Collection 9 - The Changeling

by LRH Balzer

  Time seemed to be an important consideration; he took a deep breath and exhaled trying to push the lingering sensations of some drug or other out of his system. His jacket was off, shirt sleeves rolled up, so in all likelihood, he had been injected with something. Damn. Without knowing what it was, he wasn't sure how he'd been compromised.

  An explosion nearby shook the laboratory, dislodging more ceiling tiles that came crashing down to the floor. As the dust settled, he could see more through the open doorway, thanks to the unfortunate dim glow of fire from somewhere out in the hallway. There was a counter to his right, a sink at the far end. The counter had glass-doored bookshelves above it, and miscellaneous jars and instruments scattered across the surface. Straight ahead, the doorway, and behind him, a fabric-covered partition blocking the rest of the lab.

  From what Napoleon Solo could tell, he was alone; there were no Thrush agents nor scientists, nor could he hear any evidence of life around him, other than the continued relay of explosions that periodically rocked the building.

  "I hope that's the cavalry out there," he mumbled, twisting in the chair. The lock binding one wrist opened easily. The electrical padlock had been rendered useless by the power outage.

  Two seconds later, he had sprung the other locks and shakily stood up, staring about the laboratory.

  Hazy memories and blurred images worked their way into his consciousness, but still without enough information to go on. He remembered voices talking around him as he lay secured in the chair. White-smocked bodies, with notebooks. Two... no, three males and one... only one female... Scientists or doctors or... experimenters.

  Solo ducked as another explosion shook plaster down on him. Experimenters. Where had that thought come from? Yet even as he considered it, he knew there was a definite conviction that he had been experimented on.

  Standing up again, he looked around the room, but there was no evidence of binders nor notepads nor surgical instruments. He glanced at his watch, surprised at the time. Four hours had passed since their capture. Long enough for anything to happen. What the hell went down here?

  A memory surfaced, of a row of black binders on the counter behind him, but even as he turned, he knew they were gone. The scientists had obviously left quickly, but had warning enough to remove the binders, taking with them all their notes and data. It was what mattered to them, but they were foolish or naive enough not to think to remove the holstered gun hanging by Solo's suit jacket on the far wall. He stumbled over to it, groaning inwardly as he saw the other suit jacket hanging beside his.

  The U.N.C.L.E. scientist... Damn. Another explosion rocked the building, threatening to collapse the floor above him. Kuryakin. The mystery man. The crazy scientist. Here somewhere, because his jacket was there on the wall.

  Solo turned back, gun firmly in hand, and walked further into the room. Waverly had some sort of stake with Kuryakin, so it would be wise to report accurately on what had befallen the young man. He found the scientist behind the orange partition, bound in a similar manner to how he had been, and in an identical chair. The young man had managed to free one hand and his feet, but was wrestling frantically with the lock binding his right wrist. He froze in the dimness, hooded eyes meeting Solo's, then returned to his struggles as though not expecting assistance.

  Another explosion rocked the room, sending a new wave of debris and dust on top of them. Voices in the hallway drew Solo to the door, and he peered around the comer into the blackness. He looked back to see the young man pushing himself up from the chair, freed now, one arm moving quickly to support his ribcage.

  No words passed between them; Solo had the gun and a flashlight, and the Section Eight agent, Kuryakin, stayed close behind him as they moved out into the hallway. Other than the hand tight against his lower ribs, Kuryakin gave no indication of being in pain, but, like Solo, was blinking back the effects of the drug.

  A high-pitched whine cut through the area and they covered their ears. Ten seconds later, it had stopped just as suddenly as it had started, followed by the loud crack of an explosion, a burst of thunder ricocheting through the building.

  Smoke and dust hovered in the air, shimmering clouds lit by the fire behind them at the far end of the narrow corridor. Solo headed in the other direction, ducking under hissing electrical cords hanging from above, stepping over the plaster and cables from the dislodged ceiling tiles, relieved that Kuryakin was following him without direction to do so. As they turned the comer, one route was completely blocked; the entire wing of the building had collapsed. The other direction was not much better; there was extensive rubble, but the slightly askew Exit sign caught Solo's attention, and he motioned for the Section Eight agent to follow him.

  They had almost reached the stairwell at the north end of the building when a team of Thrush agents came barrelling into the far end of the corridor, firing at them before Solo had even registered their presence. He brought up his automatic and got off several shots, keeping Kuryakin behind him out of the line of fire as best he could. He hated when innocents were dragged into such things. Kuryakin was obviously still drugged, for he showed little emotion or fear over what was happening. At least he wasn't acting like Plotik had, a false bravado that had gotten him killed. And Newton killed. And probably Philips, although he hadn't asked Kuryakin what had happened to the driver.

  A glance back showed the fire behind them was advancing down the corridor, gaining on them. He had to do something before they were irrevocably trapped. Burning to death was not how he intended to go. "Get in there." Solo pushed the young scientist in the hollow beneath the stairs and crouched low, firing the automatic as the stubborn Thrush agents continued to pop around the comer to shoot at him. One enemy bullet finally found its target, hissing across Solo's arm and splaying his fingers open, the gun falling from his grasp. The shock of pain knocked Solo over to his side, fighting to stay conscious, one hand in reflex covering the wound.

  He was dimly aware of Kuryakin crawling over him to escape. Solo cursed, even as reason flooded back—Really, what could he expect? This wasn't a trained Enforcement Agent. This was a scientist, one who never should have left his nice cool laboratory at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. Too young. Not prepared. Probably terrified—and he had every right to be terrified.

  Another round of gunfire and Solo knew he had to move if he expected to survive the next few seconds, The fog in his brain lifted; a familiar sound, his U.N.C.L.E. Special was firing somewhere above his head. That pushed him totally awake. He forced his eyes open, forced himself to sit up, and stared at the young scientist. "I'll take that, thank you, before you hurt yourself," he said, as soon as there was a lull in the gun battle.

  Kuryakin handed him the weapon, collapsing slightly against the wall, overcome, no doubt, by what he had just done. Two men lay dead in the hallway.

  "Get back in the stairwell. I'll handle this." Solo grit his teeth and grasped hold of the Special, ignoring the blood trickling down his arm. Kuryakin fortunately knew how to handle directions and was back under the stairs, panting with exertion.

  The whine was back, growing louder by the second, until the walls trembled. The air hissed and crackled, and a tendril of green energy snaked down the corridor, dispersing the fleeing Thrush agents, then it disappeared, replaced by the glare of flames.

  Solo backed into the stairwell. "Help me wrap my arm up," he said urgently, between gritted teeth. "They've turned back for the moment and I need to be ready when they come back if we're going to get out of here. I figure we've got just a few minutes before that fire gets here." He placed the gun on the floor by his right hand and watched as Kuryakin ripped his own shirt into shreds and bound the arm. The wound wasn't bad—just a crease, really—but it was enough to be painful and disagreeable.

  With his free hand, he activated his transceiver. "Open Channel D." Solo tapped the transceiver several times, then said again. "Open Channel D. Mr. Waverly."

  Waverly's voice echoed in the stairwell. "Yes, Mr. So
lo. Report, please. Second unit reports extensive gunfire and the imminent destruction of the warehouse. Your location, please."

  "Not good, sir. We came under attack shortly after our arrival. Newton is dead, as is one of the Section Eight agents—I'm sorry, his name escapes me at the moment."

  "Plotnik."

  Solo nodded at Kuryakin's quiet voice as he bent over his task of bandaging his arm. "Plotnik, sir. Adam Plotnik."

  "Do you and Mr. Kuryakin have the information you need on the chemicals? Should the area be evacuated?"

  Kuryakin reached over and took the transceiver from Solo, not noticing the senior agent's look of surprise. "Alexander Waverly, it is I," the Russian said, placing Solo's gun back in his hand. "It is safe to destroy the building. The chemicals will not cause an explosion. There is another source of energy here that I am not familiar with, a weapon perhaps, but I have not seen how it is controlled. To be accurate, it does not appear to be controlled at this time. Do you require further information?"

  Solo looked out into the corridor, but it appeared to be vacated. He could feel the heat from the fire as it approached.

  "No, Mr. Kuryakin, that answers my immediate concern. Mr. Solo, we have a team standing by to retrieve you if you can make it to the northwest exit. How close are you to that?"

  Northwest was, of course, the direction the Thrush agents had come from and had retreated to for the time being. No doubt they were waiting for them just around the comer, knowing the fire would force the U.N.C.L.E. agents out.

  "We'll get there. I'll have to shoot our way out though."

  "Understood. Mr. Kuryakin, please assist Mr. Solo as necessary. Follow his instructions."

  Kuryakin leaned forward to speak into the transceiver, and Solo could see the sweat running down the man's face, dirt and blood mingled with it. "Yes, sir," he said, with a cough. His hand tightened on his ribs, his eyes opening slightly in what the enforcement agent knew was acute pain from whatever injury he had.

  Solo pocketed the transceiver. "Not how you thought your day would go, is it?"

  Kuryakin stared back at him blankly.

  Shock. Great.

  "Okay, let's get out of here. We'll take it section by section. There's an alcove at the end of the hallway. We'll go straight there and see what we come up with. There's a chance that the Thrush agents have moved out. Are you ready?" Solo got to his feet, glanced at the expert bandaging of his arm, then stepped out into the corridor.

  Behind him, he heard a slight gasp of pain as Kuryakin got to his feet, but he kept moving forward, gun hand extended as they got to the end of the corridor. Before he crossed the open hallway to the alcove, he paused, listening. No sounds. Solo reached back and grabbed hold of Kuryakin's jacket. "Ready? Now!" He half-threw the young Russian out across the corridor into the alcove, diving in after him as bullets tore up the hallway. It only sounded like two guns firing, though, and a quick dart out into the hallway cut down the Thrush agent who had ventured out toward them. The man was dead as he hit the ground, cooperating nicely by releasing his gun. It bounced down the corridor, retrieved easily by Solo.

  "Let's go before his friend gets some recruits." He stepped back into the alcove, checking the second gun. "Get up."

  "Go ahead," Kuryakin whispered.

  "Come on. We can both make it if we run now. The exit we need is only thirty feet from here."

  "I can't." Again the tight whisper.

  Solo glanced down to where Kuryakin leaned back against the wall, his legs sprawled on the floor.

  "That's an order, mister. I know you're probably terrified, but--"

  Kuryakin opened his jacket. What the black jacket had hid was evident against the once-white shirt.

  Blood. A bullet through his side, from the looks of it.

  Shit. "Can you walk?"

  "Go ahead. Alexander Waverly already has information you need from me." Kuryakin closed his eyes, his face white beneath the dirt and sweat.

  Solo surveyed the corridor again, then looked back to Kuryakin. "If I leave you here, you might be captured by them. Even if you are only Section Eight, they would still try and get information from you."

  "I would say nothing."

  "Not good enough." Solo wrestled with what to do, knowing every second he delayed meant the Thrush agent could return with backup. "Here," he said, finally, handing Kuryakin the second gun. "Take this. You know what to do?"

  "Yes." Kuryakin froze for a moment, then reached for the weapon. "Yes, I know."

  Solo took two steps forward, but something made him look back, just in time to see Kuryakin put the gun to his temple, ready to blow his brains out. With a tight kick, the Chief Enforcement Agent knocked the gun from his hand. "What the hell are you doing?" he whispered as loud as he dared, his voice carrying his shock. "I'm trying to get us both out of here alive!"

  Kuryakin's face finally broke from its non-emotional glaze, confusion easily read as Solo picked up the weapon and dropped it in his pocket. "I thought—"

  "Come on." Solo cut him off, then leaned down and pulled Kuryakin to his feet. "I don't know what the hell that was about, but we'll get out of this together. Shit, I think you just took ten years off my life."

  Being upright was definitely not doing the Russian any good, but he valiantly tried to stay on his feet, one foot stumbling after the other as Solo dragged him down the corridor. Twice Solo had to prop the young man against the wall, leaning back against him to keep him upright as the enforcement agent fired at the opposition.

  Kuryakin stayed alert, though, even as he tried to stay conscious. "To your right!" came a hiss by his ear, and Solo fired as he turned, catching the Thrush agent as he came around the comer. As soon as he had turned to look in one direction, Kuryakin had turned the other way, watching his back like a seasoned pro. "Give me the gun."

  "Only if you use it on Thrush," Solo said, taking the U.N.C.L.E. Walther from his jacket pocket, then pushing back against Kuryakin, holding him in place with his shoulder as he raised his weapon and fired up the corridor.

  "I'll do what I can."

  "That's all I ask," Solo muttered, but he could see the struggle it was for the Russian to even raise the weapon with his left hand and fire. At least he was a decent shot, or else beginner's luck was with him. Either way, Kuryakin put two bullets in the middle of each forehead of two Thrush agents as they rounded the comer toward them.

  "Thanks," Solo gasped, but the body behind his began to crumple as consciousness faded. Solo grasped the young man around the waist, ignoring the pain tearing through his left arm as he dragged him across the corridor and through the doorway. Once the door closed, there was no light in the stairwell; it appeared any emergency lighting that should have been in place had defected along with the fleeing Thrush agents.

  Kuryakin was a dead weight in his arms, and with a growl of frustration, Solo fell back against the stairs, letting him drop to the floor. Another explosion rocked the building, this one sounding like the top floor had crushed the corridor they had just exited from. In the distance, screams and gunfire. At his feet, only silence. His left arm felt like it was on fire, the pain blinding him beyond the darkness in the stairwell.

  Solo gasped for breath, coughing in the dust-choked area. With his good arm, he tried to grab hold of Kuryakin, his arm looping across the Russian's chest. Step by step, he dragged them both up to the next level, stumbling as the building continued to fold in on itself as fire devoured what was left. He fell back against the handle of an outer door, staring briefly into the eyes of a startled U.N.C.L.E. agent, who jumped back as the two men fell through the door to land on the floor of the loading platform.

  Night sky. Stars and smoke. Sirens. Pain.

  And rather stunned almond-shaped eyes. "Need some help?" Paul Yin, one of the U.N.C.L.E. paramedics, asked.

  "Please," Solo said as his world began to shake again and his last conscious sight was of the side of the building bulging out and a piece of shingle winging its way
straight toward him.

  - 4 -

  Solo felt the first tug back to consciousness and struggled to open his eyes, one hand moving to his shoulder holster—or where his shoulder holster was supposed to be. He froze, alerted to danger, and his eyes opened all the way. Sight was blurred and hazy, and he sluggishly tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He apparently was in the back of an U.N.C.L.E. ambulance, strapped in place on a stretcher that was in turn fastened to one wall of the specially constructed van. He apparently had no weapon, nor did he have his shoulder holster, his suit jacket nor his dress shirt. The throbbing pain in his head was being fed by the emergency siren. The throbbing pain in his arm was aggravated by his own movements.

  "Lie still, sir." The ambulance attendant glanced over at him, then turned away.

  "Hmmm..." He coughed suddenly, drawing his knees up as he tried to clear his lungs. Smoke inhalation, he recognized, sucking oxygen as the mask was placed over his face. A few minutes passed before he had everything under control again and could find the presence of mind to turn his head and see what was happening beside him.

  The scientist... Kuryakin. Solo nodded to himself, relieved he could find the name in his foggy head. From what he could tell, the paramedics had cut away portions of Kuryakin's clothing and were attempting to deal with the still bleeding gunshot wound. Solo could hear Dr. Samuel Lawrence's voice over the tinny intercom, giving instructions to the attendants as they detailed their findings.

  Kuryakin's eyes were open, staring blindly at the ceiling of the van, appearing unaware of the hands on him and the gauze pads being pressed into his side and lower back at the exit wound. His face beneath the oxygen mask was ashen in the indistinct interior light of the ambulance. They had crossed his arms over his chest, IV lines trailing from the back of one hand.

  Within ten minutes the van turned into the U.N.C.L.E. garage, turning through the maze until it reached the area closest to the infirmary. The back doors were opened, and, first, Kuryakin's stretcher was removed, his own stretcher following closely.