Work Text:
This is a crossover, of sorts, between The Sentinel and Stargate SG-1.
Rated teen and up for violence and adult themes.
Bandung, Island of Java, Indonesia, June, 1999
The leg of the host had been aching all day, a dull throb Ular had been able to ignore. The goa'uld had put it down to poorly-fitted shoes, and only now, at home in his small apartment, did he push up the leg of his trousers to examine the site. There was a scab. A scab?
Now he remembered. That morning, the host had somehow scratched his leg getting into that taxi; he'd rubbed at it, not even checking for blood, and had given it no further thought. In 150 years of occupying this human, there had been thousands of similar minor wounds. With the regenerative properties his presence gave his host, the leg should simply have healed, skin knitting long before the necessity of a scab.
With a jolt, the realization came to him that the host body was failing. Having outlasted bodies seven times since his genesis a millennium earlier, Ular knew what the next several months could bring. The body would start to lose the natural coordination that had made the little fisherman an adequate host, leading to more injuries. Small wounds would cause his host little pain, and him even less, but would be distracting. Other systems would start to fail as well; soon, the wear and tare of life would take a toll on kidneys and lungs, muscle tissue and blood vessels, while the body's endurance would decrease day by day.
The host's mental acuity would also fade. Ular possessed innate knowledge and sentience, but relied upon the mental capacity of his host for reasoning and planning - in short, for thought - just as much as he relied upon the physical attributes of the little fisherman for locomotion. If the host's mental deterioration was faster than expected, Ular might lose the ability to plan a course of action, and merely be able to act on instinct at the time of the host's death, jumping into the first available body.
A sarcophagus, of course, would have extended the useful life of this human perhaps 20 fold, but Ular had not encountered one since his youth
/Then leave me, Ular, and let me die./
/Soon enough, host./ But it was not that simple. He had a deep sense that he would not survive many more transitions, might not, in fact, outlive this body.
Before the little fisherman, he'd occupied the body of a large, strong Dutch sailor, his vector out of a Europe increasingly hostile to the few remaining goa'uld on the planet. He'd used the knowledge of that brute to engage in piracy, his last voyage taking him to the waters south of Malaysia. In a storm, his ship had been dashed against volcanic rock jutting beyond Java's shoreline, drowning most of his crewmates. The little fisherman had found him, the host gasping and shivering, left leg crushed beyond hope.
He'd jumped into the little fisherman out of desperation; in the early days, he'd thought to leave the body quickly. But, the transition into the fisherman had been difficult, and he'd found himself loath to repeat the process. And, to some extent, he'd found himself liking the man. The host had stopped fighting almost immediately, and perhaps this calm acceptance of his fate had helped his spirit endure. The man had dubbed him "Ular" - "serpent" - and he knew this host had no love for him. But he liked the name, and had adopted it. He also found a certain convenience came with being in a body which did not call attention to itself.
He'd soon moved inland, and had spent the years migrating from village to village, stealing enough to live off of when times were bad, enough to convert into a reasonable lifestyle when fortune smiled. Killing when necessary, though not frequently. The fisherman's body was the perfect cover; nobody ever suspected that such a small, frail frame was responsible for the strength and speed his crimes required. Exceptional strength and speed which were his gifts to the host.
His options for hosts 150 years ago had been limited, even if he'd chosen to leave the little fisherman; in the increasingly cosmopolitan city of Bandung, the possibilities seemed endless. Should he choose a more glamorous Indonesian? A Chinese?
Or - a North American? A difficult culture for his kind, he expected, but certainly a place one could be very rich. A fitting place to live what might well be his final few years.
/Not a Kiwi or an Aussie?/ the host asked.
/Because he will have come farther, an American is likely to be richer,/ he replied.
- - -
And so, he looked. Or, rather, they both looked, the host showing more interest in his doings than it had in years. They concentrated on the city's museums, which presumably attracted a more intelligent breed of visiting foreigner than Bandung's shopping districts or natural wonders.
It would be weeks, if not months, before life in the little fisherman was unbearable, so he took his time: women did not interest him, nor children or those of middle age or beyond. He rather fancied being in a handsome body again, if that were possible - a trim, strong body would be best for fitting into American society, if the images on television were any sort of guide. An amazing number of the Americans did not look a bit like the humans on 'Baywatch', he was finding; perhaps they were traveling as exiles?
On the third day, as he wandered the Museum of Early Man, he saw them - two Americans, one tall and muscular, though using a cane, the other younger, smaller, and equally fit, if not as strong perhaps. Both very fine-looking.
They also caught the fancy of the host. /That young one, with the curly hair pulled back. He looks attractive enough, and would last a long time,/ the little fisherman observed.
/Yes, host. No ring, probably no family to lose or kill./
/But the friend might cause a problem./
/A friend is easy to eliminate. In any event, I think I fancy the larger one. His injury should be easy enough to repair./
/He seems familiar./
/The larger one?/
/Both, actually,/ said the host.
/You are right... Host, I cannot believe it! The large one is the sentinel CNN was yammering on about last month./ He had watched the reports incredulously. Surely a country as powerful as America had employed sentinels in its rise? Or maybe, the concept of a tribal watcher, strong but often reliant on another human, was anathema to the vaulted American ideals of personal ambition and self-reliance. Sentinels were already almost unheard of in Europe when he'd lived there several centuries before, after all.
He'd later seen an excerpt from a news conference in which the younger American had repudiated his claims about the older American's abilities. Immediately, he'd figured him to be the sentinel's guide. Presumably a poor one, to have been the architect of such a furor.
/You, my lord, are not fit to command a sentinel,/ said his host. /Yes, cause me pain - it hurts you too. This is why you should not take that American./
/You are merely trying to extend your miserable life,/ Ular snapped.
/You know I have prayed for death every day. I long with all my heart to join my wife and my children and my ancestors./
He ignored the little fisherman. His next - perhaps his last - host could be a sentinel! In his youth, he had been taught that to occupy a sentinel was at best foolish, at worst suicidal - that the increased sensory input led to great pleasure, yes, but that it could also cause intense pain to be shared; or, worse, could distract one so much that the body could be vulnerable to attack. But he would be careful. Power, glory, and the like had never been his goals; he did not act in such a way as to attract attention. He could handle a sentinel. And, if he failed, he would at least have enjoyed life as few of his kind ever had.
- - - - -
As it had been many, many times, the little fisherman's invisibility was an asset. The Americans did not notice they were being followed. The smaller one, dictionary in hand, was trying to understand some of the majority of placards which were not accompanied by English translations. The sentinel was looking increasingly bored, but sticking close to his companion.
Finally, the smaller one left the gallery, presumably to visit the restroom. There were a few other patrons still in the room - three Japanese teenagers, a pair of women clad entirely in black robes from who-knew-where - but none were paying him any attention; none would likely prove dangerous to his plan by either interfering or attacking the new host in the moments that joining would render the body defenseless.
As soon as the smaller man was out of sight, Ular casually joined the sentinel at the display he was examining. Population migration patterns; how fitting.
The sentinel glanced at him and rubbed at his ears. Did that mean that the sentinel was sensing his true nature?
Unexpectedly, the host spoke to him, one last time. /I cannot wish you well, Ular, but I wish your soul peace./
/Host, may you find your wife and children awaiting you in the Beyond,/ he responsed.
And now, to work.
"Excuse me, sir..." he muttered in English. The sentinel turned toward him, and he let the host's legs buckle. The American did a flash scan of the area - for an accomplice, Ular supposed - then reached for him, grabbing his shoulders and slowing his collapse.
With a great wrench and twist, Ular freed himself from the little fisherman's spinal column and fought through soft tissue to reach the front of the human's body. Then, he quickly followed the path of the human's esophagus and trachea.
The sentinel was inches away, hovering over him on the floor. Ular sprang upward, pushing his long, thin body through slightly parted lips and into the mouth of the sentinel. He slid down the new host's trachea, then turned and sliced through and bit into the spinal column near the base of the sentinel's brain stem.
The sentinel was now on his back, struggling for breath, trying to scream.
/Do not fight me, host,/ Ular said. /Be still, and this will be easier for you./
/Help! Blair! What's happening? It's IN me!/
/He cannot hear you. Nobody can hear you. Your body is mine now. Your senses - ah, your senses - they are mine now. You will have a good, long life. In time, you may come to love me./
/Get out!/ the sentinel's mind screamed. With all his will he tried to raise his hands to his throat.
A pointless effort. Ular made the host sit up and stretched out its hands. Ular's hands, now. He looked around through new eyes. Such color! Such texture! The painted walls of the gallery weren't flat now, but composed of peaks and canyons as grand as any mountain's. The moving air was many-textured, as full of sensation as a warm, sluggish river. He could drown in that river.
But - the pain! Where he'd torn tissue entering host's body was agony, as was the pre-existing injury to the host's leg, now aggravated. He leaned against the base of the exhibit case and tried to focus on these areas of the host's body.
He became aware of taste and smell next, distracting him from his efforts at repair and pain control. The tastes that filled the host's mouth were not unpleasant, merely a bit strong, but the body stank of rotting milk, and the little fisherman's form was starting to outgas the odors of death.
Hands were on the host's - his - body now. A security guard of some sort. Suddenly, it seemed as if he were standing underneath a waterfall, so intense was the sound coming at him - from where? Was it only the small group of Japanese students, now talking all at once to the guard? That was impossible.
And now, the body was yelling. "It's inside me!" the sentinel got out. Ular cursed his lapse of control, reasserting his dominance and sending pain into the host's mind. The ricochet back into his own mind hurt, but this was a fight he had to win.
"Jim! Jim! Come on, buddy, tell me what's wrong!" The smaller American had replaced the security guard. Blair. Friend. Brother. Betrayer. Savior. The sentinel's subconscious was confused, it seemed, even based on the standards of his species. At last, something he could work with.
Blair's hands were on either side of the body's - no, HIS - face. Warm. Something to focus on. He smiled; he had full control now. "Sorry, Blair," he said. "I tried to catch that man, and my leg gave out. Hurts like hell. How is he?"
"I think he's dead," said Blair. "Must have been a heart attack."
The attention of the crowd was now focused on the body of the little fisherman. "Let's get out of here," Ular said.
- - - - - -
Emergency personnel were entering the museum as Ular left. The leg wound caused only a slight twinge now - how wonderful to be in such a young, strong, responsive body! - and the younger human had to practically jog to keep up. If he found he needed a guide to function, he would have to find one with longer legs.
"Aren't we going to talk with those people?" asked - Chief? What sort of name was that? He had initially sensed that the sentinel catalogued the other human as 'Blair', but 'Chief' and 'Sandburg' also hovered.
/It's not a name! See, there is no way you can be me!/ said the sentinel.
So it seemed that this host was aware of more of his thoughts than was typical. Potentially annoying, but not a real problem.
/I have no intention of being you,/ said Ular. /I would prefer not to kill your friend, though, so I'd rather not make him suspicious./
/You're - non-violent?/
Ular laughed. /No, but a trail of bodies can cause all sorts of problems./
"Jim?" asked Blair, grabbing his arm and trying to stop him. "You're not using your cane! What's UP with you?"
Not the brightest of moves. One-handed, Ular grabbed the other man and tossed him over the rail of the stairs and into the ornamental shrubbery a meter below.
"Jim, are you out of your mind?" called Blair, who unfortunately seemed not to have been hurt. And then Ular was far enough away that Blair's indignant calls were muffled by the hum of the city.
- - - - - -
/What are you doing? You can't treat him that way!/ the host was screaming in his mind.
Ular directed a jolt of pain, sincerely hoping that the sentinel trained quickly. /What is he to you? You think of him as your betrayer./
/No!/
/It is true, host. Maybe I SHOULD kill him, eh? Simplify things./
/No! I won't let you!/
/Don't make me kill him, just to prove my point, host./
/Okay, a deal - don't harm Blair, and I'll submit./
/You lie, host. But the arrangement has merit. Make me continually fight you, and I WILL kill him./
Fear, then, came through the host. Fear that he would betray Blair with his anger. This was going well.
He hailed a cab, then effortlessly extracted the name of the host's hotel. Once they were in the relatively secure confines of the car, he began to explore the host's mind. It seemed that the sentinel was a police officer. A safe, potentially lucrative position in some societies, but not, he sensed, for this particular human.
But, this human seemed to lack the typical money concerns. Why not? Ah, a rich father! How convenient! Perhaps he would live the life of... /Your name, host?/
/You can't tell without asking? Simon Banks./
Hah! He would live the life of Jim Ellison for a while, then kill the father and the - ah, a brother - kill the brother as well.
The feeling of panic this raised in the host was annoying. /If you find that so upsetting, we'll leave your brother alone and just kill your father./
That didn't seem to help. Foolish, sentimental human, they'd only be shortening the old man's life by a decade or two at most.
And now, the human was having thoughts of suicide, with the hope of taking Ular with him into death. /You can't even move your little finger, host, except as I will you,/ said Ular.
Ular continued to explore the sentinel's mind. The man had led an interesting life, for one so young. He'd been part of the armed forces of his country, and, in the American way, he'd been in places he had no business being. The stint in Peru was most fascinating, though. A firey helicopter crash, which still haunted his nightmares. An awakening of sentinel abilities. A rescue, and the suppression of those abilities. What a mess the subconscious of this man was! A beautiful wife, won and lost. Many friends lost. Friendship with this Blair, forced upon him by the - the 'neo-hippy witch doctor punk'?
/Host, I've known witch doctors who would take great offense at that,/ Ular said. The sentinel did not answer; Ular realized that he was trying to limit the range of his thoughts, on the mistaken impression that this would make Ular's task more difficult. In actuality, it made things easier - less chatter to get through.
So now the sentinel was thinking Beatles songs at him. Well, at least it wasn't Nirvana. /Snap the hippy's neck like a twig, shall I?/
The host stopped.
Ular explored further. The past year seemed to have been especially troubling to his host. At the center was an image of Blair, lying on the grass, dead. And the sentinel bringing him back to life. With help from another dead friend?
/Host, don't you know what a hallucination is?/
/It was no hallucination!/
/In any event, it seems to have worked,/ said Ular. /Why do you let it trouble you?/
There were other troubling events swirling about the host's mind. It appears the sentinel had encountered another ghost, the dramatically jilted Molly, under completely different circumstances. It was odd how upsetting this was to the sentinel. The little fisherman had been a Muslim, of course, and he'd occupied Christians and a Druid in Europe. None had viewed the spiritual world with fear. Damnation, yes, that was a concern of several of the Christians, but it was something they had felt they could avoid. On the whole, the spirituality of his hosts had brought them the grace to accept their fate, and, and some cases, as with the little fisherman, it had given them hope that they would eventually be free of him, in death if not in life.
Instead of trusting in some higher force, the sentinel had tried to place his trust in men, and they had all failed him. Even Blair. Perhaps the release of his research on sentinels had not been explicitly Blair's fault, but if it hadn't happened then the sentinel believed it would have happened sometime. To cap things off, Blair was reluctant to become a police officer, now that he couldn't pursue a career in academia. The sentinel was seeing this as yet another betrayal.
And so these two humans had ended up in Indonesia, where Blair had been commissioned to wander around and look for the daughter of some rich American, under the guise of investigating what was 'hot' in retail produce, presumably so that the rich American could write off the trip as a business expense for his company. Was this a taste of what it was going to be like to live among Americans? He'd always worked on the premise that humans were best motivated by money; was he going to have to memorize some TAX CODE to interact effectively with humans in America?
The sentinel even had mixed feelings about Blair's success at finding the runaway American girl, because if Blair could do that sort of thing for a living then he wouldn't need to rely on Jim, and he'd abandon him. Incredible.
And, on top of everything else, there was a dread that his leg injury might never fully heal. /Ah, I see tomorrow is your birthday, host! Well, I'm fixing your leg. Happy Birthday!/
They arrived at the hotel without further rebellion on the part of the host. As they emerged from the cab, Ular was happy to find that his right leg was, indeed, completely healed; the throat wound had yielded to his ministrations some time during the ride as well. He also realized that he was managing the sensory input of the body reasonably well, too; it was just a matter of not thinking too much about any particular sense. For instance, he shouldn't pay heed to the smell of the orchids draped about the lobby. Particularly that beautiful purple one with the scent of heaven. He walked closer to it, touched it... the silken feel of its petals washed over him...
"Sir! Sir!" A hotel employee had materialized and was looking at him anxiously.
"A beautiful specimen," Ular said, turning abruptly toward the bank of elevators.
- - - - - -
The orchid incident made it further clear that he had to be very careful. But, how could he use this wonderful body if it kept betraying him? How could he even figure out how far he could see, how faint a sound he could hear?
He walked to the window, which overlooked the city. Could he read the signs downtown? There, that sign in neon... D-O-K-T-E-R G-I-G-I. A dental office. The strobe of the gases - he - could - slow- them - down and see each pulse - or speedthemup - another pulse pattern - the hummmmmm...
"Jim! What was up with you at the museum? Why'd you ditch me?" came Blair's voice, slowly emerging over the humm of the far-off sign. "Jim! Awe, man, you've zoned, haven't you? This hasn't happened like this in years, man. Is something wrong? Jim, follow my voice back... you aren't even trying, are you? Let me just close this curtain..."
/Blair! Run!/
He can't hear you, host. "I was just doing my duty as a sentinel. Like I always do, Blair."
"Dandy, Jim. Don't scare me like that, okay? Ready to head to the train station, see some of those incredible Buddhist temples?"
"I have decided to fly back to America."
"WHAT! Come on, Jim! We can't just leave! I know I've finished up what Daniels contracted me to do, but there's SO MUCH to see here!"
/Please, let him go on his train trip,/ the host asked. /We don't need him!/
/No, I don't think that would be wise,/ said Ular. /I think I may need your friend along, to keep me from slipping into these 'zones' as he calls them./
To Blair, he said, "come with me, or I will tell Daniels all the details about his daughter."
Blair stared at him. "When are we leaving?" he asked.
"Now," said Ular.
/Why doesn't he see through you?/ asked the host. /Why is he letting you - me - treat him like that?/
/He seems to recognize the responsibilities of a guide, even if you do not. Perhaps he is not so deficient./
/A guide? Someone once called him that./
/That ex-CIA agent? I see why you didn't pay him much heed. Sentinels usually have guides, and that neo-hippy punk seems to be yours./
/Then you can't hurt him!/
/Don't try to trap me, host./
Blair had turned away, and was angrily throwing clothes out of the closet and into his suitcase. "Man, it's like something's possessed you," he said.
- - - - - -
Ular did not speak much to Blair after that; his taciturnity was accepted by Blair without comment. They hired a car to take them back to Jakarta, and Ular spent the trip looking out the windows, trying not to focus any sense on anything in particular. Bidding the island of Java good-bye, he realized.
The host, thankfully, stayed quiet, having realized that he had no defense against Ular's probes of his memories, and that, no matter how much focus he applied, he had no muscular control whatsoever now that the initial period of adjustment was over. Perhaps this host's consciousness would sink into nothingness; that happened more often than not, though it could take anywhere from days to years.
Blair spent the trip typing away on his laptop, seemingly impervious to the imperfections of the road or the sudden swerves and stops of their driver. At one point, he spoke, saying that he'd finished a serviceable draft of his report, and that he'd like to FAX or email it from either Jakarta or Taipei.
"Taipei?" Ular asked.
"We've got a day layover on the way home. You know that!"
"Of course," said Ular. "I was just thinking that we might not end up with much time there, since we're changing our plans."
"Whatever, man," said Blair. Annoyed, but seemingly willing to stick to his sentinel like glue.
It turned out that their guest house in Jakarta was quite modest, but far from the pit the sentinel had classified it as. It was clean, and their laundry was done. To Blair's evident delight, they were able to re-occupy the same suite. The host was not nearly as pleased, and would have objected if Ular had let him.
The manager was quite solicitous about Blair's left hand, which, Ular noticed for the first time, was bound in a white bandage. How could he have missed it? A wave of guilt rolled through the sentinel's mind, and Ular learned of the events of a few days before: how the sentinel and Blair had been pursued down the alley and had had clambered over the glass-topped wall surrounding the inn. Blair had torn up his hand on the wall, and Jim was trying to ignore this. How - bizarre of the host. And troubling that the avoidance had transferred into him.
With the help of the manager, he placed a call to the airline. It turned out that flights from Asia to North America were much more easily come upon than flights the other direction this time of year, as the American universities continued to clear out for the summer. They'd be flying out in the early afternoon tomorrow, spend 22 hours in Taipei, then continue on to Seattle and Cascade - America! - the following evening.
Their only conversation that evening concerned the bandi, the basin in the bathroom used for washing up. As soon as they had settled their flight plans, he'd used the bandi to wash the day's grime off his body, which had been starting to itch.
Blair had seemed to sense his pleasure. "It's so cool you're finally grokking that thing," he said.
Ular sensed the Sentinel's suspicion of the basin. Wasteful Barbarian. "Just took a little practice," Ular replied to Blair. "I shall miss them."
"Well, we could always install one in the loft," said Blair.
Ular smiled. "Maybe."
- - - - -
Soon after, Ular turned in for the evening, leaving Blair in front of the television watching 'Star Trek' in German with Japanese subtitles.
"Want me to order some food in? McDonalds Delivers!" Blair called after him.
"No."
"Your loss, man!"
Since occupying the sentinel, smells, such as the odor of that orchid in Bandung, had been much more captivating than they ever had been, and Ular suspected that taste would be equally problematic. Annoyingly, the sorts of purely involuntary responses that taste or smell could elicit - ranging for salivating to gagging to sneezing - were much more difficult to repress than voluntary actions on the part of the host.
For the time being, he decided to stick to the local brand of bottled water the sentinel had been drinking; a body such as the sentinel's could survive a long time on minimal nourishment.
Ular did not need to sleep, but the host's body did. Teaching a host to sleep was one of the more difficult tasks of occupying a new body, since, while it was easy to compel behavior, it was hard to order another being to do something that they, themselves, could not necessarily control.
He lay in the bed and closed his eyes. /We shall sleep now,/ he said. Sometimes, it WAS that easy.
To his credit, the sentinel tried, scared that any disobedience would result in harm to Blair, and then to others he cared about. But the sentinel's mind whirled, and as the body got more tired his thoughts turned more to an image of ripping Ular out of his back. Ular had never been in a body that could feel his presence physically before, and hadn't realized that he was the origin of a slight tickling along the sentinel's backbone. Interesting.
The sentinel was focusing on that sensation now; somehow, this was as frightening to him as having no control over his body and hearing a voice in his mind. /Less like a dream, yes?/ asked Ular.
/Please, please, just leave me,/ the human begged. /I'm tired and I feel like crap. I've done nothing to you./
/Ah, and then I take the hippy as my host?/
/NO!/ said the sentinel, and with this declaration came the revelation that his possession was sparing another human his fate. This settled him nicely.
/We shall simply rest now, sentinel,/ said Ular. /I will open myself to you more - perhaps I shall seem less frightening then?/ So he did - all through the long night, he replayed scenes from his life. Battles as a Crusader, a guard of an Italian prince, a pirate. Times his presence had spared his host death to plague, smallpox, cholera. The time a host had almost succumbed to scurvy because Ular had not realizing that it was a nutritional, not organism-based, disorder. The times he'd taken a human mate, even the several families he'd raised when that had seemed the most interesting thing to do.
/But what of your own kind?/ the sentinel asked at one point.
/We are rare, and we have a tendency towards fratricide, so I have avoided other goa'uld./
/But you are not - unique?/
/I am as unique as you are,/ said Ular. /I have no idea how many of us there are on this planet. We are spread throughout the galaxy. There were once many more of us here, but some were stupid and eventually incurred the wrath of the your kind./
/How were your kind recognized?/
/We were your gods,/ said Ular. /The only thing humans enjoy more than creating gods is destroying them. This is all before my time, realize. I would never be so foolish./
At last, perhaps the host did sleep. He had to have, for the knock on the door the next morning to be so startling. Ular sat upright quickly, and for the first time since occupying the sentinel he found his eyes glowing with the inner light his species provided the host. A useful trait if one was trying to pass oneself off as a god, but not as a police detective. He immediately stopped the effect - but had Blair, now looking around the door, noticed? He tried to extend his hearing to pick up any acceleration in the other human's heartbeat, but his own was too loud
Blair didn't act as if anything unusual had happened, though. "I thought I'd go do a little shopping before we catch our flight," he said. "See you in a few."
And he was gone, leaving the sentinel feeling slightly hurt that he hadn't been invited along.
- - - - - - -
Close-up, the airplane waiting at the gate looked impossibly small.
/You've never flown before?/ the host asked, almost laughing at him.
/My ancestors came to this rotten planet using technology your species could not begin to understand,/ he said.
/Still, you, yourself, have never flown?/
/When I was born, parts of this world of yours hadn't even discovered the wheel./
/Don't worry, whatever-you-are, these babies hardly ever crash./
"Earth to Jim!" Blair's voice. Blair had returned from his shopping spree acting much more sociable; possessing tangible evidence of his working vacation seemed to have lifted his spirits. "You okay, partner?"
"Sure," said Ular. He gestured at the plane. "Just like to make sure they've got their wings before I get on board."
"Always on the lookout, aren't you," said Blair with a laugh.
Ular was surprised by how much the interior of the airplane resembled a large, comfortable bus. He followed Blair, who found their seats and stowed what they'd carried on the plane. Blair then waved him into their 2-seat row. "You take the window," he said. "You look like you didn't sleep at all last night."
"Maybe I didn't," said Ular.
Blair looked like he was going to say more, but instead simply sat next to him. "Oh, Jim, you're sitting on your seat belt!"
So that's what that thing was; he'd seen them in automobiles occasionally, but had generally ignored them. Following Blair's example, he retrieved the straps and clicked the ends together. "We really have to wear these?"
The host was aghast. Blair just laughed.
Take-off was a lot less interesting than Ular had expected. The plane drove for a while along a paved surface, now feeling as well as looking like a bus. Then, there was a sensation of lift, and the pattern of vibration changed to a low rumble one both felt and heard, but that everyone else seemed to be ignoring.
"How about trying to sleep," said Blair, handing him a blanket and small pillow he'd managed to procure somehow.
Ular nodded and closed his eyes. /Sleep now,/ he said. The host was already focused on the low rummmmblllleee...
And the host dreamed he was in a jungle, wrestling with a small green snake which turned into a cobra. He killed the snake and took it home to a woman - Caroline, the lost love, who told him to get that dirty thing out of the house.
He pushed the sentinel's thoughts toward the woman, but there was not much recent. Were there other women? Yes, but Ah, THERE was the problem. The beautiful Lila, lying dead in his arms. How annoying. Ular had hoped that he'd be able to appreciate the feel of a woman against him without having to resort to coercion or violence, by feasting off of the sentinel's plate. It would be quite a while before he could operate in American society well enough to obtain female companionship, even for pay.
However, he did have 22 hours in Taiwan ahead of him. An Asian society should not be too difficult for him to operate in, especially in this foreign body, which might be forgiven much.
- - - - - -
"Jim! Jim! Come on, man, WAKE UP! Six hours is enough for anyone!"
The host awoke, and Ular regained knowledge of his surroundings. "Where are we?" he asked.
"We're landing in a minute, and if you don't get your seat back up that attendant" - he gestured to a very beautiful, ornately-dressed Chinese woman who seemed to be some sort of authority on the airplane - "is going to have our hides."
"I'm terrified, Chief," he said, obeying.
"So, you feeling better now?"
He nodded.
- - - - - -
Finally off the plane and able to stretch and move, Ular found he actually was feeling rather good, for the first time since occupying the sentinel.
"I'm bushed," Blair was saying. "Can't wait to get to the transit hotel..."
"Deal with our stuff," Ular interrupted. "I am going to see Taipei."
"What do mean, 'deal with our stuff?' I'm a porter now? And anyway, downtown Taipei's, like, a two-hour drive from here..."
Ular didn't bother to listen to the rest of Blair's indignant tirade. His suitcases would make it to the hotel or they wouldn't.
He cleared customs and hailed a cab.
- - - - - -
The driver's English was excellent, but not much speech had been needed for Ular to convey his desire. After a drive far shorter than Blair's estimate, Ular paid for his ride, asked the driver to wait, and entered a noodle shop occupying the first floor of a nondescript white clapboard building. He smiled; in a minute, he was upstairs. Barbie led him to her bed and started to undress him her hair smelled incredible, her skin was warm, and, over the sentinel's protestations, the body was responding...
- - - - - -
"...completely catatonic," said a voice.
"It's a form of epilepsy," said - Blair? What was HE doing here?
"Thank you for bringing him here instead of a hospital," Blair was saying. "See, he's coming around now."
He was sprawled in the back of the cab he'd taken into the city, aching in a dozen places. He closed his eyes and reopened them, expecting, somehow, that he would be back with the nubile Barbie, but of course that was nonsense. He must have zoned again. This was madness.
He sat up and reached for his wallet, which, surprisingly, was still in his back pocket. It was, of course, devoid of cash, but Blair was already paying the driver. Slowly, carefully, Ular got out of the cab and followed Blair through the lobby.
The host was mortified.
When they got to the room they were to share, Blair finally spoke to him. "Jim, I'm not going to say a thing."
The host was surprised, though he tried to hide it. Meaning... what? Could the other human have suspicions about him? But, if he had detected Ular's presence within Jim, he would have fled, or, perhaps, attacked. The host concurred.
"I'm going to turn in now," said Blair. "There's a museum right next door I want to check out first thing tomorrow. Uh - I'll come back and help you with bags and check-out in time for our flight. That work for you?"
"Yes," said Ular.
/He knows! He knows!/ the sentinel was repeating, terrified.
"Oh, and here are some chips," said Blair, tossing him a small yellow bag. "Eat SOMETHING, will you?"
- - - - - - -
Blair was gone when awareness returned the next morning. Ular sat up and stretched - and almost passed out.
/You HAVE to let me eat,/ the sentinel said.
Acquiescing, Ular sampled from the bag Blair had given him. The feel of the hard, crisp chips in his mouth was strange, but the sentinel's muscle knowledge allowed him to chew without impaling his cheeks on any errant shards. The taste was alien - greasy, salty, and only vaguely suggestive of potato. He'd been fearing that eating would send him into another zone, but the opposite seemed to happen - he felt more focused, stronger, and much more hungry. He wasn't sure exactly how to go about finding food without giving the sentinel more control than he dared, though, so he settled for drinking a can of apple juice it seemed Blair had left for him. /Breakfast of Champions,/ the sentinel commented, bafflingly.
Ular laid back down. What to do? A body he could not trust, that he could not even make love in - what use was it? And yet, to feel things so vividly was, at times, so utterly marvelous.
/Can you leave me, and let me live?/ inquired the sentinel.
/Yes,/ Ular answered. /Though it would be stupid to do so. You of all humans./
/You know I have killed. Far more often than any human should. But you must also know that I have never killed when there was any other option,/ said the sentinel, and Ular realized that the human was right - his response to a foe was containment, a recitation of rights of all things, then to pass the problem along.
/So I'm human now?/ Ular asked.
The sentinel laughed, a flash of silver and gold in his mind. /Hardly. And I can't quite picture putting you into lock-up. Interrogation would be interesting. Would you need a host to answer questions?/
/Yes. I only speak, only function toward any goal beyond self-preservation, through a host./
/That WOULD be difficult, then,/ said the sentinel. /So, what are we going to do?/
/Get to America, see if the results of the melding improve in that environment./
/So, this isn't going well, is it?/
/Not by my normal standards, no,/ said Ular. /Or, perhaps I have simply forgotten how uncomfortable this stage of a merging can be./
/How can you call this a merging, if it is you who are completely in control?/ asked the sentinel.
/Hmmm... are you familiar with a British television show 'Dr. Who?' Many different actors played the Doctor over several decades. Each was playing the same character, but each Doctor was unique./
/'Dr. Who'... that's the sci-fi show with the guy with curly hair and a long scarf?/
/That was Tom Baker,/ said Ular. /Never mind./
/You aren't what I'd have expected from a body-snatcher./
/Well, I'd had higher hopes for a sentinel,/ said Ular.
- - - - - - -
Blair returned a few hours later. "The lunch buffet looks great," he said. "Join me? Then we can pack up and check out."
Ular followed the younger human down, let him talk to the head waiter, stake out a table, hand him a plate, guide him to the salad bar, place food on his plate. Like he was shepherding around a dull but compliant five-year-old. /Does he always guide you like this?/ Ular asked the sentinel.
/I don't know,/ the sentinel replied.
Blair settled him back at their table. "Gonna go get some grub for myself now," he said. "Doing stuff one-handed's a bit tough."
One-handed? Yes, the he was cradling his left hand against his body now. Had he been doing that yesterday?
When he returned, his plate bore only some bread and a bit of smoked fish. Noticing Ular's attention, he said, "I'm feeling a bit blah. Think I've caught something. Maybe heading home now's a good idea."
Ular realized he had waited until Blair's return to start eating. It just seemed safer. He tried a bit of salad - nice. Simple. Not dangerous to his cheeks or tongue. Even, perhaps, too bland. He added a bit of the bleu cheese dressing Blair had placed in a small dish. He tasted a bit of adorned lettuce, and found himself spitting frantically onto his plate.
"Hey!" said Blair, who looked about to jump up. Ular shook his head and took a large swig of water.
Blair handed him some of his bread. "This should be safe."
Slowly, they made it through the meal. Blair would seek out what he seemed to consider to be the most mild foods, watch him sample them, and only relax and nibble a bit himself when it was clear Ular was comfortable. Ular ended up finding the fish soup and vanilla ice cream particularly palatable, whereas he spit out (into a Blair-provided napkin) the smoked salmon he tried. Raisins, of all things, he'd almost zoned on.
They made their flight with much time to spare. Ular felt a sense of triumph for being able to navigate the airport with little or no obvious help from Blair, and again for being able to find their seats. Yes, he could function in this society, with access to Jim's memories and help from Blair.
The flight was a long one. It was getting dark in Taipei when they took off; flying primarily eastward, they headed into a shortened night. Ular alternately dozed and leafed through ubiquitously-available magazines, trying to get used to reading written English. Blair sat slumped next to him, first sleeping, then also leafing through magazines. "Amazing that people get paid for writing this stuff," Blair commented. "Probably not real well, though. Did I ever tell you about Naomi's writing career? $800 an article didn't carry us far, man, and that was with me doing all her fact-checking."
Naomi. Blair's mother. This bit of information came from the sentinel's mind to his quickly, but not quickly enough. Ular would not have been able to form a timely reply, if one had been required. Maybe he SHOULD dump the guide.
/Can't live with him, can't live without him,/ commented the sentinel. /I sympathize./
Dawn came early, and with it breakfast, the first in-flight meal he thought he might try; he immediately wished he hadn't. "Yeah, I'm pretty much holding out for Wonderburger," said Blair. "A double deluxe with everything would be great right now." Ular sincerely doubted it.
They reached Seattle in the early afternoon. They cleared customs easily - a working dog sniffing all arriving passengers did not heed them in the least - and then caught a connecting flight into Cascade. Ular balked a bit at getting aboard the 13-seater, which seemed much more flimsy than the flying buildings he'd been on earlier in the trip, but there didn't seem to be a graceful alternative to following Blair aboard.
- - - - - -
/My mother's here!/ exclaimed the sentinel as their cab pulled up the building Ular planned to call home for at least a little while. /That's her Subaru./
Mother? 'Father' references were all over the sentinel's mind, but Ular had not yet encountered thoughts of a mother. Now the swirlings of the sentinel's mind showed that there were two women who fulfilled that role: the woman who had given him birth but had not been a large part of his life as a child, whom he classified as 'Margaret Mary', and 'Grace', who had married his father when the sentinel was very young, given him the brother, Stephen, and had continued to 'play mom', as the sentinel termed it, after she, too, had left his father.
The car belonged to Margaret Mary. /She's more a pal than a mom,/ the sentinel tried to explain to him. /We go for walks together a couple of times a year. She's pretty religious, so to make her happy sometimes I go to her church for Midnight Mass at Christmas, or on Easter. She remarried, and I have a bunch of step siblings I hardly know. They wouldn't make good targets./
/I don't need other hostages as long as we have the hippy, host,/ said Ular. /Is your mother a sentinel?/
/Margaret Mary? No way,/ replied the sentinel with certainty.
"Lotta cars here," Blair commented as he waved goodbye to the cab driver. "Uh oh - that one's Naomi's. I told her she could crash here while we were away. I thought she'd be gone by now."
/This is getting really odd,/ said the sentinel. Still, he seemed to be feeling no real alarm.
Blair's heartbeat, however, had accelerated. Still anxious about his mother, after the events of a few months ago? Or was something more going on?
"Well, let's get our stuff upstairs," said Blair, picking up his wheeled bag with his good hand. "Maybe Naomi can help me out..."
"Nope, I've got the rest," said Ular.
Blair's smile showed - what? Relief? About what?
A woman was waiting for them at the apartment door. Ah, the problematic Naomi.
"Hi, honey, I got your email from Taiwan," she said. "Are things - like you thought they might be?"
Blair looked around rather guiltily. "I think I might be over-reacting..."
Ular dropped his load and started to back up.
"Jim, Jim, don't worry! I think - I think you might be in trouble and not know it. Can you sit down and we can talk about things?"
What would the sentinel do? Face things, lie as necessary, achieve his goal. Ular entered the apartment and permitted himself to be steered to the dining area and seated. "Blair, what sort of hair-brained idea are you working off of?"
Blair sat down opposite him; Naomi hung back a little, partially obscured by the kitchen wall. Ular smelled cat; the sentinel suspected that it came from Naomi's clothing. Where was Margaret Mary??
"Jim," said Blair. "Buddy. I think you might have picked up a dybbuk."
"A WHAT?" asked Ular.
"A dybbuk. A spirit."
/Demonic possession? I think that's what he's talking about,/ said the sentinel.
/Thank you, host,/ said Ular, then, aloud, "You think I'm possessed by, what, a demon? That's crazy." And much too close to the truth.
"No, no, well, not exactly. A dybbuk is a sort of free-agent soul that attaches to a living person, usually to perform some sort of task. Whereas a demon, well, that supposed to be some sort of fallen angel. More a Christian thing than a Jewish thing. In fact, some say that demons have no place in Judaism, but that doesn't really jibe with what's in the Talmud - you know, the lilim..."
/What on earth is he talking about?/ Ular asked.
/I've no idea,/ said the sentinel. /Welcome to the Sandburg Zone./
"...Anyway," Blair continued, "a dybbuk is generally considered to be the soul of someone who died suddenly. Like Molly, but haunting a person, not a place. The experience can be a positive one - the soul of a really righteous person can occupy someone just long enough to fulfill a promise, or perform at good deed of some sort. That's called an ibbur, and nobody, not even the person being possessed, need even know it's happened. I'm not sure whether Molly would be considered a dybbuk or an ibbur or something else entirely.
"Dybbuks can be pretty nasty, but the thing is that they don't necessarily WANT to be. You can perform what I'll term an exorcism, for want of a better word, to help the dybbuk leave its host. The emphasis is on healing, for both parties. An alternate tact is to just concentrate on healing - on healing the empty place that that an dybbuk is occupying," and Blair looked away, "because these things don't happen to whole people."
He turned back, a smile glued on. "So, what do you think?"
"I think you're completely mad," said Ular.
"No, no, no, let me explain," said Blair. "See, even if it's a dybbuk you've got, there's no reason that you really should know it's there. I think it happened at that museum in Bandung. I think a dybbuk jumped into you because it saw something in you it could work with. Your leg - remember how much it was hurting you? And it's completely healed now? I think the pain was mostly psychosomatic, you know, from guilt for how shitty things turned out this spring, and the dybbuk saw that and filled that space.
"But Jim, you don't HAVE to feel bad about things, because, you know, I'm fine, you're fine, we're still friends, still, uh," and he glanced quickly at Naomi, "still working on our mutual projects. That hasn't changed, and I know in six months we'll all be stronger for it."
"Maybe it would help if you'd explain to Jim why you think he's possessed," said Naomi.
"Well, a saw how well you suddenly started to walk at that museum, and I thought something miraculous had happened," said Blair. "Then you threw me over that rail, and my thoughts went the other way, you might say. Then, at the hotel, you seemed so fixated on getting home that it came to me that maybe something else was guiding you, for its own purpose. And, you know, you've been oversensitive to sights and sounds and tastes..."
"You don't need to talk around things, honey," said Naomi. "I know Jim's a sentinel, as you term it."
"Uh... right, mom. Anyway, Jim, want to at least try an exorcism? To do it right, we'd need ten rabbis, but since you aren't throwing furniture around I think we'll skip that. Well, for now at least. But, Naomi, did you, uh, look up which Psalm we need?"
"Psalm 91," said Naomi, holding up a book. "I have it right here."
An opportunity to explain away the missteps caused by his adjustment to a new host? It actually seemed too good to be true. "If it will somehow please you, Blair, and atone for some of my recent behavior, I'm willing to do what you say," said Ular.
/That did NOT sound like me!/ said the sentinel.
/I'm not you,/ said Ular, /and I'm about to be reborn. Much change will be accepted from me now./
"Great," said Blair. "Uh, Naomi, how about you read the Psalm and we'll try to figure out what bits might help Jim and the dybbuk."
"Okay," said Naomi. "Let's see... it begins, 'O thou that dwellest in the covert of the most high, and abidest in the shadow of the Almighty, I will say of the Lord, who is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust, that he will deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.'"
"And that helps me how?" asked Ular.
"Let me keep going," said Naomi. "'He will cover thee with his pinions, and under his wings shalt thou take refuge; his truth is a shield and a buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flieth by day.'"
The sentinel was listening intently now; Ular tried to assume a posture of humble interest.
Naomi continued, "'Of the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor of the destruction that wasteth at noonday.'"
/Of those options, I think I most resemble terror by night,/ commented Ular to the host.
"'A thousand may fall at they side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; it shall not come nigh thee...' Let me skip a bit," said Naomi. "Verse 9. 'For thou hast made the Lord who is my refuge, even the most high, thy habitation.'"
/Thy habitation? Who's possessing whom?/ mused Ular.
"'There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy tent. For he will give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways...'"
"I think this is the important part," Blair interrupted. "Keep going."
"'They shall bear thee upon their hands,'" continued Naomi, "'lest thou dash thy foot against a stone. Thou shalt tread upon the lion and asp; the young lion and the serpent shalt thou trample under feet.'"
/Serpent!/ said the sentinel. /Maybe this IS meant for your species./
/Just a race fear, human, that we must bear the consequence of./
/My heart bleeds, Serpent./
"'"Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him; I will set him on high..."' oh, I think here the writer is speaking for God. '" Because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will rescue him, and bring him to honor. With long life I will satisfy him, and make him to behold my salvation."' That's it."
"Huh, I'm not sure how that's supposed to lead for healing for the dybbuk..." said Blair. "Well, I guess it shows that salvation is open to all, even spirits. So, whatever's inside of you, it doesn't have to fear the next world. Or maybe this is what we need those ten rabbis for. Anyway, Jim, does any of this help? I can make some calls, do some research, but I've been afraid you'd bolt if I waited before starting this."
"No, I think it has helped," said Ular. "I don't really think I'm possessed by anything, but I DO feel more at peace. Thank you. I'm going to head to bed now. I'm sure I'll be myself tomorrow, and you let me know if I'm not, okay?"
"Okay," said Blair, smiling broadly.
A door to what the sentinel's mind identified as being Blair's room opened, and a tall, broad-shouldered, gray-haired women came into the room cradling a large, orange cat. /Ah, THERE she is,/ said the sentinel.
"He's lying," she said.
"Who the blazes are you?" asked Blair.
"Margaret Mary McDonald," she said. "Jim's mother. Oh, and this is Prince."
"We met a couple of days ago," Naomi explained. "I called her right after I got your email. She's a sentinel too, and I thought she might be able to help us."
/You said she was not a sentinel!/ raged Ular, shooting pain into the sentinel's mind.
/I didn't know!/ replied the host. The fool.
"The demon is still in him," said Margaret Mary. "I can sense him. I can feel him."
"Wow," breathed Blair.
Ular stood up. "I've had enough of this," he said.
"Oh, not nearly enough," said Margaret Mary. She nodded to Naomi, who had moved over to the stereo system.
"Blair, Mags and I thought we should have a Plan B." Naomi pressed a button, and the room was filled with the sound of the screech of metal against metal. Ular put his hands over his ears, an automatic but mostly ineffectual gesture.
"Leave him, demon," said Margaret Mary. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I command you."
Ular's eyes flashed, and he spoke with his true voice for the first time since taking the sentinel as host. "Fools! Shall I leave his body dead and take one of you as my host? Kill you all?"
Blair grabbed his arm. "Jim, it's okay..."
Ular hurled him across the room.
"I will leave now. The guide will come with me. If I detect any pursuit, I will kill him."
"No," said Margaret Mary. "You will leave the body of James Ellison. You may occupy Prince if you choose."
/Do it!/ urged the host. Ular shot more pain into his mind. /Do it!/ the host continued. /I'll make sure nobody hurts you. You know me! You know I mean this!/
Ular stalked over to where Blair was lying winded and pulled him up. He turned, and was met by a stream of lavender and rose essence, concentrated into something foul. Coughing, he lost his hold on Blair, who stumbled towards his mother. Naomi, looking triumphant, was holding the perfume bottle as if it were a machine gun.
"Naomi, I think this is a really bad idea," said Blair wheezed. "Just let us leave."
"Nonsense," said Naomi.
"Stop this now," said Ular in his true voice.
"I didn't want to do this," said Margaret Mary, "but you leave me no choice." As Ular lunged toward her, she slipped on goggles and raised her hand.
This time, Ular met with fire. Pure agony. His eyes clenched shut, tearing violently, but that didn't quell the pain. A force that must have been Blair drove into him, pushing him back onto the sofa.
"Get on him! Hold him down!" said the voice of Naomi.
"I'll kill him. Kill your superman. Kill you all," Ular raged between gasps. His throat was closing. This body was going to die.
His body was pushed forward as he coughed, fighting for air. His arms were yanked back, and he felt metal on his wrists. There was a click, and a laugh from the sentinel's mind. He had been handcuffed.
"I can't friggin' believe you used PEPPER SPRAY on Jim!" he heard Blair say, very close to him. Coughing also, but more powerful now than Ular.
"That thing is not my son," said Margaret Mary. "Demon, the front door is open. Enter the beast you hold and leave us."
The cat was now in his lap. It was not an adequate, safe host, but it offered at least a temporary respite from the horrible pain, which was worst in his eyes. Eyes he could no longer reach to tare out. From the burning of his face, which surely had been stripped of its skin.
As he had with the little fisherman a few long days before, Ular released his grip on the human's spinal column and followed the path of the sentinel's esophagus and trachea to freedom. He erupted from his mouth and dived for the cat. He could not enter such a small body, so he sank his tendrils through the animal's fur and into its brain stem.
Scared. Hurt.
Escape?
Outside! He sprang.
Agh! No, a window.
"Don't kill him! Catch him, don't let him escape, but don't kill him!" The sentinel's voice, choked out between retching coughs.
Out, through the door. Lies! The outer doors were closed to him. He turned to spring back inside. The larger, gray-topped woman had a broom. She raised it, hit him, but he kept his hold. Again and again she hit, and now the smaller woman was pulling his true body.
Now, they had him. A glint. A knife. Muffled cries from the sentinel, miles away.
Yes, they had lied.
A thousand years of life. Ended like he was nothing.
* * * * THE END * * * *
Well, the end for Ular, but not for everyone else! Other POVs need exploring, but that's for other stories.
Note: Psalm 91, minus slight Naomi mangles, was taken from the Jewish Publication Society's 1917 translation because it seemed a version Blair was likely to have on hand.