He reaches for my arms. I give him the *look*.

He stops, then. "Compromise? Once you are in the hall, you can steer"

No answer. Just another *look*.

"If you insist. I will call for a walker."

Unacceptable. Another *look*.

"That is my best offer. Otherwise I carry you!"

Not likely. He is large, but I have an excellent angle on his elbows.

"Very well." He surrenders. "Nurse? Can you help me?"

The nurse brings a robe and slippers. Navy plush with a complex embroidered logo. The base insignia, I assume. Very nice.

It is a slow walk, and I use the nurses arm for balance, but I manage. We are almost back to the room when 'my' nurse reappears.

"The other room." She nods at a door just across the hall. "More space , and we can clean this one."

"Very well." I answer, and she opens the door for me.

It leads to an inside room, windowless but well lit. Tall lamps plus a ceiling fixture. Sofa, two stuffed chairs, and a large television in its cabinet placed against the side wall. A table with a samovar in the corner. Seascapes in oil on the walls.  Who do they normally treat here? Generals? Several additional chairs have been brought in, but there is still room to move comfortably.

A badly barbered young man in a rather strangely tailored blue suit is seated near the back, next to the blonde woman I spoke with earlier. The loose coat is gone, and now I can see the tabs of her uniform. She *is* a major. Rather a high rank for her apparent age, but the display of field ribbons may explain that. No unit designation. Not surprising, given her service. She is either executive or covert. Perhaps both.

The pair wait patiently while the nurse helps me into one of the soft chairs.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" The young man in the suit stands. I'm Daniel Quinn, C.I.A. I'm the American task-force representative for  this operation. You've met Major Hovsepian?" He phrases it as a question, but it is not one. I ask my own.

"C.I.A.? Where is U.N.C.L.E.?"

"How are you feeling?"

He ignores my question, so I return the favor. "U.N.C.L.E.?"

The Major answers "That is who we are waiting on."

The CIA man nods agreement, clearly getting the message.

"I would have preferred to wait until Mr. Solo could join us, but" she shrugs " Dr. Bastajian expects him to sleep for a bit longer."  Which clearly annoys her. Too bad. I also would prefer otherwise. "And your personnel profile suggests  it might be" she pauses, looking for words "an *error* to delay.... so..." She smiles, intending to be charming. "We will brief you now, and your partner later."

A strange choice of words. Not, I think, accidental. "Do not you mean de-brief?"

The Major looks relieved. "No. Not at this time.  Although, when you are stronger, Dr. Stejan has requested a full report, if you would, and ..."

"Illya?" A familiar voice comes from the open door.

"April." Finally. The chair is deep, but I turn and....what is this? That woman is at least fifty, although she looks...."April???"

I hear the others stand up behind me.

"Hello, Illya." She perches on one chair arm and smiles a familiar smile. "Do I look that bad?"

"No. Not bad, but....."

"We should have told him." Quinn again.

"He would not have believed you", the woman named April answers him. "I'm not at all certain he'll believe me."

"Illya." She smiles comfortingly. Even her teeth are like April's. "Good news or bad news? The good news is...... you're home. You're back, and you succeeded." So I have been told. What I do not know is where they think I have been. "The bad news is....... it's been a while?"

Long enough for April to age so visibly? Perhaps amnesia? I glance down at my hand. It does not appear to be aged.

"Here." The April woman hands me a thick report with a familiar cover. The paper does feel rather brittle. I ignore that. Such effects are easily reproduced. "The lab report on Professor Grimlove's machine. What we could recover from it."

I flip through it. The format appears correct.  Too many pages to read quickly.

"That is.." The CIA man starts to object, then stops at April's glare.

"Agent Kuryakin's clearance is higher than your own... and I see no reason to change that as this time."

"Yes ma'am." He sits down, chastened.

"Short form?" April waves at the report. "It was a ' time machine' - we think. Or perhaps more like 'suspended animation'? You vanished into Grimlove's 'tunnel' on  January 30, 1968. You reappeared six months ago. January 30, 2001."

I do the math. Thirty three years. Ridiculous. I ignore that. If I have been in the hospital six months? That is not a pleasant thought. No wonder my injuries have healed.

"I don't fully understand it, but.." she laughs slightly. It is a familiar sound. " You're the scientist. You go over the report and fill in where you can. And yes, that's an order." She laughs again, a bit more sincerely. "At least I think it is. There could be a bit of a jurisdictional question.

She gives Quinn a *look*. He tries to appear innocent. The Major tries to disappear altogether. Excellent. Whatever the difficulties, U.N.C.L.E. clearly has the upper hand.

Satisfied, April continues. "We've been waiting for you, of course. Professor Grimlove survived the explosion, and under the circumstances.....well, he was all too eager to assure us we would 'get our agents back' . Unfortunately, he couldn't say when. So we... waited. A bit longer then we expected but... you're here now. That's all that matters today." She reaches over to take my hand, and I do not refuse. "So, Illya Nickovetch. Welcome back."

She smiles expectantly. I do not know what to say.

"Questions?"

She waits. So do I. Questions can be as dangerous as answers.

"Would you prefer the others to leave the room?" She matches the words with one of our hand signals. If this is a trap, it is very well prepared.

I risk a signal in answer.

"Really, Ms. Dancer......" The man named Quinn starts to object again. It earns him another glare.

"Mr. Kuryakin is *my* agent. I believe you can trust me alone with him for five minutes." This time the laugh is far less pleasant. "Of course not. Well, I'll make it an order, then. Out. Both of you. And come back *after* you have called Moscow and complained."

They grumble, but they go.

The April woman produces a small box from her purse and places it between us. One tap produces a faint green glow. "There. Secured."

I look, but say nothing.

"Oh." She fumbles through her purse  again, and this time come out with a more familiar tool. One of our 'cones of silence'. I check it carefully. It appears to be working.

"Who are you." My first question. She produces a slightly unfamiliar ID. Black, with gold letters. April Dancer - Chief Policy Officer, Hemispheric Operation, North America."

One from the top - if she is telling the truth. Which is impossible. Still...

"Director Dancer." She does not seem surprised at the title. Very smooth. " If this is an U.N.C.L.E. operation, then.....

"Why the fellow spooks?  Professional courtesy?" She smiles, then continues. " Well, this *is* Russia.  We can't expect them to let us operate without some 'assistance', now, can we? And Quinn? He's there to make sure Hovsepian doesn't assist us to too much."

No surprise there. I say nothing.

"When you and Solo first vanished - we though it would be for one year. Professor Grimlove said the machine worked in year increments, so... we were there. In force. But you didn't arrive. Not that year, not the next, not the next."

Or for several more, if her story was to be believed. Which it was *not*.

"And - the world changed. T.H.R.U.S.H. was destroyed. It never recovered from the blow you gave them. Never. You did that." She smiles up at me, and I can almost see tears in her eyes. Most effective. " You ended T.H.R.U.S.H. So - U.N.C.L.E. changed. I still have that ID. We never abandoned the charter. How could we? We had agents in the field." She pauses, as if the thought hurt her. "Illya. We never gave up hope!" Her tone becomes insistent. "We were there!"

"But...in truth?", she searches for the words. " There are other agencies now. Including the one I run. Don't ask. Not yet. Later - I promise." She shakes her head, then continues. "Our treaty for the site post included a KGB monitor. That's reason one why Major Hovsepian is here. But with U.N.C.L.E.- altered - you have noticed this is a Russian military hospital. It was convenient. So the Major has some authority. But don't let her push it. You still outrank her, if it comes to that."

"Mr. Quinn? You can ignore him. No real authority. But as long as Hovsepian has an American citizen? I wouldn't let them separate you two.  This is going to be rough enough. There will be major changes. I know it will be difficult. Some of my advisers were worried. I'm not. I have faith in you and in Napoleon."

She sits back, finished. "It's a very different world, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. But - I think you'll like it."

Chapter Three - Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News.

Rated: G

It is not discipline that keeps me silent. More a matter of incredulity. To a story like that, what is there to say?

I watch as April Dancer turns off the U.N.C.L.E. machine, and then her own, and drops the pair of them back into her infinite purse. Another fumble brings out keys, a lipstick, and finally a  small black case. Perhaps a compact, although it seems a bit large. Also rather plain for feminine tastes.

She shakes the lid open, and then presses three buttons. They beep musically. Some sort of code, but not one I recognize. "Mishca" She speaks into the lid. "Tell the mob they can come back in now."

"New communicators?" As questions go, that one would seem safe enough . And I am curious.

"What?" She looks almost surprised at the item in her hand. "It's a cell phone."

A special phone for calling cells? And if she did wish to communicate with her coverts, why be so open about it?

"A telephone. Illya. They are portable now." She glances at the table, where a real telephone disputes her words. "Most of them, at any rate."

She hands it too me. Interesting. It does appear to be a communications device of some sort. Solid-state electronics ; very compact. No apparent dial, merely a grid of numbered buttons below a plastic plate. Same sequence as a telephone. The speaker was in the upper portion. That much I can identify. Antennae in the top. Battery slot in the back. Other then that? This will take time to fully analyze.

"Keep it." April says. "My number is already in there. *4 for home. *2 for office. Call any time."

This Mishca must be a very local contact. After a polite tap the door opens, and both Mr. Quinn and the Major reenter. With or without the phone call to Moscow, they have clearly gone for reinforcements. Doctor Bastajian, who I recognize, and with him a shorter man in a traditional white medical jacket but without the stethoscope. The last through the door is an older man in a regular Army uniform. General's insignia, but a caduceus on the collar. Medical branch. The base commander, I decide. Standing would be difficult wrapped like I am, so I merely nod. He does not appear to take offense, simply gestures for the others to take their seats.

The April woman stands, and they shake hands before she speaks. "OK, people. Let's try to make this as quick and painless as possible."

A fine idea. Why do I think it unlikely?

"This is Doctor Bastajian. You've seen him before, I assume." April says to me. "And your psychiatrist, Dr. Goldak." She waves towards the man in white, who nods in acknowledgement.

"Psychiatrist?" I ask.

"Just a formality." The Major interjects. "Army regulations require that therapeutic support be offered after all hospital stays longer than two weeks. But I believe we can dispense with him now."

"Hardly," the white jacketed man bristles. "Mr. Kuryakin has just had a very stressful experience. And this is  no longer the dark ages! Your dismissive attitude does not help." His voice rises, then drops again as he turns to me.

"Mr. Kuryakin. I know that you are very confused right now. That's to be expected. So I won't bother you today."

Good. I would prefer if a psy-operations agent was to bother me *never*.

"I just want you to know I'm here for you. We can talk tomorrow, if that's agreeable?" Hardly. But that is seldom a wise response, so I again say nothing. He seems to accept it. "I won't press. Just let the nurse know if you want me."

April smiles at us both, trying again for charm. "General Safaryan, Commander of this facility."

"Sir."

"An honor, Mr. Kuryakin."

"And Major Hovsepian. Whom you have already met. She will be your briefing officer."

That statement brought an improbable cough from the far wall.

"Along with Mr. Quinn, of course."

"Briefing officer?" Another question. I must watch that this does not become a habit.

"Yes sir." Mr. Quinn jumps into the opening. " We are here to bring you up to date. Answer any questions you may have, and..."

I cut him off. "Just one."

"Sure." He gives me what Solo would call a shit-eating grin. "Whatever."

"When do I get out of here?"

"Out?" The grin wavers. " Well..perhaps..

"Please!" The Major cuts in. "You are *not* a prisoner, Mr. Kuryakin. You could leave now if you wished."

"I wish."

That kills her smile as well. "Dr. Bastajian ?"

"I would not advise it." He steps forward, addressing me as he would a class of interns. " You have had a severe systemic shock. You have spent six months in induced barbiturate coma, with all the loss of nerve function that implies.  You are at least fifteen pounds underweight, anemic, and still showing mild signs of hypothermia. I would advise you to remain for at least a week or until your blood work returns to normal and you can walk unassisted." Which apparently finished the lecture. He sits back down. " That is, however, just advice."

"Dr. Goldak?" The Major seeks another ally.

"Mr. Kuryakin is an adult, and quite competent. I could not say otherwise. Although I agree that more support work is advisable. Perhaps in a community setting. "

"Well... " She looks up at the General, who says nothing, "If there is any particular place you wish to go, I suppose we could arrange..."

I ignore her. "You are saying I could just walk out of here?"

Dr. Goldak snorts at that. "Not likely. I doubt you have the strength to walk down the hall. I'm am merely saying you are free to try."

Which answers nothing. I turn to the base commander. "General?"

"I have no orders to the contrary. But it would be insane..."

"We can provide....." That is Quinn, cutting in again.

"Enough!" April raises one hand and the room falls silent. She scans them all, then turns to me.

"Mr. Kuryakin, you have a choice. Stay here with Mr. Solo, or come with me to my hotel. And I *do* have the authority to make that an order."

Leave my partner? Nyet! "Here." I answer.

"That settles it."

Another tap in the door, and this time it is a young woman in a privates uniform pushing a cart.

"Good." April waves her over. "Hot tea. That should put everyone in a better mood."

April Danger waits as the young woman serves the General, then the others. Mine she puts in a plastic cup with a partial lid.

"Would you care for a straw, Mr. Kuryakin?" the young private asks.

"No. I can drink."

"Raspberry jelly?" Major Hovsepian  offers, holding out the pot and spoon. I must have shown surprise, because her laugh was back. "It's in your file, Mr. Kuryakin. I have had a great deal of time in the last months to spend on my reading. Appearances aside, we do want to make you stay comfortable as possible."

Perhaps. She has read the file at least. The comfort I do not expect. Although.... I  decide to make no judgments - for now. April helps me steady the glass while I stir a bit of jam into my tea, and sip. "Excellent."

That appears to reassure the Major somehow. She stands, straightens her papers, and begins in her formal voice. "Let us  start at the beginning. What we know about operation ........"

*BUZZZ*

Another interruption from the doctor's pocket. This time I get a better look. His communicator is much like the one April handed me.  Perhaps somewhat larger. It is also louder. I can overhear the nurse on the other end.

"Dr. Bastajian? You asked to be informed when Mr. Solo showed signs of waking?"

"On my way."

"If you will excuse me?" He nods to the General, then to the room.

April Dancer pauses a moment, then stands. "Perhaps we should all go now, and finish this in the morning. General Safaryan?"

"If it can wait thirty-three years, it can surely wait one day more."

I say nothing, but I give her the *look*. She understands.

"Escort Mr. Kuryakin to Mr. Solo's room. I'm sure Mr. Solo will find that far more reassuring then a roomful of scrub-clad bruisers."

True, I think. And with good reason. I reach for the arms to push myself up.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" She smiles. and I would almost swear I see my friend again. " Use the chair. That *is* an order."

************

"Illya....watch out....... the beam......"

Perhaps Napoleon Solo is awake but he is not conscious.

"I'm here, Napoleon, I'm here."

No response. Without a watch I can not be precise, but I think at least one hour has passed since the orderly found me a space beside my partner's bed. Allowing  for another fifteen minutes of sitting in the hall while green-clad personnel rolled out cart after cart of machines and supplies, and five more for delay and travel time from the meeting to here.... I do not like that answer. Napoleon should be free of the drugs by now.

Base...explosions.....no door....Illya...

"I'm here, Napoleon, I'm here."

A bit repetitive, but what else is there to say. Here I am. Here I will remain.

"Out... must get..... in there.....where..."

I lean back, trying to relive the tension in my shoulders. They are beginning to cramp from the strain of my twisted position. This wheelchair is too low  - or his bed is too high. No matter. I have felt worse, and have no intention of releasing my partners hand until my Napasha is back and fully aware. Which should, according to the nurses earlier words, have been at  least half an hour ago. Perhaps Dr. Bastajian had misjudged his dosages. If so, I will have to... discuss..the matter with him later.

At least Napasha's voice is stronger now. For the first half hour I could barely make out the words when Napoleon moaned. Now they were almost at normal volume. A good sign of lung function, or so the nurses insist. Both doctors have been pleased. The harsh coughing is past, and now Napoleon speaks with nearly his old tones. He has been given water, and swallowed without assistance. All very positive.

"Illya...Illya?...Illya!"

"Hush, Napoleon. I am here"

At last - finally - the limp hand closes on mine.

"Illya?" The voice drops back to a whisper.

"I am here. We made it out. You are in the hospital." A long moment while I watch the breathing catch, then return. Dark lashes flutter, then fall closed.

"How bad?"

A good question. But now that Napoleon was back...? "Nothing serious, they tell me." True enough. That is what they have *told* me. "Hold still, the nurse wants to remove the IV."

The nurse hesitates. Even though this nurse is a large man, I do not blame him. Hurting a man as thoroughly trained as Napoleon Solo is never a good idea. No one has mentioned any details, but I suspect that some of the caution the staff showed in my presence may have come from their earlier efforts at treating *him*. It also, I suspect, explains the disappearance of the attentive young ladies who had previously flitted around. They were most considerate, and doubtless quite knowledgeable, but they were not anyone's choice when it came to dealing with an injured warrior like Solo.

"It is all right." I assure the nurse. "He is good with pain, as long as he knows it is coming."

One smooth pull on the silver needle. Napoleon shies away, but does not strike. Good. "Illya..?"

"I'm here." I reach out and  wash his lids with a warm cloth.  "Can you open your eyes?"

His lashes flutter again. I reach out my free hand to shield him from the light until his pupils have a chance to adapt. He blinks rapidly, trying to focus. I watch as his eyes dart, taking in the room, his own injuries, and the hulk in green poised at the foot of the bed. Finally his eyes come to rest on my own.

"Illya?" Napoleon asks.  "If this is a hospital, what did you do with the beautiful nurses?"

END CHAPTER THREE

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