by LRH Balzer
He slipped inside the Jaguar, closing the door to keep the warmth in. "The ambulance attendants want to know if either you or the babies need medical attention."
"No," Illya answered sharply, his expression hard to read in the inadequate lighting of the car.
Napoleon got out of the car long enough to wave off an attendant who was heading their way.
"I've checked them, and they're fine," Illya added, when Napoleon returned inside, the door closed.
"Did you reach Waverly?" the senior agent asked, pushing the car seat back to make more room to work in.
Illya nodded, his head resting against the glass of the passenger window. "Yes." He had both babies on his lap now, the toddler huddling against him and the newborn crying softly.
"And?" Napoleon asked, shaking out the blanket to cover his partner and the two babies as best he could.
"He said they are sending a helicopter for us. We need to drive a few miles south of here to the South Hardwick airport."
"Never heard of it."
"Follow this highway to the 100, then there's a turnoff a few more miles down the road. The plane should be there by the time we get there. He said he sent it as soon as you radioed in that something was happening tonight."
Napoleon adjusted the blanket, wrapping a second me over Kuryakin's legs. "So what is it with you and babies, anyway? This is the second time you've escaped a Thrush facility with a baby in tow. Or should I ask, what is it about you, Thrush, Weller, and babies?" He spread the first aid kit out over the dash board, moistening a square of gauze to clean the blood from his partner's face.
Illya shivered despite the warmth, the stamina pill wearing off. "The little boy is one of the children I thought died in the fire in Maine. The others that survived the Maine fire were killed tonight by their nurse or died in experiments last week."
"What?" Napoleon asked, eyes wide in revulsion. "Why did she kill them?"
"She considered it euthanasia, to spare them suffering in the destruction of the facility."
"Why not rescue them as well?"
"I don't know. I didn't have time to get the notes."
"At least she missed these two."
Illya nodded, reluctant to say more, but his partner picked up on his hesitation.
"Are these two different in some way? Why was she trying to save these, but not the others?"
"She wasn't trying to save these two. She just didn't care if they suffered or not."
The answer boggled Solo's mind. "What are you talking about?"
Kuryakin shook his head wearily as the baby continued to howl. "Napoleon, unless you have some formula and diapers for this baby hidden in that red first aid bag, I suggest you concentrate on driving to the airport. I know from experience that this is only going to get worse."
Solo finished his patch-up work on his partner's face, noting the bruising already starting. "Do you want to know about the laser-modified cars?"
Illya tilted his head toward Napoleon and smiled ruefully. "You know, I really don't care at this moment. They are in our possession, yes?"
"Yes."
"Then once they are safely in our labs, I'll find out more. Right now, they are far from my concern. Keeping my dinner down is topmost."
"Fair enough." Solo fished out a plastic bag that the first aid supplies had come in and made sure Illya had a good grip on it, then adjusted his car seat and, with a brief honk, gently pulled out to the road.
"Oh, before I drift off here..." Illya murmured.
"Yes?"
"Nice move, Angelique in the trunk,"
*****
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the South Hardwick airport, which consisted of a short landing field and small hanger, just as the U.N.C.L.E. H.Q. helicopter landed. Finding his hands full and his legs unsteady, Kuryakin reluctantly allowed his partner to carry the toddler as they hurried through the lightly falling snow to the dubious warmth of the office. The Montpelier Section Three Chief's wife was there with a few disposable diapers, warmed formula for the newborn, and a bottle of apple juice for the toddler, as well as warm bunting bags for both children. Kuryakin insisted on feeding the babies before they left, Mrs. Hill agreeing that they would not be able to drink properly on the helicopter. The noise itself would frighten them.
With a ragged sigh, Kuryakin finally sank into the rear bench of the helicopter, half an hour later, shifting over as Solo joined him with the toddler. The noise level was frightening the year-old child, who was sobbing on Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon was trying to calm the child down, but the aftereffects of the stamina pill were beginning to hit him as well, and he blinked owlishly in the dimness of the cabin.
The helicopter lifted and time blurred.
Illya's next conscious thought was that he was cold again. Hie door was open to the helicopter, Napoleon was missing, and for one frightening moment, Illya thought Napoleon had fallen out of the helicopter. But they weren't in the air.
Sam Lawrence poked his head in the helicopter doorway. "You coming?"
"What?"
"You're at HQ." Lawrence pulled himself inside, sitting down where Napoleon had been. "Who is this?" he asked softly, resting his hand on the back of the newborn's bunting bag.
Illya tried to lift his head to say 'no', but dizziness forced him to stay in place.
"I've got no sympathy for you," Sam Lawrence said. "Take a stamina pill on top of concussion, and see what happens?"
"No choice," Illya gasped.
"We've got a stretcher here for you. I'll give you a hand to it."
"I can walk—"
"Yeah, right. Come on, storm trooper, let's get you down to the infirmary. You've got company waiting there, as requested."
He tried to help, ended up collapsing and being assisted to the gurney. They were on top of the U.N.C.L.E. office building, the January wind biting. His head was whirling as he was lowered to the mattress, the baby placed over his chest, and both then secured and covered in blankets.
Time shifted again, and he was being wheeled past a blur of people into one of the infirmary private examination rooms, Sam Lawrence sliding the door shut firmly behind them. The doctor had the toddler in his arms. "Talk to me."
"The children are special."
"Why?"
Because they are cloned. "I don't know." He knew, though. And he knew who they were cloned from. The signs had been clear above the cribs, although he had neglected to pass the information on when he reported to the Head of Section One. With great care, Illya sat up, breathing deeply to counteract the lingering dizziness. "Alexander Waverly took care of this before, and he said he would handle it now."
"Alexander has already made arrangements. I'll keep this little guy with me until tomorrow, when he'll be picked up. He said to tell you that the family that has the other child agreed to take one more. But he gave me no instructions for the baby you are holding."
Illya slid off the gurney, gently resting the bunting bag on the mattress. He unzipped the bag and lifted the newborn baby into his hands, the tiny arms and legs moving slightly as the baby woke up. "Open the door."
"Illya, why don't—"
"Open the damn door," he repeated.
Lawrence slid it open and Illya walked through, hardly aware of the gasp in horror at his appearance until he caught his own reflection in the mirror. His black ski suit was ripped and torn, his face was bruised, cut, and blood streaked. He held the baby out before him in both hands, although the tiny child barely filled them.
"Ilyusha." He felt Norm Graham at his side, catching him as he stumbled forward.
"Trish?" he whispered.
"I'm here," she said, though he could scarcely see her. He felt her warm hands on his face.
"He is yours," Illya said, putting the baby in those warm hands.
"What?" She cradled the child, looking up at him.
His eyes filled with tears. "He is yours," he said, looking to Norm beside him.
"Who is he?" Norm aske
d, transferring Illya to his partner's care, as Napoleon supported him, keeping him upright.
"Ilyusha?" Trish looked up at him, eyes wide, tears flooding her face.
It was so hard to find words. To form vowels and consonants. To find what he wanted to tell her. "Kolya," he whispered. "I want you to call him Kolya, for my father."
She stared at him, not understanding, then looked over to her husband.
Norm placed his hand over the baby's forehead, the cap of pale fuzz, his fingers tracing down the tiny features, as he gazed into the pale blue eyes. "And the birth patronymic?" Norm asked quietly, although his eyes told Illya that he already knew, and understood, and accepted.
"The same," Illya said, then folded in on himself, collapsing in his partner's arms. "But make it your name, please," he whispered as consciousness fled. "Please."
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