Transitions 1 - Switchman
-- by Mackie

What had he gotten himself into?

He'd finally discovered the test subject of his dreams, only to find the strings attached were made of razor wire, and a wrong move could get him killed.

Sandburg stood in the center of the bridge, his arms still outspread after his last comment to Detective James Ellison, who had ignored him and kept walking. 'He can't expect me to go through the Police Academy,' Sandburg thought wildly. 'I mean, that takes weeks, probably longer than my whole study will last, for cryin' out loud!'

He took a firm grip on his backpack and started to dash after the detective, only to stop again, as if his physical movements reflected his mental indecision.

Besides, he didn't want to go through the Police Academy, not even if it would enable him to observe the first full-blown Sentinel he'd ever found. It was just his bad luck to get a conservative, law-and-order, military-trained, no-nonsense, anal-retentive cop. Why couldn't he have found a sentinel who was an airline captain, or maybe a National Park ranger? Those were professions dedicated to serving and protecting, too, weren't they? But, no, he'd gotten a cop as a study subject.

The chances of finding another sentinel were astronomical. So, it was Jim Ellison or nothing. No choice, really.

Ellison stopped and glanced back at him. "You coming?" he asked with a faint trace of irritation. "Taggart's giving us a ride."

'Now what have I done?' Sandburg wondered, confused by Ellison's hostility. "Yeah, I'm coming," he answered calmly, hurrying to catch up. God, this wasn't going to work. Ellison looked so -- so distant. Cool. Closed off. Was he up to the challenge of studying this individual, of getting him to open up and reveal what made him tick? The chances of that were about as good as getting a "good job, Sandburg" out of the taciturn detective.

As Sandburg climbed into the back seat of Taggart's police car, he cautiously flexed the fingers of his right hand. The dull ache made him grin with sudden pride: he'd captured the Switchman, the terrorist who had held all of Cascade hostage. He wondered if Ellison's job was always so exciting? Maybe he'd turn into an adrenaline junkie!

The thought almost made him laugh.

He caught Taggart staring at him in the rearview mirror and didn't let the look intimidate him. Hell, if he could take down the Switchman, he wouldn't be subdued by a burly police captain.

"Jim, just who is this kid?" Taggart asked as he maneuvered through the cluster of official vehicles clogging the bridge.

Ellison sounded faintly annoyed as he answered, "My new partner." A moment later, he qualified the statement: "For the next couple of weeks, anyway."

"Uh-huh," Taggart said doubtfully. "Does Simon know about your 'new partner' yet?"

"I haven't had time to fill him in," Ellison admitted awkwardly.

Taggart continued to pry, intrigued by the odd pairing. "You two been working together long?"

"Not long." Ellison didn't seem inclined to elaborate, but he practically squirmed in his seat. "Uh, Joel, he wasn't supposed to be along today, actually."

Taggart didn't sound surprised. "No kidding. And he caught the Switchman?"

Blair expected some sort of acknowledgement then, about his contribution, but Ellison only turned in his seat and scowled at him.

"He wasn't supposed to be on the bus," he muttered darkly. "I'd never authorize anything that foolhardy or stupid. He was supposed to stay with the truck."

Blair just shot him an exasperated look and tried not to shrink into the seat under that unforgiving glare.

"So, where's your truck?" Taggart asked, sensing the sudden tension and curious about it.

Another glare toward the bane of his recent existence greeted the question. "Towed."

Oops. Maybe shrinking wasn't such a bad idea.

Taggart chuckled. "OK, I'll try to get it out of impound tonight and have it at the precinct for you tomorrow."

Ellison faced forward again. "Thanks."

Taggart renewed his assessment of the young man in the back seat. "So -- Sandburg, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah."

"What do you do?"

"I'm an anthropologist and teaching fellow at Rainier."

"An anthropologist, huh? How does that work into being Ellison's new partner?"

Just for a moment, Blair's mind went blank. "Uh, I'm doing my dissertation on the police force."

Taggart actually groaned. "Not another piece of crap about the 'thin blue line'."

"Well, I don't know about 'crap'," Blair murmured with a nervous chuckle, staring hard at the back of Ellison's head and wondering why he'd ever believed for one second this deal could possibly work. Ellison looked absolutely rigid, and it wasn't just a function of his posture; everything about the man, including his thinking, was ramrod straight. Sandburg would never be able to batter down the defensive barricades surrounding his test subject and learn anything meaningful for his study.

On top of that, he'd nearly gotten killed today because he was Ellison's new 'partner'. When he'd called out for help, the detective had been zoned on the ticking bomb. Well, that had turned out to be a good thing, hadn't it? If he hadn't been there to tell Ellison to listen instead of look for the bomb, the bus and everyone on board would have been blown to bits. Even the zone out had been a good thing. If Ellison had heard Sandburg's shout and had turned back to help him, the bomb would not have been found in time.

So, he'd responded correctly by guiding Ellison to use his hearing to locate the bomb, but he'd been horribly wrong to rely on the cop while he'd battled the Switchman for control of the gun. Either he'd have to accept the risks that went along with working with the Sentinel, or he'd have to get the hell out. He couldn't expect Ellison to do his job and keep bailing out a tagalong every time things got difficult.

It was a lot to think about.

In the front seat, Ellison leaned back and closed his eyes.

What had he gotten himself into? Taking on a partner who wasn't even a trained police officer! Simon would pitch a fit and kill the whole idea, which was undoubtedly the right thing to do. Did Jim really want to have a close, working relationship with someone like Sandburg?

What had he been thinking? Sandburg was an academic, one of those liberal, intellectual freeloaders who lived off the taxpayers and pretended that what he did was actually important.

Back up a minute. That was harsh thinking, even for him. Face it, he didn't resent the longhaired neo-hippie for any of those things. He resented Sandburg because he needed him, and that rubbed against every facet of Ellison's autonomous spirit.

If Sandburg hadn't been on that bus today, a lot of people, Ellison included, would have died.

OK, he'd give it a couple of weeks. That should be enough time for the anthropologist to help him control his whacked-out senses. What was it Ellison was supposed to be? A sentinel...a tribal watchman...a throwback to a precivilized breed of man? After a few weeks, Sandburg would have enough material for his damned term paper or whatever the hell it was.

Yeah, two weeks...a month, max.

After that, so long and good riddance, undoubtedly by mutual consent. Already, they were grating on each other's nerves.

They reached the precinct, where the two men thanked Joel Taggart and climbed out of the car without saying a word to one another. As they stood awkwardly beside Sandburg's old Corvair, Blair finally asked, "You want a lift home?"

Ellison looked critically at the car. "Sure, OK."

He climbed into the passenger seat and rested his arm on the open window ledge, his fingers tapping an uneasy rhythm on the outside door panel.

Sandburg got behind the wheel and inserted the key in the ignition.

Nothing. The engine would not turn over.

Chagrined, he chanced a sideways glance at Ellison, whose expression was unreadable.

Finally, the detective said, "How about I get a vehicle from the motor pool and give you a lift home?"

Embarrassed, Sandburg murmured, "Great, thanks."

They drove in silence, Blair fidgeting with the straps on the backpack sitting on the floorboards in front of him.

When they finally pulled up in front of the warehouse where Sandburg currently lived, Ellison looked startled. "You're kidding, right?"

The grad student bristled slightly under the faintly derisive tone and sought to control his temper. He shrugged off the comment. "I'm used to it," he answered simply, climbing out and slamming the door. "Thanks for the ride."

"What are we gonna do about tomorrow?" Ellison called through the open side window, oblivious to the fact that he'd insulted his companion.

Sandburg sighed. 'You say to-may-toe, I say to-mah-toe...' he thought irrelevantly, the excitement of the day wearing off and leaving him feeling grumpy and tired. He had a huge stack of test papers still to grade tonight. "I don't know. I may have a couple of beers in the fridge. Come on in, and we'll talk about it."

Ellison parked the car and followed Sandburg into the warehouse. He couldn't believe the interior. The anthropologist had managed to define a sort of living area inside the vast space -- thrift shop furniture, a television with the ubiquitous VCR on a low stand, an ancient refrigerator, a hot plate and microwave clustered around a blanket serving as a throw rug. But all the creature comforts couldn't fend off the errant draughts of chilly air, or keep out the myriad smells embedded in the walls of the old building.

Feeling an unexpected rush of pity, he said suddenly, "Where's your phone? I'll call for a pizza."

"They won't deliver out here," Sandburg replied simply.

"Why not?"

"Because it's the warehouse district. To them, that sounds like a perfect set up for a robbery."

Actually, it sounded very plausible to Jim, who wouldn't want to venture into this remote, inhospitable area late at night, even with his trusty 9mm in his hands.

Sandburg dumped his backpack on the old sofa. "So, what are you going to tell your Captain tomorrow? I know I can't just keep riding around with you. I mean, the whole of civilization would topple beneath the weight of that bureaucratic snafu."

Ellison's look was sour. The kid certainly had a mouth on him. "Maybe I can bring you in as an observer," he speculated. "You told Joel you were working on a paper about the department. We'll go with that idea."

"An observer," Sandburg repeated, brightening. That didn't sound too dangerous. "Cool."

"There'll be a lot of paperwork, a background check, and a drug test," Jim added after a moment.

Blair's good mood faded. "What's the matter, don't you think I'll pass?"

Jim's look was mild but direct. "Will you?"

Their gazes locked for a long minute, but Blair knew a confrontation wouldn't benefit either one of them. Ellison didn't understand what was happening with his senses, and that made him feel defensive. At least, Sandburg hoped that was the cause of the man's combativeness, and that it wasn't just part of his normal personality. And Sandburg needed a test subject; however much he might wish for someone else, Jim Ellison was it. Somehow, they had to figure out how to get along.

"OK," he said quietly, "I guess we both have some stereotypes to get past."

It was an olive branch...and a challenge.

After a moment, Jim nodded. "How about that beer?"

The tension dissipated as they reached an unspoken truce, and Blair went to the refrigerator. "Maybe I can throw something together for dinner," he said agreeably, opening the door.

He closed it again immediately, acutely embarrassed. "Actually, I think a new life form is evolving in there that might be on the brink of achieving sentience," he confessed quietly.

Ellison almost smiled at the comical expression on the young man's face.

Sandburg grinned. "I saw that, Ellison! Your lips twitched. You almost smiled."

Ellison's chuckle was genuine. "Come on, Darwin. I'll buy dinner and we can work out the details to justify your observer status." As he herded his new partner toward the door, he added, "Just don't use any of that 'thin blue line' jargon, OK? Simon'll hate it."

"Hey, that's some of my best academic patter," Blair protested, carefully locking the door behind him.

There was a porch light of sorts, and he turned around to find the detective studying him in the dim light. Bemused, he asked, "What is it?"

Ellison shrugged. Almost reluctantly, he confessed, "I just wanted to say -- uh -- you did good out there today, Sandburg."

THE END