---

"And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
God help us, for we knew the worst too young!"

Gentlemen-rankers
Rudyard Kipling

Chapter One

June, 1969

"The strategies outlined by the Pentagon have been planned by our best and most experienced military minds. The problem lies not in conception but in execution."

The pompous ass in the well-tailored suit stood in front of the lecture hall with his overhead projector and his pointer, pretending to know why the US was doing so badly in Vietnam. Blair Sandburg, from his privileged position in the front row, could tell from one look in James Ellison's clear blue eyes exactly how much experience he had.

"What the hell do you know about it, man?"

Ellison blinked at the interruption. "I beg your pardon...sir?"

Blair grimaced. Sir. Right. He knew what he looked like. He hadn't cut his hair since he'd been released from the hospital, so it curled to his shoulders, held back by a blue bandanna. His jeans had been old when he bought them and he hadn't bothered to tuck the right leg under his stump. His wheelchair was battered and covered with stickers, and his t-shirt proclaimed his allegiance to nothing at all. "I said, what the hell do you know about it? You were never there."

"I have studied this thoroughly. I have a PhD in military history. One does not need to be at the front to..."

"Like hell. You can toss all your pretty theories around, *professor*, but you are not going to stand there and tell me it was *my* fault we're losing this pissant war." Blair snarled to hide the pain - once upon a time, he was going to be a professor himself, until fate, the draft board and his own stupid conscience intervened.

Blair was dimly aware that the rest of the audience was protesting the interruption - the ones in fringe and jeans at Ellison, the ones in suits and ties at him, but he only heard one man.

"Of course not. I lay the blame for this 'pissant war' at the middle levels of the military, not at the enlisted. I would appreciate if you heard me out." Ellison smiled, and Blair was momentarily dazzled.
"I'm listening, professor, but I'm warning you right now...you better present your side well." He stared straight into his eyes to make his challenge clear. Ellison stared back at him, taking the challenge. He directed the lecture towards Blair and Blair alone, never looking at any other member of the audience. Even at the end, during the question and answer period, Ellison kept those eyes on him.

Blair stayed behind when the whole thing was over. After the last person filed out, Ellison climbed down from the stage. He took a folding chair from the back of the room and placed it in front of Blair. When he straddled it, tugging automatically at his sharply creased pants, they were eye level to each other. "Well?" There was that grin again.

Blair had to grin back, which destroyed the entire anger thing. "Not bad, doc. I like your thesis about midlevel officers doing the screwing up. You came up with some right-on examples, too. I was there for a couple of them."

"Yeah. So I wasn't so...out of touch as you thought."

"No way. It was a cool lecture - cooler than I thought someone as Establishment as you would produce." He waited to see the reaction.

Ellison shrugged. "Don't let the threads fool you. I've been fighting the military mindset for ten years, since they kicked me out." He shook his head, as if to get rid of an irritant. "You hungry...er..."

"Blair. Blair Sandburg. And I could eat, yeah."

"What do you say we grab some lunch and really talk? The echoes in this place are really starting to bug me."

What echoes? There were enough chairs to absorb any sound. Still, the man was clearly bothered by something. "There's a little outdoor cafe not so far from campus, Prof."

"Outdoors sounds good. Lead the way, Chief."

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

"Cafe" was perhaps too fine a word for it. Hotdog stand was more accurate. They collected their chili dogs, drinks and fries and sat down at one of the old picnic tables next to the shack. Blair hauled his food out of his lap and looked at Jim with that smile that had distracted him all during his lecture.

"Not what you were expecting, man?"

Jim shrugged carefully, trying not to get the sauce on his suit. He had another lecture this afternoon. He bit into the dog and yowled as his tongue exploded. He dropped his food on the table and grabbed for his soda, trying to wash the taste out of his mouth. When his own proved inadequate, he grabbed Blair's as well.

"What the hell you doing? You *owe* me for that drink." Jim struggled to speak. "Hey, it's not that hot. I mean, this sauce is positively *bland*. Look, just take your time. I'm cool."

Jim pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his face. "I'm sorry. I should have known better."

"This has happened before, doc?" Blair's eyes narrowed.

Jim shrugged. "On and off. One minute, everything's normal. The next, something's wrong. I feel something off the scale. Doctors can't figure out why, so I just...live with it."

"Oh, man, that sucks. Sounds like an acid trip gone bad. You don't get any warnings?"

"Believe me, Sandburg. I wish I did. And you don't want to know what acid does to me." He was tasting sounds and hearing odors in his dreams months after his little experiment. "Pot helps a little, though."

The guy blinked at him. "*You*? Oh, that's far out. I mean...look at you. No one would ever think you'd been on any sort of a trip."

"I told you. Don't let the threads fool you. And when the docs crapped out on me, and the army kicked me the hell out because I would, you know, blank out, I was going to try anything to help. So far, only thing that makes a difference is weed, and I think I just get mellow enough that I don't care." Jim absently patted his coat pocket. "At least I can sleep at night."

"Wow. I don't know if that grooves or not. You smoke that stuff every night? Even I only get high when my leg hurts real bad." Sandburg gestured to his missing limb. "And I really try not to. I did enough stuff in 'Nam and in the hospital. They were too generous with the morphine, you know?" Sandburg grinned a bit. "Now, sleeping at night...that sounds like a good deal."

The words were light, but there was something dark in Sandburg's eyes. Those eyes should have been bright and dancing with endless curiosity, just as that body should have been whole. Jim had met other veterans from this and other wars, and was used to haunted eyes and broken men. This was worse. He almost had a picture of this man laughing and dancing, lighting up a room with his energy and enthusiasm. The picture became clearer - his laugh was as rich as his voice, without the bitter edge. Yeah, rich was right. Warm, dark, something solid he could hang on to even with the pain behind it. Like good coffee. It should have been chocolate...He sank deeper into the vision.

"Prof? Ellison? Jim! Wake up. Come on. You can do it. Just concentrate on my voice." Jim heard that voice and clung to it, let it draw him up out of...wherever he was, until he was blinking at the watery sunlight.

"It's all right, Sandburg. Thanks."

"What happened, doc? You were tripping."

Jim shrugged. "I get into these fugue states if I concentrate too much on something."

Blair's eyes were wide. "You don't drive or anything, do you?"

"Are you kidding? I'm not saying I haven't thought, once or twice, of...well, anyway, I'm not about to take anyone else with me. If I go blind suddenly or one of my other senses spikes or I lose myself....I do not want that on my soul."

"Wait a minute; wait a minute. This sounds familiar...I was an anthropology major in college, before...I found this paper by Richard Burton...not the guy married to Elizabeth Taylor, the explorer."

"He wrote the Arabian Nights, right?"

"Wow. Yeah. There was something about...people with over active senses...I don't remember much...I have it in my apartment." For a moment, Jim could see a glimmer of his vision. Sandburg leaned forward in his wheelchair and touched Jim's hand. Jim almost jerked back. He'd learned a long time ago to avoid casual male contact. But this man wasn't doing more than establishing a connection. He wasn't making a...suggestion.

More than that - Sandburg's hand, callused from moving his wheelchair and possibly from a cane or a crutch, felt good in a way that...that Jim decided he didn't want to explore just then.

"But it talks about them as...tribal guardians or something. Man. I thought Burton was pulling a fast one, but if you exist...wow."

"Hold on, Chief. No one said anything about me being one of these...guardians. I'm a freak, but I'm no throwback."

"You are *not* a freak, Doc. No way. I think it's something in the genes, something people are born with. You just need some help or something."

Jim glanced at the sun and at his watch. "Maybe I do, but right now, I'd better get to the lecture hall. That's what they pay me for."

Sandburg nodded. "But I really want to talk to you about this. Can we, like, meet for dinner or something? Man, I haven't thought about this stuff...Maybe I can help..." His eyes got far away. Jim wondered what he was seeing. Then he shook his head rapidly. "How about it? I know this cool restaurant not too far..."

Jim nodded and took down the information. "It's a date, then." He blinked at his words. "I..I didn't mean..."

Blair just grinned. "Whatever you meant, it's cool with me. See you at eight." And he pushed off.

Chapter Two

Blair let the valet take his car and, leaning on his cane, walked through the door. The maitre'd glanced at his hair and earring but managed to only sneer slightly.

"Can I help you...sir?"

"Yeah, I hope so. I'm looking for this man named Ellison? He said he'd make a reservation."

"Hmmm." The man frowned. "There is a Professor Ellison on my list."

"Yeah, that's the guy! He's waiting for me. I'm a couple minutes late."

He was more than a couple of minutes late. Blair had had to search for his sport coat and wool pants, and then he had to look for the iron and actually iron them. He gave up on a collared shirt and hoped he could get away with the turtleneck and that ankh his last lover had given him.

As the maitre'd led Blair through the tangle of tables, he noticed other men dressed more or less the same way, or in collarless Nehru Jackets. 'Damn! I could have worn mine.'

And then he saw Jim, sipping a glass of wine in a table by the window. The place was known for its view of the bay, and it seemed Jim had gotten one of the best seats in the house. *He* was wearing a jacket and tie, and the tie echoed the color of his eyes. Blair shook his head. It had been a very long time since a man's eyes had struck him that way, and this guy was so square he had edges. Even if he did smoke pot.

"'bout time you showed up, Chief." Despite his words, Jim's smile was blinding.

"Sorry, doc. Stuff happened. Mind if I sit down?"

Jim blinked for a moment. "Umm...sure. Be my guest."

The waiter pulled out the other chair. Blair thanked him and used his cane to lever himself down. For once, the artificial knee actually bent when he wanted it to. Blair decided to take that as an omen. He leaned the cane against the table.

He noticed Jim looking at him curiously. "What's biting you, prof?"

"You're shorter than I thought you'd be. Must be one of those elevator wheelchairs."

The joke wasn't that funny, but Blair found himself laughing anyway. "God, man, thank you!"

"For what?"

"For not doing the old glance and shift. I hate that."

Jim shrugged. "It's...who you are. So, how come you're not taking things easy?"

"Come on. Look at this place. I couldn't get past the front door in my chair. I don't mind attracting attention, but I don't need *that* much."

Jim nodded. "I've...sometimes my fugues or whatever they are...I know where you're coming from, Blair. I'm on the same trip."

Blair looked at Jim. He'd noticed there was something in his eyes before. Now he realized what it was - the same look he'd see in the rehabilitation center after he'd lost his leg, on the faces of men and women who'd realized they'd never be normal again. "Yeah, I guess you are. Far out."

"I'm also starving. Let's see what's good here." Jim picked up the menu.

"Just be careful of the spicy stuff." Blair grinned.

Jim's eyes flashed and his jaw clenched. "This isn't funny, Sandburg."

"Calm down, man." He pointed to the menu. "This place is Continental. The cooks wouldn't know a spice if it hit them in their jewels."

"I will *not* watch what I eat. I will not let this...thing...of mine take over my life more than it has. You can't know..."

Blair found himself bending the menu. The man's voice was full of self-pity. He forced his hands to relax. "No? I *can't* know what it feels like ? I can't know how it feels to wake up one day and be something else? Right, doc. There's no *way* I can know." He didn't even try to keep the anger out of his voice.

"Gentlemen? Can I help you?" A waiter glided up to them. Blair could feel the man's eyes slide over his ponytail and his earrings.

Jim, however, didn't let the man faze him. "Service is unconscionably lax here. You should have taken our drink orders five minutes ago. Now that you are here...do you have any twelve-year old single malts?"

The waiter blinked. "I believe so."

"A scotch, please, then. I want to see only scotch in that glass. Nothing else."

"Very good, sir. And you...sir?"

Blair frowned. "A vodka martini, I think."

The waiter nodded. "I'll be back for your dinner orders shortly." He drifted off in the general direction of the bar.

"Sorry, Jim. I think you struck a nerve."

"No, Chief. I have to apologize to you. I...I forgot about your leg."

"*My leg*?" People turned to look at them. Blair forced his voice down. "Who was talking about my leg?"

"Then what?"

"I'm talking about the day I woke up and realized I was a killer. Not that I was a soldier, although that was mind-blowing enough. Not even that I was a damn officer, responsible for a bunch of guys, or fighting a war I protested against. But that I was a killer. I have blood on my hands an inch thick, *professor*. And that's not the person I ever thought I would be."

The waiter arrived with the drinks, and they spent a few minutes dealing with specials, asking questions and ordering. Blair found himself wanting to take over for Jim - tell him what he should eat, and why, as if he were protecting the man. He held himself back. Why did he even think he had the right to do that?

"What did you think you were going to be, Chief?" Jim took a small sip of his scotch.

Blair played with his olive. "You."

"I don't understand."

"Well, not quite you, but I was going to be an academic- an anthropologist. I was going to write books and lead kids on expeditions to the jungle. Hell, I managed that last part *just* fine. Only difference was, a lot of those kids never came out." He took a gulp of his martini.

Jim sat silent for a while, seeming to watch the light play off his drink. The waiter glided up and set bowls of soup in front of them, and sliced chives into Jim's vichysiosse. Blair accepted his own bowl of consomme gelee with thanks. The waiter poured them each a glass of white wine and disappeared again.

"It's funny..." Jim's voice sounded very far away. "You say you wanted to be me. All I wanted was to be, well, you. Not you as...but I was going to be leading boys into the jungles. And *I*, of course, was going to lead them all back covered in glory."

"You mean blood, don't you? Blood and mold and whatever chemicals they'd poured over the greenery?"

Jim gave a short chuckle. "We're talking fantasy here. In all the war movies, people got shot but they never bled. I was a *kid*. I went to West Point, you know? Graduated at the top of my class, too. I think the day I got in and the day I graduated were the two proudest days of my father's life. He was nowhere in sight when I got my doctorate, after my discharge. And I'd lived with him in grad school."

They were both silent for a long time. Blair tried not to close his eyes, knowing he'd see all those *faces* again. He ate his consomme without tasting it. He noticed Jim was just stirring his own soup.

"Don't they teach you kaydets that you never pass up food?" He forced a smile.

Jim blinked. Blair wondered where he'd been. He certainly looked lost.

"Sorry, Chief." He took a spoonful. "It's not that bad. If you like bland and starchy."

Blair nodded. They veered off into other subjects while the waiter took away one course and brought the next. Jim's rack of lamb was overdone and smelled far too much of mint jelly, and Blair's own coq au vin was...well, it didn't need much chewing. He thought wistfully of that summer he'd spent hitchhiking around Europe and took another sip of wine. Maybe they should go back to the reason for this dinner.

"Have you noticed any actual changes in the way you sense things?"

Jim looked at him. "How do you mean?"

"Like, say...this wine." Blair made a face at the very ordinary stuff. "Does wine taste different now?"

Jim's face became blank. "It tastes like wine, Sandburg. The lamb tastes like lamb and the peas taste like cream sauce. Now, how about those Jaguars. They're pretty damn good for an expansion team."

Blair took the hint. "Yeah, but they're pretty damn bad for a team in general. What they need to do is..."

Ellison was *good*. Every time Blair tried to bring up his senses, he found some way to change the subject, even as he made faces while eating the cherries jubilee that must have been doused in brandy, considering how long it had flamed.

Finally, after the waiter brought them tiny cups of weak coffee and tinier bottles of liqueur, Jim shook his head. "Why are you being so nosy, Sandburg?"

Blair shrugged. "You're the most interesting thing to come around since I got back. I almost feel like an anthropologist again. And, I'm not sure why, but I think maybe I can even help."

"No one can help me." His face went blank again. "I'll be a freak forever."

Blair didn't know what to say. Jim's voice was all but a monotone, but his jaw twitched and his fist clenched and unclenched. He knew what Jim was doing. The less emotion he showed, the more he felt. There was a well of bitterness here as deep as his own. He watched himself reach across the table to touch one of those fists, needing to comfort him, expecting to be rejected.

He wasn't rejected. Seemingly of its own volition, the fist relaxed, opened and then took his hand, squeezing it gently. Blair glanced around to make sure their hands were hidden by the vase of flowers in the center, and squeezed him back.

Then he took a risk and looked at Jim directly. His face was no longer a blank, handsome mask. Blair had to keep from flinching at the pain and need he saw there. Instead, he stroked the hand holding his gently. At that moment, Blair knew he'd do whatever he could - which was damn little - to help this man, to do something to take away some of that hurt. Especially when he also saw amazement grow in Jim's eyes.

Jim's hand was not what he'd expected. It fit well in his - despite their differences in height, it was about the same size, with long, graceful fingers. He could feel the callouses from writing, the indent along one finger. Time was, his own hands had been like that - never so graceful , but used mainly to write and to touch other human beings, not to hold a gun or replace his leg.

Suddenly, Jim's face closed up again and he dropped Blair's hand as if it were on fire. Blair frowned until he saw their waiter drift over to them, bearing a leather folder. Jim must have heard him approach. Blair's dismay turned into intense curiosity - had Jim really heard the man's nearly noiseless tread over the sounds of music, eating and conversation filling the restaurant? He wondered if Ellison would be amenable to testing his limits...

"How much do I owe you?" Blair reached for his wallet.

"Not a thing, Chief. It's on me. I asked *you* out."

Blair rolled his eyes. "I know the 'date' thing was a joke, man. I pay my own way."

Jim smiled and shook his head. "I got it covered. This lecture series is paying fine, and I've gotten decent royalties from the book, so I'm pretty flush."

"The book?"

Jim stared at him. "Didn't you know? That's what this grand tour is about - I wrote a book about my theories. 'The Middle Cannot Hold.'"

Blair blinked. "I read that. It was the first book I'd read about the war that made sense. But...I didn't make the connection....James J. Ellison, J. Joseph Ellison...why the name switch?"

"Publisher thought it looked more academic, I guess. And..." Jim grimaced. "Maybe I'd hoped that my administration would be fooled...or at least the alumni. We...they...aren't that stupid at VMI."

"V...Virginia Military Institute? Oh, God. You lost your tenure?"

Jim shrugged. "I didn't like it much there, anyway. And I have had other job offers. I'm okay." He pulled several bills out of his wallet, enclosed them in the leather folder with the check and closed it. "Let's go."

Blair nodded and levered himself upright. "Want a lift back to your hotel?"

"You drove here?" Blair wasn't sure what he heard in Jim's voice. Envy? Surprise?

He shrugged. "Didn't have to modify my car even if I'm a gimp."

Jim grinned. "Then...sure. Save me another taxi ride."

Go to Part Two.