PROLOGUE ----------
It was dark in the room. Stars shone in the large windows, majestic in their cold beauty. The muted glare of computer screens did nothing to affect their pure whiteness as they steadily beckoned. The lone man sat and watched the stars, wondering what was out there. It would fall to others to visit them; his calling, his duty, was here. And the time was now...
*Beep* went the console as the man pressed a button.
"Diary entry, April 15, 2026, Richard MacLeod. The Game has caught up with me. Even with so much left to accomplish, I'm ready for it. The human race is ready. Ready to take control of its own destiny. Mine lies... elsewhere. I am the only Immortal left standing between my offspring and world destruction. I cannot let him win, or everything I... everything we have worked for is doomed. I can no longer run, no longer let someone else deal with it. I am the last.
"Jeremiah, my son, I give you these diaries, because... because I've said so much in them I could not say to you personally. Or to anyone else. I hope you'll come to know me through them, as I haven't shared much of myself with you in the past. Maybe you'll understand what I have done, and why, and know it was never about you. You've made me proud, even when I didn't have the time to tell you. Or show you. I have learned that it is foolish to try and change the past, better to focus that energy on building the future. If I lose, I will have no future, and all you'll be left with are these files. And a fight you must win. If I succeed, I don't know what will happen; what this 'Prize' I am fighting, and possibly dying, for is. I only know there's a slim chance I will return as I am. If I do return, you will never doubt my love again. For I do love you, as if you were my flesh and blood. Goodbye, my son. I hope you'll be happy. End entry."
With a few short commands, the files were effortlessly downloaded to Freedom's data banks. The man left the room, the cold light of the stars still shining, as they always would. Some things truly were Immortal.
CHOICES
The Possibilities Trilogy
by Kevin H. Robnett
Part One ----------Homecoming
"Begin diary entry, September 20, 2025, Richie MacLeod. I can't let him sit in his cabin any longer. Time is slipping away from me, and I need him. Whatever the cost. End entry."
The canoe slid effortlessly through the water, speeding him toward a familiar hill, a single pine tree standing away from the others, watching over the lake. Birds called a morning greeting as they flew by, a few feet above the water, their cries echoing in the valley. From behind the rise, smoke gently wafted among the trees into the air, the only hint of human life in the Northwest Preserves. Beaching the craft, Richie Ryan MacLeod slowly climbed the hill, waiting beside the pine as the buzz hit him. He rested there until he saw the curtains in the window move, so slightly he could have imagined it.
{That's all? He won't even come out and greet me? I don't have time for this.}
The redhead marched up the steps to the door of the cabin, banging on the wood surface with his fist. Silence. Again he pounded, louder this time. More silence. Even the birds had quieted. Pounding a third time, he followed it with, "MAC! I'm not leaving 'till I talk to you. You owe me at least that much." The door swung open before he had closed his mouth, the angry glare of the owner locked on him.
"I owe you nothing!" came the reply, but the Highlander made no move to close the door. Or gesture for his visitor to enter. Taking the silence as an invitation, Richie barreled past, into the main room of the cabin. Very little had changed since he was last here, unlike its builder. Duncan MacLeod still looked thirty-five, his loose, black hair now halfway down his back, tangled and unkept. Days, or months of stubble adorned his chin. His clothing fared even worse, his shirt being mended too often, his jeans almost frayed off his legs. The clothes hung loosely on his unnaturally thin frame, the muscles from decades ago long unused.
{I guess the wildlife doesn't complain too much.}
"What do you want?" Duncan growled, slamming the door. The dark haired Immortal began to angrily pace the main room, stopping in front of the fireplace, blazing in the chill air. Leaning against the warm mantle, he waited for an answer.
"Not going to offer an old friend any refreshment after his long trip?" Richie sarcastically asked, diverting the question for now. "Or have your social skills deteriorated as well?" With a plop, he landed on the sofa, metaphorically digging in. With care, he placed his feet on the table, trying hard to match the pose he so easily used in ages past. Duncan glared for a minute, then stormed off to the kitchen, slamming drawers, banging utensils more than necessary.
"Breakfast?" came the inquiry from the window over the bar. It seemed less harsh to Richie than it could have been. Habits and manners rusted from disuse slowly ground into action, as did the antiquated stove.
The redhead suppressed a grin. "Since when have I ever turned down food? Especially yours?" he yelled back, hoping the memories would do something in his favor. {Lord knows this is going to be tough!}
Intent on his thoughts, he barely made out the comment from the kitchen, sounding close to '...did eat like a horse...' or such. He grinned wider, knowing if Duncan got back his humor, he might find purpose again. Within minutes the smell of bacon wafted by, Richie glad the conversation was detained until later. Time for good memories to do their work. {Before I try to do mine.}
- - - - -
Richie wiped his mouth with the napkin, then placed it on the table. Reaching for the steaming cup of coffee, he sipped, trying to remember what he wanted to start with. They had eaten in silence, except stilted mumblings about the weather and cooking. Now both leaned back, one full, content, satisfied. The other was a mystery. He decided short and truthful to be the best way, so...
"I need you, Mac. Bad. You've got to come back with me."
For a second he thought Duncan would explode, throw him out, challenge him, something. But the haggard eyes calmed, and sadness shone through. "I can't.... Not.... It's still too soon." Duncan struggled for the words, not able to express what he felt, even to Richie. He helplessly threw his napkin on his plate of half-eaten food, standing awkwardly, looking anywhere but at his visitor. "I can't do it anymore," he finally said, moving to gaze out the window at the tranquil mountains, hoping the peace would calm his soul.
Richie stood also, walking to the window. Gently, he asked, "Play the Game, you mean? Or live? You really haven't done either in twenty years." Silently, the clouds passed overhead, gracefully dancing past the oppressive mountains.
Duncan tried to explain. "It gets harder, each time I have to start over. Each new person I want to be with, get to know, all I see is the time I won't have them. Why bother? Why can't I keep the friends I have already? Why do I have to do it again and again?" More words poured from his lips today than had been uttered in the last ten years. Conversation, language, had almost been forgotten in the long silence of the cabin.
Confusion clouded Richie's teenage face. "I don't understand, Mac."
"How could you?" Duncan replied, a hint of bitterness surfacing. "You're barely out of diapers as far as Immortals go. You haven't lived passed your normal lifespan. Everything a mortal experiences, we experience once, then twice. The third time around is a novelty, and by five, six, it gets old. But still we live on, and on, and on, watching our lovers and friends die, and making new ones, and watching them die, and finally, what's the point? They'll die anyway." If Richie didn't know better, he would think the man babbling at the window was hysterical. Instead, he saw four hundred years of frustrations and bitterness pouring forth, a weight long settled on his friend's shoulders.
"The point is that we do go on, and become better people, and make the people around us better, making the human race better. Dragging and kicking if we have to." That line of reasoning was the only thing keeping Richie from wholeheartedly embracing the Game. A Game of death and destruction. "What kind of life would I have if you hadn't taken me in? A street thug. Where would Linda Plager have been without your support? Your love? How many countless others have you helped? You've never turned your back before, and I don't think you'll start now," Richie asserted. {He's withdrawn so far, I can't reach him.}
Duncan had yet to turn away from the scenery. "Someone would have found you. Linda would still have died. Famous? Maybe, maybe not. Does it matter, now? I have nothing left to give to anyone." The Highlander moved suddenly for the door, before Richie could react. He had a jacket in his hand and the door open as he continued, "Leave, stay, whatever you like. I won't be back for awhile." And he was gone, the door closed, leaving the redhead alone.
Richie ran to the door, opening it and yelling his last argument at the retreating back of Duncan MacLeod. "So you're just giving up? You've tried that before. There are less than twenty of us left, Mac. If you stay here, the last one will come after you with all our Quickening. You won't stand a snowball's chance in Hell...." The last word echoed for several seconds, sending it through the valley in different directions. And then Duncan was gone, hiding in the wilderness he loved so well. {And here he will die. Maybe Joe will bury him next to Amanda. God damn that son of a bitch!}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Duncan knelt in the clearing. From here on the mountain one could see forever, including the small dot of his cabin. One could watch a small figure launch a canoe into the lake, angrily paddling away to civilization. Next to him was an ordinary lump in the rugged terrain, indistinguishable except for the gleaming sword stuck halfway into it. A sword Duncan had cleaned and oiled each day for twenty years. By now he had said everything he could to the spirit resting here. Now he only remembered, a ritual he had also performed every day...
{ { { { { November, 2005 { { { { {
The snow was falling from the night sky as Duncan waited in front of the brightly lit restaurant, pacing back and forth. He pulled his hand from the warm pockets of his trench coat, checking the pocket watch again. Amanda had never been this late, especially for their anniversary dinner. {What has it been? Eight years since we set up 'house'? It hasn't been as bad as I thought it would. Maybe Angie called. Little Maxwell is due any day now.} The promise of exotic surprises usually kept her very attentive and focused this time of year. He was looking up and down the sidewalk for her as the black car pulled up, the passenger window silently lowering before it had come to a halt.
"Get in," came the gruff voice of Joe Dawson from the interior. The serious tone and urgency of those two words had Duncan in the passenger seat without a word, just a questioning look as the Watcher pulled the car into traffic. "I got a call. There's trouble at your warehouse, and Amanda's in the thick of it."
Duncan didn't reply, just checked the katana under his coat as the car weaved in and out of traffic. Within minutes, they arrived, the abandoned building dark, the peaceful silence broken by the two men shutting the car doors. Once inside, he slowly walked to the unmoving shape on the floor. With super human control, he stood next to her headless body, katana at his side, all emotion denied. Looking at the body. The breasts. The hips. Just this morning, he had run his hands over them, over her, as they woke up with each other. Now the only thing touching them would be the worms.
Determined, he marched to a black corner, where Dawson was questioning a woman, partially hidden by crates. Duncan stood silently, face empty, as she described the Immortal Amanda had faced. And lost to. Dawson finished his interrogation, looking expectantly at the silent warrior. "Pierre DuBoise, one of Slan Quince's students," Duncan stated, holding out his free hand. "Your keys." Without hesitation, Dawson placed them in the outstretched palm. With screeching tires, Duncan drove into the night, the snow still falling.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The car pulled up outside the old building, the faded "DeSalvo's Martial Arts" sign still illuminated. The windows in the partially refurbished dojo were dark. The loft was unsurprisingly lit. Duncan guessed at what was waiting for him, DuBoise being an unimaginative student. He took the stairs outside two at time, wondering why it had taken Pierre so long to even the score. {Even for us, thirty-three years is a long time for revenge.} Once inside, a quick flick of the dojo light switches illuminating the gory scene. Charlie's body lay disemboweled on the plastic protecting the wood floor, laid out like a banquet. The black man's face betrayed the agony of the experience, even as the bruises and cuts betrayed the hopeless struggle given by the forty-seven year old. MacLeod winced, knowing the mortal died without understanding the reasons. Died because of him. {I should have let you make that choice, Charlie. Then you could have said 'no'. Stayed where you were needed. You gave up your questions for my friendship. And it cost you your life. Not a fair trade. Damn it, Charlie, why the hell did you come back?}
(I want you to tell me... before... I... die,... MacLeod....)
Clamping down on all the emotions surging forth, he drew the katana from under his coat. Walking steadily to the freight elevator at the other end, he closed the gate and turned the key, rising to his apartment. He lacked reason to be silent, the betraying buzz alerting the other Immortal to his presence. Pierre had been kind enough to rearrange the furniture, leaving a wide, clear area in the middle. The middle-aged Frenchman calmly waited, sipping something from Duncan's own stock of wines.
"Making yourself at home?" Duncan asked, after he had opened the gate. Struggling out of his trench coat, he slung it to the side, hearing it land on the kitchen floor. He readily moved into a defensive position, eager to begin.
The other slowly finished his wine, setting the glass on the metal shelves. "Oh, I thought we could talk about old times. Like how you and your kinsman double teamed Slan? Do you care so little for the Rules, MacLeod?" He too drew his cutlass, swiping at the air. In his somewhat baggy pants and flowing white shirt, he looked the pirate captain he had been many centuries ago.
Realizing and accepting the morsel of truth in his accusations, twisted to further unbalance him, MacLeod slowly approached. DuBoise was doing everything possible to divert him with anger, doubt, and loss. {Definitely a student of Quince.} Connor had told Duncan of the sadistic games Slan played with his Immortal victims, destroying their lives before taking their heads. Like Connor's friend Hollie. Connor had tracked him down, catching up with the evil madman as he began tormenting Duncan. They had always been quite a pair, the MacLeod duo. {And now there are three of us. We must give other Immortals fits!} With that thought, Duncan shoved everything aside; emotions, logic, memories. Making room for the intense concentration needed to win. With a clang and sparks, the battle began.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"There can be only one." Duncan had said those words a little more savagely than usual, letting the anger and emotions finally wash over him. The tears from his eyes were partly from the agony of DuBoise's Quickening, but mostly for Amanda and Charlie. It was a long time before he noticed Dawson standing across the room, ready with a glass of alcohol. Duncan cared little about what it was, as long as it numbed the pain. Always the pain....
} } } } } } } } } } } } } } }
Dawson had brought him to the wilderness to heal, along with Amanda's body. They buried her up here, within sight of the cabin, the best view in all the Northwest. Dawson had stayed a year with Duncan, doing what he could. It was the first time the Immortal had let anyone else help him bear the depression and loneliness of a lover's death. But time did not stop for the Watcher, and a year was as much time as he had to spare. He left, sad at the state Duncan had settled into; not quite living, not quite dead.
Connor had come also, as expected. They argued as always, and Connor left angry as usual. Richie just stayed away. {Too busy? Respecting my needs? Who knows? He finally showed up, though.} And what only brought anger for his teacher, and resentment for his mortal friend, tugged a secret place when his student had asked. {Richie was right, I can't ignore it. Especially when he needs my help.} No matter the consequences, Duncan MacLeod would do almost anything for the young man he had taken in. Richie would get into trouble, and Duncan would put his life on the line to save his young butt. Even when it meant hurting him. {Sending you away was the only thing I could do, and it devastated me. I prayed every day for you.} Anger, love, need, hope; all mingled together into a swirl called 'Richie Ryan'. {MacLeod. Richard Ryan MacLeod. Why did you have to come here? Why did you have to need me?}
It was dark when the lone man finally stood, stretching the tired legs, wiping the dirt from his jeans. There was no problem finding his way to the empty cabin, no difficulty packing his meager belongings and sword into a worn duffel bag. {I can be at the Outpost by dawn. Finding Richie shouldn't be too much trouble.} Firmly shutting the door, the man walked away. From the cabin, the silence, and the grief.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The taxi settled to the brick paved street, the passenger door rising. Handing the driver several bills, Duncan turned and faced the store, a familiar facade bearing the words "MacLeod's - Northwest." A far cry from when it simply said "Antiques." The taxi whisked off as the Immortal remembered a time long ago, with a French woman named Tessa, and toward the end, a street thief named Richie. A happy time, until...
{No use thinking about the past. I don't understand why Richie bought this place, but he did.}
The bell peeled as Duncan entered through the front wooden door, duffel bag on his shoulder. Inside was virtually the same. The stairs, the walkway, the split levels. The items were different, and never had Gregor Powers' work been displayed. {If it worked in New York...}
A middle-aged man entered from the office area, momentarily taken aback when he saw his customer. Quickly rushing to welcome him after a double take, the gentleman almost tripped on the two steps. Duncan smirked, trying to place the face. Nothing came as the Immortal spoke. "Hello... I'm looking for the owner."
The gentleman stopped, thrusting his hand out to shake the Highlander's. "Richie?" he asked. "He rarely shows up here, sir." The voice even sounded familiar, and Duncan had the odd feeling this man knew him. All about him.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Have we met?" Duncan inquired, releasing the grip.
"I guess you wouldn't recognize me. I'm Jonathan Davis." The wide grin clicked something into place in Duncan's mind, putting the face, name and voice together.
"You're David and Angela's son," Duncan remarked, his mind going into overdrive. "My father spoke often about your parents. You did look familiar, but I couldn't place it. You're not quite the ten year old in the picture my father has." Duncan hoped this man would buy that story, and not place him as little Johnny's second favorite babysitter. {A baby sitter that hasn't aged in twenty years.} That can of worms he wasn't ready to open just yet.
The man shyly grinned. "Come on, Uncle Mac. I really don't want to play that game anymore." Gesturing to the office, he escorted Duncan to a chair, and poured a cup of tea for him, settling behind the desk with his own cup. "So you're hunting Richie. Because of his visit the other day?"
Duncan finished a sip of tea before replying, gathering his thoughts. "Yes. Do you know where I can track him down? Seems he forgot to leave his business card when he dropped by."
Johnny Davis set down his cup, turning serious. "He said he was going to be in SanFran. At the Camelot offices. He didn't say how long. And he wasn't very happy." The proper gentleman shot Duncan a look of dread, obviously not enjoying the experience.
"I know. Richie can be insufferable when he doesn't get his way. Could I possibly borrow your phone?" Duncan asked, leaning forward in the chair. "I need to make arrangements about my finances. Hell, I don't know if I even have any finances. Are you in a position to lend me some money?"
"I know for a fact you still own the building across town. Max manages it and runs the dojo, when he's not studying. It's a safe bet you've got money, if the salary he's paying himself is any indication." Johnny laughed at the sight he mentally conjured.
Duncan tried to picture a person he never knew running the dojo. "Little Maxey. What's he studying?"
"Political science," Johnny answered. "And I wouldn't call him 'little' or 'Maxey' to his face. He's turned into a tank. I'll bet he could give you a run for your money. Then again, you look as thin as a match. Pardon me for saying, but wilderness living certainly hasn't been to good for you."
"Don't knock it. I can still whoop you," Duncan joked, uncomfortable at how close to the truth the man really was. "I'll give *Max* a call after I get back in shape. Now about a phone..."
Johnny waved to the vidphone on the desk. "Do you want me to punch up Camelot, and let Richie know you're coming?" He got up, motioning for Duncan to take his seat.
Duncan came around the desk and sat, talking as he punched in numbers. "No. I want to surprise him. But you could book me on a flight down there."
Johnny opened the hidden door leading to the workshop/living areas. "I'll get on it." He stopped and turned, adding an afterthought. "Everyone's been worried about you."
"I know..." Duncan began, but the conversation was cut short as a pudgy faced man appeared on the vidphone screen. Johnny shut the door, leaving Duncan privacy for his arrangements.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Any luck on a flight?" Duncan asked as he entered the empty workshop area. At one time, it was filled with metal and sounds of sweaty work, but Tessa was dead and so was her art. On occasion Richie had worked on the bikes in here, more metal and sweat, but that was quickly over, Duncan becoming an old friend, no longer an intimate one. He had spent more time with the young man in a year and a half here, then in the following thirty. {I guess I can understand why he wants the place. It was one of the few real homes he's known.}
Johnny broke the train of memories, indicating a tarp-covered object in the corner. "I had a better idea. Help me with the tarp." With a *fumph* of heavy cloth, a black Thunderbird convertible was revealed, roof down, shining in the work lights like new. Duncan smiled as he ran his hand down the side, marveling at its presence. "I thought someone would have gotten rid of it by now," Duncan commented. He looked at the pleased mortal. "I bought this when it rolled out of the factory, back in '65."
"It's charged up," Johnny said, throwing the keys to Duncan, before leaning over and punching a few buttons on the dash. A monitor, something new, lit up, satellite maps flashing faster than Duncan could focus on. "Camelot's been downloaded into navcom, and she should get you to SanFran by dusk," he added, patting the vinyl dash.
Duncan looked at his pocket watch. "In five hours?" he asked, confused. {That's about 160 miles an hour!}
"We had her hover-converted about three years ago," Johnny replied, punching a few more buttons. Several digital gauges lit up. "Drive her like normal in the city, and when you get near the highway, the auto pilot will take over. Just make sure your belts are fastened and you're comfortable. This old girl will handle everything else. If I know her, she'll set you down in front of the Camelot offices in time for a marvelous sunset."
"You're in a big hurry to get rid of me," Duncan joked, throwing the duffel bag in the back seat. He sat behind the wheel, resetting all the mirrors.
Johnny shut the driver's door and leaned on it. "If Richie found out I held you up, he'd take more than my head. Godspeed, Uncle Mac," he said, holding his hand out again.
Duncan firmly clasped it as he bid the gentleman goodbye. "Take care, Johnny. I hope I see you again." With a gentle push on the accelerator, the car sped through the open double doors to the alley, the car humming pleasantly at the exertion. A few more turns, and he was heading south, out of the city. He was surprised when the roof slid into place unexpectedly, warning him something was happening. The Highlander managed to get the belts on when the auto pilot took over, the car quickly rising into a flying lane of traffic, accelerating to a blinding 150 on the renumbered speedometer. {Hmm. I wonder what else has changed?}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It was near dark as the car settled in the parking lot. Camelot's presence in SanFran was a Victorian house set on a cliff by the sea, a splendid view to see the sunset. On landing, most of the electronics shut down, plunging the Highlander into darkness. He glanced up the path to the house, lights blazing from most of the windows. Darkness never stopped Camelot, only people. Evil people.
Duncan opened the front door, looking lost. With his duffel bag over one shoulder, unkept beard, and ragged clothing, he seemed a homeless vagrant. The pleasant seeming woman at the desk greeted him, vocally neutral. {But her eyes say everything. She wonders what I want.} He kept his gaze on her eyes, not wandering. Angie had warned all the MacLeod men to stay away from the secretaries. On pain of death. Or worse.
"May I help you, sir?" she asked, sounding just a tad like a mechanical recording.
Duncan flashed her his most electrifying grin. "I was wondering if I could speak to Richie MacLeod." {Angie didn't mention anything about hitting on cold, dead fish.}
"Senior or Junior?" she quickly asked, still on automatic. Duncan looked carefully to see if she was even breathing. Or blinking her eyes.
{Now that's a question. Let's see, if he's here, he'd be playing the young son. Unless everyone at Camelot knows about Immortals. He didn't mention any more kids, so....} "Junior, please."
"May I have a retinal scan, sir?" she asked, motioning to a microscope type object mounted on the end of her desk. Duncan looked at it warily until she instructed him on what to do. A flash of laser light later, he waited as she examined her computer monitor. Within seconds she turned to him, confused. "Have you had any dealing with Camelot Industries before, sir?"
"Not in several decades, miss," he replied, trying hard not to rub his eye. {At least she's human.}
"Could I have your name, please?" With a deft movement, she pulled her keyboard into place.
"Duncan MacLeod." The duffel bag was getting heavy, his eye still hurt, and the first gorgeous woman he had seen in twenty years was strictly off limits. {I'm liking the cabin more and more.}
*Clack-Clack* went the keys. Her eyes grew wide at the response the monitor coughed up. She pressed a button on the vidphone, asking someone to come to the desk. A smartly dressed man, no more than thirty, appeared through a door, moving next to the receptionist. He quickly read the screen and asked, "You claim to be Duncan MacLeod?"
Slightly irritated, Duncan weakly smiled. "That's what I said. Is there a problem?" Two decades ago, Duncan would have seen it coming, dropping to the floor and drawing his hidden katana in one graceful move. But twenty years of solitude dulled his reactions. He stood there as the gentleman drew a gun and shot him several times in the chest. Falling back, he heard the secretary scream, and then all went black.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
For some reason, Duncan never woke from the dead slowly. It was always a gasp for air, and muscle spasms, arching his body. This time was no different. Harsh lights blinded him momentarily as he sat up on the cold examination table. {Great. A medical lab. At least they hadn't started on an autopsy yet.} He was alone, and still dressed. A quick look confirmed he had been shot three times, twice in the heart. A hurried search reveled his duffel bag in the corner, opened but apparently untouched. This time he did manage to roll to the floor and grab his sword as the door opened. The same gentleman who shot him stopped with a start, holding his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender.
"I'm sorry about that, Mr. MacLeod, but we lacked any other way to confirm your identity." The look of astonishment told Duncan the man didn't know about Immortals. And probably didn't expect him to return from the dead.
"I want to... see Richie," Duncan labored to say. The acrobatics had sent fresh waves of pain to his rapidly healing chest. Pain was something Duncan accepted during his life and death struggles, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. {There's not much about all this immortality crap I do enjoy.}
"He's not here. He flew on to Florida early this morning." He slowly lowered his hands, relieved that Duncan didn't make another aggressive move. The door silently shut as he walked fully into the room.
Duncan used the table as a brace as he struggled to stand, his katana falling to his side. "So what do we do, now, whoever you are?"
"Terribly sorry, I'm Nigel Banes, General Manager here in SanFran." He rushed over to the table to help. "We have prior instructions to assist you in any way we can, then send you on to Florida. Shall I call and tell him you're coming?"
Duncan managed to straighten up with only a small grunt. "Does he know I'm here?" he asked, reaching toward the duffel bag. Nigel beat him to it, slinging it over his own shoulder.
"Not yet. I didn't want to do anything until we positively identified you. I didn't relish the thought of telling him I had killed you, either." They slowly walked to the door, Nigel guiding the quickly recovering Immortal down several hallways.
"Then don't. I want to surprise him." Duncan stopped walking when Nigel indicated a door at the end of a short hall. He opened it, revealing a small apartment, more like a hotel room. It was comfortable, windowless, and decorated to suit Duncan's tastes. "Mine?" he asked, examining the plate on the door bearing his name.
Nigel nodded. "You have accommodations at all Camelot offices. We have others for Connor, Greg Powers, Richie, and Joe Dawson. Plus two guests suites everyone else uses." He indicated the closet door. "We have clothing and necessities stocked for you. If they don't fit, or are unacceptable, we can get others. Call me when you're ready to leave. The phone goes to Susan, who will patch it to me wherever I am," he added, pointing at the vidphone on the dresser.
"A nap would be nice," Duncan said, eying the bed. "I've been going since... yesterday morning." {Since Richie walked into my life again.} He didn't remember undressing, nor showering and shaving off his beard, or even crawling into bed. He awoke sometime later, a few hours of sleep restoring some energy. {I can sleep some more on the flight to Florida...} Selecting a purple silk shirt and black slacks, he got dressed. A punch of the intercom button brought the receptionist to the screen, and in moments, Nigel was connected. "I'm ready."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A normal seeming airplane took Duncan from SanFran to LA, depositing him at one end of LAX. He was surprised to see a page holding a sign with his name on it. Apparently Camelot could pull a lot of strings, including a private car to ferry him to the cross-continental flight. The connections were close, but with the car, Duncan made it to the gate with time to spare, enough to grab some supper.
"Sub-Orbital Flight 225, to Tampa, Florida now boarding."
Duncan settled into his first class seat, duffel bag stowed above his head. Declining any food or drink from the waitress, he settled into a relaxed position, dozing even before the plane took off. He had set his watch ahead from midnight to three, marveling that the flight would only last three hours, depositing him in Florida at dawn. Nigel promised someone would meet him at the gate there. With everything taken care of, Duncan slept, and dreamed of secretaries, Amanda, and white castles.
He could have sworn for a moment a buzz awoke him, but closer reflection pointed to his bladder. Checking his watch, he saw he had slept two hours. Stretching up out of his seat, he walked through the plane to the back bathrooms. Once his bladder was happy, he opened the door, ready to step out. At that moment, turbulence jostled the plane, sending a raven haired beauty tumbling into his arms, both crashing to the other side of the small compartment. With a slam, the bathroom door shut, then the plane righted itself, but the two in the bathroom still clutched tightly to each other.
Dark eyes matching the dark hair looked into his. "Oh, I'm so sorry," the mysterious woman breathed. Ruby red lips moved in sync with the words, grasping Duncan's attention. Unnaturally red lips. His head swam, her face going in and out of focus.
"Not a problem," he stammered, well aware of the soft, feminine body he was holding, pressing against his. The fragrance of her hair. The sound of her husky breathing. Parts of his anatomy took things into their own hands as he gazed at her face. She in turn was running her hands over his torso. Duncan went on autopilot as they mashed their lips together, the click of the lock resounding in the small compartment.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Duncan awoke from his seat, wondering if it had all been a dream. The empty condom wrapper in his pocket proved it wasn't. Not wanting to seem overly excited, he mindlessly thumbed through the channels on the screen mounted on the seat in front of him. Most of the movies were ending, so he settled for the first news channel he reached.
"Repeating this morning's top story...Richard MacLeod, founder and head of the international Camelot Industries, died early yesterday evening when his private shuttle, the COPERNICUS, ignited and exploded seconds after liftoff at Camelot's Florida Center. He was fifty years old..."
Duncan intently watched the video playback, the boxy shuttle Duncan had seen designs for lifting from the ground, blinding light at the rear. It cleared the runway and begun its climb when a smaller flame was evident near the passenger compartment. The shuttle had just flown out over the ocean when a massive explosion occurred, sending large, flaming pieces scattering through the air, falling slowly to the murky water.
"...Senior spokesperson, Joseph Dawson, held a brief news conference at three eastern time this morning..."
Duncan could hardly believe his eyes. {Dawson looks so old. And haggard.} The Watcher's hair had turned stark white, age lines covering his face. Duncan quickly added up the years. {He's past seventy!} It was evident by the press corps that they had tremendous respect for him, quieting to silence as he reached the podium.
"Good morning. Computer telemetry indicates the possibility of a ruptured O-ring, the same situation causing the CHALLENGER incident in the late 1980's. Without more conclusive information, we are classifying this as an accident. Also on board, besides Mr. MacLeod, were Connor MacLeod, his nephew and senior aide, and Fitz Donnelly, Security Director for Camelot Industries. We believe all to have perished. More information will be forthcoming later this morning, and I will answer any of your questions at that time. Please make a note that this in no way affects Camelot's day-to-day operations, and that the Board of Directors will meet as soon as humanly possible to resolve the vacuum this tragedy has created. Thank you."
Not a word was uttered by the mass of people in the room as Dawson hobbled to the door. A few pictures were snapped, and coverage was again taken over by the man at the desk Duncan tuned out momentarily, his mind racing over the possibilities. {Real? Or a setup? Are things getting that bad?}
"...is survived by two sons, Jeremiah Russell, and Richard MacLeod, Jr. His eldest son and daughter-in-law, Ryan MacLeod and Grace Pontand-MacLeod, were tragically killed two years ago in a terrorist attack at the Camelot Science Foundation, located in the Andes. In other news, the UEO plans to announce the..."
*CLICK*
The flight attendant efficiently turned off the screen, informing Duncan of their imminent landing, as well as assisting him in returning his tray to the upright position. Smiling his thanks, he fastened his shoulder belts, thoughts turning mysteriously to his bathroom encounter. Once the flight landed, he waited where he sat until all the passengers had debarked, hoping to catch her as she passed. He never saw her, nor was she still seated behind him. It was then he noticed he could barely recall her face, just her eyes and lips. Something told him she looked vaguely like Amanda or Felicia Martins, but that was all he could remember. With a shrug, he grabbed his duffel bag and left the plane, exchanging a 'Thank you' with the attendant at the door.
The noise in the terminal was deafening, even at this early hour. The mass of people almost frightened the Immortal, so used to solitude and quiet. At every turn, someone bumped into him, scurried around him. He stood near the gate, waiting for the throng to subside. Everyone seemed to have ten people here to greet them, and none felt any hurry to leave the waiting area. In a few minutes he noticed a small redhead, waiting patiently by the check-in counter. He only saw her from the neck up, she was so short, constantly scanning the crowd leaving the area. He could just imagine her on her toes, vainly trying to find her long lost love. She was strangely fascinating, not gorgeous, but striking. And serious. {A nice change now that the mystery woman has got me so worked up.}
As the crowd thinned, he noticed she was holding a sign. {Enough of an excuse to see if she's free for dinner...} Pressing through, careful not to bump anyone with his duffel bag and concealed sword, he made his way to her. Ironically, the sign read 'Duncan MacLeod'. {Just my luck... I hope she's not a secretary!} "I'm Duncan MacLeod..." he started, screwing his face into a smile, small muscles complaining at the sudden use.
He never got to finish his sentence. A curt nod acknowledging his words, a quick turn, and off into the crowd she went, not checking to see if he followed. Slugging the duffel bag higher, he shrugged and tried to keep up with her, weaving in and out of the mass of people. {Definitely serious. Ice Princess.} He pressed forward, managing to reach her side and stay there. "And you are...?"
"Your guide," the Snow Queen replied.
They walked passed a glassed area, revealing a huge lot of cars under the slowly dawning sky. Something nagged at Duncan as they turned the opposite direction, heading instead to a service door, opening into a dimly lit hallway. Farther into the bowels of the airport they went, each step sounding like a deep bell tolling. They started down a flight of stairs, utilitarian, not meant for the average traveler, but for workers. Duncan was content to let the woman lead, mentally preparing himself for the ambush. Once more in a deserted hallway, he managed to get his bag partially open without a sound, but the act of pulling the sword out unbalanced his steps. She had turned, neatly kicking his hand as the sword cleared the bag. He managed to hold on, but her return kick dislodged it from his grasp, sending it skittering up the hall. Giving up on the blade, he managed to block most of her other attacks, a duck taking care of one. {She's darn good at this.}
The Immortal held his own, unfamiliar with her blend of styles. It was heavily oriented toward footwork, something he always had minor difficulty countering. Her gymnastic ability didn't help matters, more developed than his. Duncan found himself being slowly driven down the hall, giving ground to avoid several surprising moves. He turned down a side passage, almost enjoying the exertion, as the buzz hit him. {Damn it, it was a trap!} Desperate, he moved into a throw that was ungentlemanly and usually not used on a lady. Duncan had lost all hesitation centuries ago, overriding embarrassment with the need for survival. She didn't land far enough away, her legs kicking out, sending him to the floor as well. Intent on breaking the fall, he never heard a door swing open, only heard the deliberate footfalls as they approached. The dim light was blocked by a face looking down, framed by wild, unkept hair, the smell of a pipe overpowering. {Well, at least they sent the head of Camelot Security to protect me!}
"Now is that anyway to greet a dear, old friend, Duncan?" the voice asked, tinged with an English accent. The smell and sound of Hugh Fitzcairn surrounded Duncan, all the sudden tension fading from his body. He held up his hand at the shadowed figure, waiting for help up. Fitz shrugged, pulling the smiling Immortal to his feet. Duncan was ready to grasp the man in a hug, but the usually cheery Englishman didn't have the air of joviality about him. Instead they kept their hands clasped a little longer, silently saying hello. Fitz spoke first, indicating Duncan's opponent. "Duncan MacLeod, may I present Gillian Fenmore."
The Ice Princess didn't return Duncan's smile, but she did let him raise her hand to his lips, brushing the back ever so slightly, before releasing it. Not yet giving up on her, he turned and walked down the hall, going to retrieve his sword and bag. From behind, he could faintly hear Fitz, "That's Mac."
Once they were together, Gillian led the way down more stairs, finally arriving at a room resembling a small subway station. A teardrop shape car rested on tracks, its door pulled aside. Fitz led Duncan into the compartment as Gillian brought up the rear, securing the door. In seconds, the car shot into the tube, Duncan and Fitz settling into seats at the rear, giving both a good look of Gillian as she took a seat in the front. Duncan admired the view as she leaned over, examining a monitor next to the seating. He turned back to Fitz, noticing the other was still looking at the woman, face betraying his feelings. {He's in love with her. Don Juan loses his heart to an ice cube. Great!} He didn't say anything, content to look on his oldest friend, a man who shared a very special time with the Highlander. {Oh, Fitz...}
{ { { { { { { { { { { { { {
He was standing by a black charger, Fitz remaining astride a dappled gray. "Go on," the Englishman said, nodding his head toward the castle. "I'll wait for ye. But just a fare-thee-well kiss, my friend. The Prince's men won't give us much longer. Especially here." They were dressed in a style not worn during Duncan's long lifetime. {Maybe middle ages? A prince? What is going on?}
Duncan found himself running across the drawbridge, heading for the inner gate. His heart jumped at sight of a woman, running across the courtyard toward him. {Rebecca?} It was Amanda's fiery haired teacher, flying toward him, skirts in hand. They met, passion igniting as they embraced. "Gwen..." he began, his mouth working from an unseen script.
"Hush," she said, laying her exquisite finger against his lips. "We swore not to use those names anymore. The memories..." And again they embraced. He was thoroughly occupied when the other Immortal came at a run, the betraying buzz signaling the arrival. Amanda almost knocked him over, Rebecca wisely releasing him. Once more, a lovely female Immortal did her best to suck out his tongue, an unacknowledged restraint keeping them from ripping off their clothes. The clearing of a throat broke the spell, Duncan turning to see Fitz slumping in his saddle, holding the reins of the black, impatiently waiting.
"I must away, my dears. It's not wise for us to be caught on the wrong side of the Channel," Duncan's voice exclaimed as he jumped into the saddle, the men turning their horses and spurring them into action. Across the moat the two sped, flying like the wind through the forest. Duncan turned to look at his friend as they raced down the road, again chased by soldiers. Laughing, Fitzcairn looked at him, mouthing his name. It was confusing, not what the Highlander expected. {He said...}
} } } } } } } } } } } } } }
"...Duncan." Fitz was gently shaking him, snapping him from his revere. It took a moment for the memory to fade, the name sticking to the tip of Duncan's tongue. Gillian was still absorbed by her terminal, the car speeding through the dark tunnel. {He said...Richard.}
"How well did you know Richard the Lionheart?" Duncan surprisingly asked. By his reaction Fitz was surprised as well. A guarded look appeared in his eyes as he took a puff of his pipe.
"Somewhat. I met him once or twice."
"You were good friends," Duncan retorted, not letting Fitz off the hook.
"...Yes." Another puff. "And I will not discuss him with you."
"He thought the world of you," Duncan said with a sigh, leaning back into the upholstery. {Like I do, you old windbag!}
"And how would you know?" The wild hair and steely gaze made Fitzcairn the image of a lunatic. The pipe smoked forgotten in his hand, limp by his side. Duncan smiled and just pointed to his head, indicating his brain. Comprehension dawned. "Oh." The Englishman looked ahead in the dark, not even focusing on Gillian. Duncan still looked at him. Unnerved, Fitz swung his head around. "What?"
Duncan cocked his head. "Something is bothering you."
It was Fitz's turn to snort. He brought up his pipe again, mindless chewing on the stem. "Tell me something that's new." Bitterness tinged his voice.
"Talk to me. What's the matter?" Duncan pleaded.
"Oh, you're just dying to help an old friend, aren't you." The sarcasm was something Duncan had never heard from Fitzcairn. "I needed your help years ago, and you're off hiding your head in the sand. Just like you always do. And leave the rest of us to muddle through." His voice grew louder in the small confines of the car with each sentence. Duncan just sat there, wondering where this was coming from.
"Since when has twenty years made a difference between us...?" Duncan weakly began. Fitz savagely cut him off.
"It's the time of the Gathering, you idiot! The Game didn't waiting for you to come back, and neither did we. God, if you'd been around, we might not have lost Grace, or David..."
"Grace is dead?" Duncan asked, shocked. Fitz continued, ignoring him.
"...and we wouldn't have been blown up, dropped half a mile into the sea, and almost become shark bait. And now you decide to bless us with your presence. Well, forget it. You aren't the long lost son, and we're not feasting your return. You can just crawl back into the hole you came from and leave us the HELL ALONE!" He was yelling, drawing even Gillian from her work. She looked at him, showing neither pity or curiosity, just a level gaze.
Duncan didn't know what to say. He turned in his seat, looking away from the man next to him and concentrated on the walls outside as they flew past. {Just like the last twenty years.}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The car stopped in another room, one steel door leading away. As they exited, Duncan ventured a question. "Does everyone feel this way?" he asked, stopping Fitz from following Gillian. The Englishman looked as if he had a sharp answer on his tongue, but something gave, his eyes loosing their fire.
"I'm sorry Duncan. It's been a terrible few days, and you were easy to blame. You know you're always welcome at my fire..." Fitz swung his arms wide, an invitation. Duncan took it, moving into an embrace of old, close friends.
"It's fine. Everything you said is true. I let you down," Duncan was embarrassed to say, warm at the touch of another living being. {I've stayed away too long. Mourned too long. Like always.}
"No one could guess what the Gathering would be like. We all heard the words, knew the maxims, but... It's terrible, Duncan. Everywhere you turn, people are dying, mortal and Immortal. No place is safe, trust is gone. It's like we've all gone mad." Pent up emotions boiled forth, thoughts unvoiced until now. Fitz was shaking in Duncan's arms.
"And Grace?" Duncan quietly asked.
A soft sob escaped. "They... they were living in the Andes. At the Foundation. It was attacked by a band of Immortals. Two security people pulled him out of there. Grace was already dead, beheaded. Only the three survived..." Duncan could tell Fitz was reliving it all, painfully.
But he had to ask. "Him? They?"
Fitz froze. "You don't know... Grace and Richie were married about fifteen years ago. They raised Jeremiah together, until he ran off to Hawaii and joined the UEO. They weren't real thrilled, but he was of age, and they couldn't do a thing."
"UEO? That's twice I've heard the term. What is it?" Duncan felt like Rip Van Winkle, everything topsy-turvy. {Richie and Grace? Do I even want to know?}
Breaking the embrace, Fitz wiped his eyes with his coat sleeve. "I'm such a ninny. It stands for United Earth Oceans Organization. Sort of a world navy. Little Jerry just ran away from home and joined up, with some help from Connor." The memory brought a ghost of a smile to the Englishman's lips.
Duncan smiled also. "Just like his parents. Serves Richie right for having such head strong friends." {He took their loss pretty hard. So much death, we can't talk about anything else.}
"I never knew the Russells..." Fitz began, leading Duncan to the steel door. Gillian patiently waited like a guard, letting them pass through first as she brought up the rear. "But Richie thinks he's just like Marla, and Greg swears he has Steven's humor. So in a way, I guess I do know them."
Duncan leaned his head toward Fitz, pitching his voice low. "So what's the deal with Miss Frosty behind us. One of your security guards?" he asked as they walked down yet another hallway.
A turn in the corridor, and they were at a staffed desk guarding yet another metal door, another microscope looking device mounted to it. Fitz stuck his face to it first, waving Duncan to follow. As the ruby light invaded the Highlander's eye, Fitz spoke to the guard, "Warn them to have Johnny ready for uplift in ten." They walked through another door, Gillian giving more instructions to the guard herself. As they turned another corner, Fitz whispered back. "I'm supposed to be dead, Duncan. Gillian is now head of security and I'm just a crusty old bastard that won't go away."
Duncan mentally rubbed several sore spots. "She get's my vote. Worked me over pretty good." He didn't remember meeting such an aggressive woman since.... {Nefertiri. I wonder if Marcus is still alive?}
Fitz nudged him in the ribs. "That was nothing. She had orders to go easy on you." And off the two friends went, the Englishman giving Duncan the five minute tour. Stairs led to the lobby, a massive rotunda with a monstrous spinning globe hanging in the air, level with the second story balcony. Lights were dim, highlighting the revolving Earth. Their steps on the tile were absorbed in the cavernous room as Fitz guided Duncan across the way.
"Pretentious little bastards, aren't you?" Duncan commented, remembering this from the artists' renderings before... {Before Amanda died and I ran away.} They quickly moved down more halls, Fitz giving brief explanations as they passed glass windows. Two turns and a checkpoint later, they made their way into a hanger sized room, huge doors at the end.
In the center sat a small craft, no wheels or wings. The design looked vaguely familiar, a white curvy body resting on two pylons. Stenciled on the side were 'JONATHAN LIVINGSTON SEAGULL' and the stylized 'C' of Camelot Industries. {Where have I seen this before?} He stopped, trying to place the scampering memory.
Fitz stopped also, noticing the distracted look. "Our developing and engineering departments are big fans of 'Star Trek', and they get away with it anytime they can. Just another case of life imitating art." His palm print opened the side hatch as Gillian appeared from across the hanger. They entered, Fitz waving Duncan into a front seat. The Englishman sat in the other, pressing buttons, as Gillian sealed the door behind them. Duncan spent a few minutes struggling with the restraining belts, until he got a little help from his friend, locking them tight. Fitz keyed another button and spoke into the air. "Freedom Control, this is JLS-9 requesting uplift in sixty seconds. Destination is Freedom 9-0."
"SEAGULL, this is Freedom Control. You are cleared for 9-0, ETA thirty minutes. You want this manual or automatic, Hugh?" The female voice pleasantly echoed in the cabin from an unknown source. Duncan just sat and watched in wonder, marveling in the difference such a short time could make with the world.
Fitz spoke again. "Manual, Wendy. VIP on board, I may want to give him a spin around when I get up there..." Duncan was momentarily distracted as the large bay doors across the room began to pull apart. Past them, a short runway led toward the ocean, the similarity to the one from the news footage unsettling the centuries old Immortal.
The ghostly female voice giggled. "I'll clear traffic out for you. This wouldn't happen to be Richie's mysterious guest, would it?"
"What makes you think that? And wouldn't that be his secret to tell?" Fitz chided, another couple of buttons and the shuttle slowly rose in the air. With a faint hum, the SEAGULL crept out the hanger, slowly gaining speed and altitude.
"You know the only thing faster than a Wolenczak StarDrive is Camelot gossip. And Master MacLeod has clamped up tighter than... You are cleared for 9-0, Mr. Fitzcairn... He's pacing around up here like a trapped tiger. Don't spare the juice. I'll clear the halls by the time you dock. And, Hugh? We're all sorry about Donnelly. He was a good man."
"Thank you, Miss Mitchum. I read you loud and clear. ETA now twenty minutes. SEAGULL out." Fitz pulled the yoke as the shuttle gained speed, the runway and ocean disappearing from the windows, replaced by clear, blue sky. In moments, the color thinned, the blue turning royal, then black. And then somehow a turn, and the Earth loomed in the window, looking so small against the blackness.
When the shock and the sight wore off, Duncan asked, "Shouldn't we be floating, or something? And who is Donnelly? I thought you said that was you in the shuttle?" Too many questions, not enough answers that made sense. {I've been absent too long.}
Fitz still played with the controls as he replied. "Artificial gravity. How do you think flying cars were possible? We can keep gravity from affecting the shuttle even while we have internal gravity to keep us in our seats. Don't ask, 'cause I don't understand it myself. And I wouldn't ask anyone in the science division unless you've earned a physics degree. I tried once, and left with a headache and more questions. Donnelly was the name I was using when I played Security Chief. He 'died' in the explosion with Old Man MacLeod and Connor, so I had to switched hats. Now I'm just Hugh Fitzcairn, hotshot pilot. Anything else?"
Duncan was getting more concerned by the minute. "Since you asked, yes. Why did it look like your headquarters was virtually deserted? Or are those people just for show?" When Fitz started to answer, Gillian coughed from her seat.
"I don't think it would be wise to..." she began.
Fitz stopped playing with the controls, swiveling to stare levelly at the woman. "If you have a problem with Duncan, I suggest you take it up with Richie. Until he orders me to keep quiet, I'll tell this man anything I damn well please..."
Duncan reached over and placed his hand on Fitz's arm. "Fitz, it's fine. Things will keep. Right now I just want to get used to all of this." He gestured helplessly at all the technology.
"You're right," Fitz acknowledged, turning the chair forward. "It's just been Hell these past two days..." His voice faded into silence, his hands limp in his lap. Duncan was about to say more when a small alarm went off, the beeping silenced by Fitz's deft fingers. The Englishman brightened as he once again pressed buttons. "And now, for your viewing pleasure..."
Duncan turned to look out the front, barely making out the small spider web of silver against the black backdrop. Slowly the object grew closer, resolving into large compartments joined with gossamer threads. Three squat cylinders stood up and down, lined up in a row like ducks. From each, two cylinders sprouted right and left, three times the length of the center ones, like wings, all connected by girders and tubes. It was huge, each cylinder longer than a football field. Here and there, little gnats of metal scurried over the structure, moving something here and working there. Fitz deftly swung the craft sideways, giving Duncan a view from the side as they flew over the right cylinders. High atop the middle center cylinder, a row of windows stretched all the way around, people scurrying inside. {Was that a flash of red hair? Richie?} They completed their flyby and stopped ahead of the station, rotating until they faced it again. Duncan could make out the words 'Freedom' and 'Station' on the leading side cylinders, the center up and down one displaying numerous openings. Fitz headed toward one, '9-0' painted on the side, expertly maneuvering into the hole. The craft settled to the floor, the light blazing on the far wall disappearing as the bay door shut behind them. Duncan sat in amazement, his brain still trying to take it all in, the reality dwarfing the image he had made so long ago from drawings and plans. Plans laid out on a table like...
{ { { { { September, 2005 { { { { {
... blankets on the hillside. Duncan watched Angie, Grace, and Gregor unloading the baskets, the sounds of children coming from behind. He was tackled by two small masses, the bright faces of Johnny and Simon Davis crowded his face. "Come on, Uncle Mac. Play football with us! Please." He was about to reply when little Jeremiah piled on top, followed by the less than dainty Melinda Davis, knocking all the wind from his lungs. He submitted quickly, agreeing before the little ragamuffins could tickle him. They all tried to help him up, tangling up each other and him until they all fell down again. Fitz and Richie came over, both lifting a child in each arm, carrying them off to the pylon bounded football field. Connor and Amanda had already flipped the coin, Gregor being drafted to even up the teams. Joe Dawson limped out, handing the ball to Amanda before slipping a whistle around his neck, a shrill blow staring the organized mayhem. From the sidelines, Grace and the very pregnant Angela cheered both teams, switching sides on a whimsy, sitting among the picnic food, protecting it from player and ball alike.
The exertion, the children, the excitement reminded Duncan of a time long ago, a place where he still had a mother and father. A time before the curse of Immortality swallowed him whole. Any sadness he felt was swept away as Gregor blind sided him, the ball in his hand sliding away as they plowed into the grass. From under the lithe Immortal, the Highlander watched young Johnny capture the tumbling pigskin, running in the other direction, toward his goal. Amanda made a grab for the little scoundrel, failing as Connor swept her off her feet, carrying her off the field. The other way, Richie also lay on the ground, hand holding up his head, his other firmly clutched around the ankle of a squirming little lass, trying vainly to wiggle away. Johnny ran straight toward Fitz, passing the ball sideways to Jeremiah as he flung himself into the grownup's torso, barreling the Englishman over. That left Jerry alone with Simon as the two sprinted the final few yards to the goal. Even at five and seven, respectively, the two had become fast friends, competition submerged by companionship. It didn't matter where the tackle occurred, only that the two friends tumbled to the ground, rolling to a stop, the ball held high in one of their tiny little hands.
Richie jogged down the field, sweeping Jeremiah into the air, father and adopted son. Simon picked himself up, dusting the grass from his shorts as his father snuck up behind him from the parking lot, swinging him around in the air also. A call came from the blankets, sending the players scurrying toward the food. David and Richie walked slowly, conversing quietly and watching their sons scamper ahead of them. Melinda flew to them, screaming that she had felt her new little brother kicking. David picked her up, threatening to use her as a volleyball. She screamed even louder, begging to be tossed in the air.
Paper plates were filled, drink boxes handed around, and everyone sat and watched the NASA/Space Command complex stretched out in the distance. The tall, upright shuttle platform moved on giant treads, inching toward the launch tower. A check of the time showed only two hours until liftoff. One hundred, twenty minutes until Freedom was born. Everyone excitedly talked as they ate, letting David Davis update the situation at Mission Control for them. Duncan was surprised at how chummy Amanda and Angie were becoming. The plates were gathered and stowed as the final ten minutes counted down. The sun obliged by sinking below the horizon as the faintly heard countdown wafted toward the small hill. At zero, the shuttle belched fire, sending the first pieces of salvation skyward. The first components of Freedom Station. But the true moment, as always, was elsewhere.
On the hillside, the oranges, reds, and purples of sunset behind them, a small group of people stood, watching the fiery liftoff. Immortal, mortal, young, old, pregnant, crippled, each a part of a larger whole, each a player in this hand of the Game. Watching as their future was born. Connor with Melinda on his shoulders, Jeremiah wiggling in Richie's grasp, Gregor bending down to Simon's level, Amanda enveloped by Duncan's arms, Angie and David quietly holding hands, Dawson and Fitz and little Johnny. Camelot of old wasn't about castles, or glory, or even the eternal fight between good and evil. It was about people, striving together toward a common goal, the struggle to raise humanity to a higher place. Arthur's Camelot had failed. Richie's Camelot soared. The future king had rightfully claimed his throne.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHOICES
by Kevin H. Robnett
Part 2 ---------- The Long, Dark Night
"Supplemental entry, September 22, 2025, Richie MacLeod. Forty minutes ago we lost our communications link with the Mars Orbital Satellite. Nothing we didn't plan for, but with yesterday's supposed shuttle accident, I'm worried. Yes, they can take care of themselves, and even now we're trying to get a signal to the PROMETHEUS, but still I worry. My son is out there, where I cannot protect him. Word that Mac just docked doesn't help a bit, either. I'm getting exactly what I want from him..., but why am I so scared? End entry."
Richard Ryan MacLeod sat at an abandoned terminal, wearing a neatly starched maroon jumpsuit, watching the frenzy of activity around him. The circular room housed several such terminals, the large, clear windows broken only by the one main viewscreen. Now it showed static, where as moments before it was filled with the face of his son as he calmly read status reports of the Mars mission. {My son! The life given to my care, the life that may no longer exist. I'm sorry, Marla....Steven.... I'm so sorry!} The sound of white noise still filled the room, people clustered around the communications technicians, offering advice and experience. Richie just sat and watched, useless. The static sounded so very much like the sea...
{ { { { { July, 2023 { { { { {
...as it crashed on the black rocks of Hawaii. Richie walked with the other people as they entered the UEO Navel Yard at Pearl Harbor. Today was a special day, the end of the SeaQuest's sixth tour. Even now, the submarine... {Deep Submergence Vehicle, idiot! Jerry will roast me alive if I call it a submarine again.} ...vehicle was speeding toward port, ready to disembark her crew. Richie didn't think Jeremiah knew he was coming, the invitation passed on by Connor. {Connor the peace keeper. It tears him up that we're so antagonistic to each other, especially when he and Augie are caught in the middle.} Richie imagined what two years under the ocean had done to his son. Adopted son. The son of friends who died the same night Jeremiah Russell was born into this world. {I hope he knows how proud they would be. How proud I am. Maybe things will be different this time. Just don't treat him like a kid. He's twenty-three, and a man. Remember how you felt when you were twenty, and Duncan...}
The sound of the band blared into the air, the long, flowing shape surfacing to rest on the clear, blue water. A gangway mechanically moved to a hatch, the crowd cheering and band playing. To waving flags and thrown confetti, the crew came ashore, grins and laughter at meeting family and friends. Several men Richie momentarily mistook for Jeremiah, everyone in matching tan outfits and most wearing short, dark hair. {It's amazing how much like a Navy man he turned out, like he was born for it. Steven's dark hair and muscled build, mixed with Marla's attitude down to his toes!} And then he was there, at the hatch, not bothering to scan the crowd as he walked up the ramp. Richie moved to intercept him as the young man pushed through the crowd. The redhead got behind his son, stabbing one finger into his back. "Don't lose your head..." he joked, ready for anything Jeremiah tried. His son turned, a fleeting emotion crossing his eyes, then nothing.
"Hi, Dad... Didn't expect you."
Richie was taken aback. He could have faced anger, hate, joy, anything but the nothing Jerry threw up. His hand dropped to his side as he thought of something to say. "Well, surprise. How long will you be topside this time?"
Something akin to guilt reflected from Jerry's hazel eyes. He dropped his duffel bag to the ground, ducking his head. "I guess I need to talk to you about that." The soft voice didn't sound like the usual baritone Richie expected. "How about we take a walk on the beach..."
An older black man bumped into the pair, hastily apologizing. Jeremiah stiffened as the gentleman held out his hand. "Lieutenant Russell, I forgot to give you my congratulations," he said as Jerry shook it. "And I wanted to add how much a pleasure it has been to serve with you. I'm sorry to see you go."
"Thank you, sir," Jerry said, his voice more the normal pitch. "The pleasure was all mine." He indicated Richie to the gentleman, "I'd like to introduce you to my... ah, brother. Captain Jonathan Ford, Richie MacLeod." The black man vigorously shook Richie's proffered hand.
"Have we met before?" Captain Ford asked, analyzing Richie's face. Jeremiah's eyes widened behind the Captain's back. His mouth opened and shut as he tried think of a way to divert the possibly disastrous situation. The Captain had met his father before, a long time ago. A very *long* time ago.
"I don't think so, sir," Richie replied, trying to think like a twenty year old. {And me near fifty!} He also remembered meeting Captain Ford, when Camelot was recruiting for the Freedom Project. The military was the first logical choice, and they had met the cream of the crops. "You may be thinking of my father, sir. Richard MacLeod, Sr. Everyone says I'm the spitting image of him."
Satisfactorily answered, Ford's eyes returned to their pleasant state. "That's right. About fifteen years ago. I'm a big fan of his work. And what he's managed to do for the planet... even if it was in outer space." With an exchange of goodbyes, the Captain left, leaving father and son alone again. In minutes they were along the shore, Richie rolling up his slacks, Jerry leaving his coat and pants with his bag, walking in white shorts and T-shirt.
Jerry kicked the sand, collecting his thoughts. "I don't know how to tell you... I've joined the crew the PROMETHEUS. Uncle Greg's taken me on as second officer, and Aunt Angie's signed off on it. I'm going. And there's nothing you can do to stop me." In that moment all the hesitation, the uncertainty, the rebelliousness Jerry had always displayed with his father vanished, replaced by a calm peace and strength, daring the Immortal to say no.
{My son has become a man. And just the other day he was five, begging to ride on my shoulders. Where did my little boy go?} They walked in silence as the waves rolled up the sand, wetting the feet of the two. "A long time ago, I asked your namesake if I yelled, would he stay. He went. So will you. Why would I want to stop you?" Richie had stopped and turned, gazing up into his son's face.
Jerry still couldn't look at him. "I'm not going to die," he assured his father, knowing the story and the results. He waited, not knowing what else to say.
"Of course you are. We all are." Richie took a deep breath, trying to be the father he thought he should be. "Your life is your's to live. Go live it. Explore the galaxy, travel to the bottom of the ocean, find your path. Don't worry about pleasing me. Just be happy. Nothing else matters."
A small voice came from the seaman. "You matter, Dad. And I am happy. I just... I hope I have your blessing..." He finally faced his father, looking down into the eyes that never changed, the face that never grew older.
"You have it always, my son," Richie replied, wanting so badly to open his arms and embrace his child. But decorum still ruled, and instead Richie turned and started walking again, leaving the young man to look at the ocean, the reunion over. The Immortal never looked back as his son stripped off his shirt, taking one last swim in the ocean he loved so much, the gulls crying as the waves crashed, the shock of the cold water as it washed over Richie's feet...
} } } } } } } } } }
...jerking him awake. Fred Cummings yelled at him again from across the room, "We're getting a carrier wave!!". Richie jumped up and ran over to the console, ignoring the twin buzzes that approached. Elbowing several people in his haste, he planted himself over the monitor, wishing desire alone could span the distance.
"Anything, Freddie?" he asked breathlessly, willing himself not to punch buttons also. The blond haired man in the chair slowly shook his head, handing the Immortal a spare headset.
"All we're getting is a positive diagnostic from the orbital relay satellite, Rich. Nothing from the PROMETHEUS. Either their internal com is down, their antenna could be damaged, or no one is alive to re..." Richie didn't let the man finish before he grabbed him by the jumpsuit and pulled him to his feet. Hate flashed across his face, his right hand moving instinctively for a nonexistent sword. It took a moment for the technician's fear to penetrate the Immortal's anger filled brain, Richie's eyes clearing as if another person looked out of them. The pain drained from his face, the clenched hand loosening. Richie quietly offered at word of apology, turning away from the crowd as Freddie regained his seat. Alone, he walked to a window, resting his arm and head against the cold glass, crying.
Fitz left Duncan in an empty seat, moving around the room to Richie. Gently placing his hand on the sobbing Immortal's shoulder, he softly asked, "I take it things aren't getting any better?"
Richie took a moment, feeding off the Englishman's sympathetic touch, before turning and wiping his face. "We... We just lost contact with Mars. Add the shuttle explosion, and President Robinson's assassination, now this... I'm scared."
"What? The mighty King Richie is..."
"Stop it, Fitz. I'm not joking." Richie looked up at him, anger again in his eyes. "They all can't be accidents. Not in so short a time span."
Fitz watched the stars go by as the station rotated, a glowing crown above the red hair. "You know they're not accidents. Something's been going on since you found that Watcher, dead on your floor. You just won't admit it."
"That was twenty-five years ago! What do you want me to admit?" Richie asked, pulling away. "Not having perfect luck? There's been no proof. No proof...." An exclamation from the monitors again drew both to the crowd. Freddie babbled something about a picture as Richie forced his way closer. On the monitor, distorted by static, was a frame. If you looked just right, you could make out the command console, two, maybe three people crouched around it. The screen changed, another form suddenly appeared up close, working at the station just below the camera. "Enhance that, Wendy!" Richie yelled across the room. The screen cleared slowly from top to bottom as the computer network electronically enhanced the still image. There, just below the camera, the features of Jeremiah Russell came into focus. "He alive!" Richie managed to screech before the picture changed, people again in different positions.
"I'm getting one every... three minutes," Freddie informed the group. "I'd lay odds their computer is down, and we're getting an uncompressed signal." A few keystrokes confirmed his theory. "Main systems appear to be dead. They have lights and environment, and that's about it. They don't even act as if their getting anything we're sending." Suddenly the screen went black, letters and numbers appearing, moving fast across the monitor. Freddie dived back in, keys clacking up a storm. He stopped, his hazel eyes racing across the screen, lighting with recognition. "It's a binary file! They're downloading a file to us."
"How long?" Richie asked, breathing down the man's neck. With Jeremiah safe, the Immortal's concern shifted to Gregor and Scott Keller. Everyone at Freedom realized that one little misstep, and the crew of the PROMETHEUS could be breathing vacuum. Space had always been a very nasty teacher.
Freddie hesitated. "There's no way to tell. Minutes, hours. Knowing Scott, I'd say they'd cram as much as possible in a relatively safe window. Say, thirty minutes." He leaned back in the chair, letting the computers capture the data.
"Damn," Richie cursed, banging the station with his fist. "And I'm suppose to wait." He grinned, trying to turn his impatience into a joke, relieved that his son, for now, was safe. Freddie scowled at him doubtfully.
"You could always make yourself useful, say, by going to get me something to eat from the cafeteria. I have been sitting here most of the afternoon..." Freddie gave his boss a wink. "Unless, of course, you want *me* to walk all the way down there, and leave this unattended..."
Richie laughed. "I don't think I've sunk to slave driver status, yet. What do you want?" As Freddie opened his mouth to reply, the Immortal cut him short. "Actually, they only serve one thing. Soybean ala swill. Will that be one plate or two?"
Freddie nodded his head to the new arrivals. "I can wait. I think your friends shouldn't. And eat something, boss. I'll buzz if anything changes."
"You're right, as always," Richie sighed. He looked over at Fitz and Duncan, talking quietly at the inactive medical station. {Why does it always hit the fan at once?} Turning back to Freddie, watching him absently playing with a pen, he quietly asked, "Have I ever thanked you for dumping Space Command and joining us?"
The pen froze, the mischievous gleam flashing in the blond man's eye. "You can thank me on my next paycheck..."
"You get a paycheck? Who made that mistake?" Richie incredulously wondered. He patted the top of the monitor twice before leaving, Freddie's low chuckled followed him across the room.
Before turning back to the monitor, something else flashed briefly in Freddie's eyes. "You made it. And it's going to be the last one you make, Ryan..." he softly breathed, dampening the hate once more.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"So," Duncan began, spearing the green thing that marginally qualified as lettuce. "You *think* someone is *maybe* trying to sabotage the Mars program. Any ideas who? Let alone why?" He dropped his fork on the plate, shoving the ugly looking food away from his face. He scowled as much from the smell as from what Richie was suggesting.
"I have a few far fetched thoughts, but nothing I even want to dwell on until we get something that resembles proof," Richie answered, his mouth full of the mushy brown mass. Duncan's stomach turned as he watched his old student eating the revolting stuff. Fitz just sat, smoking his pipe.
Duncan tried again. "Today, something went wrong with the Mars mission. Yesterday, your shuttle blew up just after liftoff. Anything else to add?"
"If we're just throwing things out, add the assassination of the President, Carl Robinson," Fitz said, gesturing with his pipe. He had declined any food, watching the other two instead.
"Carl... Robinson? He was President?" Duncan looked stunned, Richie and Fitz surprised by his reaction. "He was... beheaded?"
"Last year, in the White House. That took planning," Richie pointed out. He switched to the orange pudding, shoveling it into his mouth. Duncan grimaced again, turning to look at Fitz.
"I don't think it had to do with us, Master Richie," Fitz countered, folding his arms. "But I do think the raid on the Foundation was part of it. If they just wanted your heads, why go out of their way and torch the place? It smacked of sabotage."
"That was when Grace..." Duncan began, looking at Richie, then quickly looking away. The redhead had stopped cold, fork halfway to his mouth, frozen. Richie put the food down, wiping his hands on his napkin before tossing it on the plate. He got up, grabbing Duncan's plate unasked, and carried them over to the washing area. "Still a sore subject, I see," the Highlander commented.
Fitz nodded. "The young man has been through a lot these last two decades. More so than anyone, mortal or Immortal should be exposed to." The Englishman looked as if he wanted to add more, but the man in question had begun walking back.
"If we're stretching," Richie stated when he got back, taking charge of the conversation, "I think New York should be considered." He ignored the comment about Grace, choosing to barrel ahead instead of reflecting back. Duncan's look clearly indicated the subject would be broached again.
"What about New York?" he asked instead. Fitz gestured to Richie, indicating the younger Immortal should give the explanation.
"I don't think such a virulent form of the Black Plague could have naturally evolved. If it had, I think someone would have found a cure by now." The redhead took his seat again, picking up his glass and taking a drink.
Duncan looked a little perturbed. "Pardon me for reminding everybody, but I've been out of touch for twenty years. WHAT ABOUT NEW YORK??"
Richie leaned back, looking at the ceiling. "It was Christmas time, back in 2009. David, the kids, Augie and I were at the loft, decorating the tree. Connor walked in, was about to come down the stairs, and he fainted. Fell all the way down the steps. When we got to him, he was dead. We were worried, of course, but not panicking, but then Augie started clutching his throat. I watched him collapse as well, David was yelling to the kids. My ears were ringing, the kids were following David to the stairs. I crawled after them until I keeled over, dead myself. Sometime later, I woke up, Augie shaking me. Everyone in New York City was dead, almost instantaneously. We found David's body the next day in front of the bank across the street, the kids sealed in the vault with one of our scuba tanks. Simon was dead, but Jerry, Johnny, Mel, and Maxey survived. They won't talk about it, and I can't say I blame them. Trapped in the dark with a dead body..." Richie's voice faded to silence, his eyes seeing elsewhere. Or elsewhen.
"It wasn't contagious?" Duncan finally asked, breaking the spell. Flashbacks, especially painful ones, were a terrible curse of Immortals, one to be avoided if possible.
Richie sighed, a single tear running down his cheek. "No. But it hasn't gone away either. Sixteen years later, and you still can't get within ten miles of the city limits. A true ghost town. What's left of the bodies are still there, rotting away... It was horrible."
Duncan tried to imagine the horror. It reminded him of the battlefields, the dead bodies lying broken and bleeding, the moans of the dying. He had never thought twice about it until he met Darius. {Darius opened my eyes to many things. It's a shame Richie couldn't spend more time with him.}
Fitz cleared his throat before breaking in. "I still think the Watcher's death you told me about wasn't an accident."
Duncan thought back to the time Richie graduated from college. "That's right, he tripped and fell over the sofas, breaking his neck. Travis, wasn't it?" He tried to recall specific details of that night.
"From the stories I've heard," Fitz continued, putting out the pipe, "everybody fought, ran, and played all over that apartment. No one ever got so much as a splinter, and this guy up and falls. Especially on such a critical night. Just doesn't spell 'accident' to me."
Richie spoke up, returned to the present. "The kitchen was a little slippery, but still. Why would someone break into my apartment and kill him? If it was an Immortal, he'd know off the bat it wasn't me. No forced entry, nothing stolen, so why kill him?"
Fitz wagged a finger. "Maybe it was the other way around. Travis walked *in* on someone. Dawson did say he left a message in the apartment for him. He could have entered, startled whoever, and gotten killed to silence him." He sounded as if he had caught a particularly evasive dog by the tail and wasn't letting go.
Richie shrugged. "But why break into the apartment? All the expensive stuff was downstairs..."
"But your Camelot proposals were *upstairs* and unguarded. Could the killer have gone through those?" Duncan pointed out, leaning over the table.
"You're right!" Fitz exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table. "That's the piece we've been overlooking! It did start twenty-five years ago, and they are after the Mars program! Well done!" His exuberance was squashed as Richie's pager sitting on the table went off. Freddie's voice rang out over the table.
"Rich, the computer's decrypting as we speak. You'd better get back."
The redhead grabbed the device as he got up, pressing the side button. "Roger, Freddie. We're on our way." He was stuffing it into his jumpsuit as the voice spoke again, muffled this time.
"...and don't forget my sandwich, will ya?"
Richie grinned, telling the others he would catch up with them as he moved to the serving line again. The servers didn't seem at all surprised when he asked for more food. Duncan just shook his head. {I guess some things will never change.}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Once again Richie pushed his way through the small crowd to Freddie, depositing a wrapped sandwich on the console. The blond man motioned to the large viewscreen, informing the group it was an audio/video file. A keystroke later, Jeremiah Russell jerkily appeared on the screen.
"I have to make this brief. At 12:37, an unknown number of explosions crippled all main systems on the PROMETHEUS. We've managed to restore life support and partial gravity. The terraforming station was undamaged except for its antenna array, and I have moved all but a skeletal crew to it. We are hoping to have most of the repairs done before our launch window closes later this week. We have lost most of our oxygen reserves. We... Damn," he cursed, running his hand through his short hair. "Guys, we need oxygen. At least twenty tanks. I'll have to take most of the TF station's reserves to make it back to Earth. Rig 'em to a StarDrive and shoot them our way. I wish that would solve all the problems. The department heads are optimistic we can repair most of the damage and still uplift in time. It's just... Captain Keller is dead. Commander Powers is barely hanging on. All we know is what the security camera caught. Check an enlargement of the device on frame one-oh-seven. I know our receivers are down, so don't bother to reply. I'll try to send another message when I can. Russell out."
The screen faded to black, replaced by a black and white shot of airlock two. No sound accompanied the video. Two men walked up to the inner door, barely recognizable as Captain Keller and Gregor. One opened the hatch, then both men entered. Behind them, a third person followed, holding possibly a weapon on them. The two officers turned, apparently speaking to the third. The third held up another device, visibly pressing a button on the boxlike object. The screen shook as the ship jerked, the three bodies unbalanced by the tremors. Gregor looked as if he was going to rush the third person, but another button and the screen shook again. Their captor made a great deal of fuss over the device, angrily gesturing around the room with it. Captain Keller dived for the airlock controls, the weapon discharging into his body. Keller desperately made a fist, punching the emergency open button, the outer door blowing away. All three were silently sucked out onto the Martian landscape, then the screen faded to black, the file completed.
Richie turned to a female across the room. "Enlarge frame one-oh-seven, Wendy. Center on the device and augment." He then turned to an empty terminal, punching up Moonbase Sanctuary, Science Division. A man with shoulder length, sandy blond hair, in his mid-twenties, answered. "Are you getting any of this, Mr. Wolenczak?"
"Clear as a bell," the scientist replied. "I've got a team started on the tanks, and I'm pulling the drive out of the ARCHIMEDES."
"No!" Richie ordered. "The Jupiter probe leaves as scheduled. Take the one on the DARIUS. We can do without the supply ship for awhile. And add an antenna array. I want it gone in ten hours, Lucky. No holdups." Richie sternly shook his finger at the monitor.
"Aye-aye, Captain," Dr. Lucas Wolenczak replied, smartly saluting. "T minus ten, and counting. Sanctuary out." The screen faded to black.
From across the room, Wendy called out. "Ready when you are, Richie." After indicating his approval, everyone turned to the main viewscreen again. Nothing was said as the picture grew and focused on the main viewer. The three Immortals gasped, not looking at the device, but on the wrist that held it. Even blurry, the stylized tattoo of the Watchers was visible. They had barely recovered from the shock when Wendy broke in. "Richie, Dawson's on two for you. He says it's critical."
Stunned, Richie sat at the terminal, mindlessly punching up the channel. Dawson's face appeared on the small screen as he stammered, "Joe... There's a Watch..." Joe didn't let him finish.
"Shut up, Richie, and listen," Dawson barked. Richie, still in shock, did. "Connor's missing. He checked into the hotel yesterday, but didn't spend the night. No one's seen him for twenty-four hours. We've got problems."
Fitz leaned over to Duncan. "Strike three..." he whispered into the Highlander's ear. Duncan could only agree.
"And we're out...," the Highlander added.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Duncan had changed into pull-on pants, preparing for bed by practicing a long unused kata. Several minor bobbles appeared the first time through, smoothed out by the second. Sweat had barely covered his torso when the door chime sounded, a quiet noise above the sound of his breathing. Finishing the last two forms, he keyed the door open, light from the hallway spilling into the darkened room. Silhouetted in the door was a body, curly haired, leaning against the frame. One hand held an obvious bottle, the other a duo of suspiciously shaped glasses. {The only thing missing is a leather jacket.}
"May I come in?" the voice of the adopted MacLeod asked. Out of breath, wiping the sweat with a towel, Duncan wheezed an affirmative. Richie keyed the lights on low as he entered, the door shutting once he was past. The soft glow gave a ghostly sheen to the plastic furniture in the room, as bright as when Duncan lit his candles for a quiet evening in. "We really didn't get to talk much since you arrived, and I wanted to share this with a friend. Do you mind?" He sloshed the liquid in the bottle.
Duncan gestured to the sofa, taking the side chair for himself. "I spent most of the time getting here trying to think of exactly what I wanted to say to you," Duncan began, watching Richie open the bottle and start to pour, "but once I arrived, I couldn't think of a thing to say." He leaned forward, taking the glass Richie offered, clinking it to the one Richie still held. They both sat back, enjoying the liquor.
"Don't you hate that. You spend days, years, getting all emotional and angry, and then that first sight, and *BAM*, nothing really matters but the fact that you're finally together." Richie smiled, taking another sip. "I'm glad you came, Mac."
Duncan put his empty glass on the table. "Since I am here, what's next? I can guess what you want *now*, but why did you come in the first place?" The man who sat across from him finished his glass as well, taking the moment of silence before answering.
"I came with a big speech of how I needed you to help change everything over to the kids, since the Gathering is almost over, but truthfully?" He waited until Duncan nodded for him to go on. "I was scared. Scared that someone would get to you, all alone out there. That's a silly reason, don't you think?" He nervously tried to make a joke out of it, but the sincerity slipped through.
"Not at all," Duncan assured him, touched. "You forget, I built on Holy Ground. I was safe." He mentally pictured the writing of the Old Ones, carved on a rock wall, proclaiming the holiness of spirit place Duncan had lived upon.
Richie shook his head, the concern surfacing again. "You don't know who's survived. Nothing is sacred, no trick too cheap. They used your voice to trap Marcus, and they ganged up on me and Grace..." The tenor voice faded in the gloom, draining off into the silence.
Duncan gave his friend a moment. "Want to talk about it?" Richie silently shook his head 'no', eying his empty glass. Looking anyplace but at Duncan.
"Maybe...later. I didn't come here to tell you more of my troubles. I came because I want to know how you are. How do you feel?" Richie busied himself by refilling his glass, skittish in this unfamiliar territory. "I mean... are you ready to get back into the Game? Have you... mourned enough?"
"One of the lessons I learned a long time ago was a man who decides it's time to fight when the sword is at his neck usually loses his head." Duncan leaned back, head resting on the chair, looking at the ceiling. "I didn't realize how far the Gathering had progressed," he added, letting the tension drain into the upholstery, relaxing knotted muscles. "I'm ashamed that I took so long."
Richie finally looked up, catching Duncan's eye. "There's nothing to feel bad about. God, if I could just get away for awhile myself... But there's no rest this side of death since I picked up my particular cross to bear." He laughed, taking another swig. "Or in this case, a particular sword." Duncan chuckled also, not breaking the spell by replying, just closing his eyes. Some time later, he heard Richie quietly ask, "Mac, could you sing something?" And the Highlander complied, sharing his experiences of fireside moments, idle snowbound pastimes, rain-sheltering caves, in times long past.
"The minstrel boy to the war was gone,
in the ranks of Death you will find him.
His father's sword he has girded on,
and his wild harp slung behind him..."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The door shut, followed by the fading of the uncontrollable warning of Immortals. It wasn't until now Duncan realized how much he had missed Richie's presence in his day-to-day life. The weight of news he had received today deluged him, from deaths and plagues to unknown enemies. {I can't believe Johnny didn't tell me. I'll call him tomorrow. God, the Black Plague.} Duncan reached for the light switch, stretching up from the bunk, reaching...
{ { { { { May, 1820 { { { { {
...for his trunk on top of the coach. He strained on his toes as he felt the buzz, stuck balancing his baggage. A voice from behind startled him, almost sending him tumbling with his belongings.
"Aye, and what 'ave we here, lads. A dandy little fop about to make an ass of 'imself." The voice was joined by several gruff laughs at the jest. No one helped Duncan as he let the trunk slide to the ground, landing with an awkward *CRUNCH*. He turned to the voices, unsurprised at what awaited him. Several rough sailors had gathered, watching his misfortune. And in their midst, an unwashed lout of a man stood, beard ragged, clothes tattered. His was the voice that had spoken, mixed of a thousand accents, gathered from around the world. For Duncan, it would always stand for family.
Taking a sniff and fanning himself with his handkerchief, Duncan tightened his throat, sending his voice high and small. "If I have the honor of addressing the good Captain MacLeod, I should think you would take better care of your wealthier relations." A discreet cough completed the act, Duncan enjoying the theatrics as much as his kinsman.
Connor MacLeod swaggered up, nose to nose with Duncan. "Well, sir. You do have the honor of addressing Captain MacLeod," he said, before turning to his crew again. "Lads, head on back and start with the mast while I inform my cousin here of our unfortunate situation." They grumbled at missing the sport they perceived their captain was heading toward, not wanting to forgo the enjoyment. But they were an obedient lot, milling down the docks to the ship. Connor turned back to Duncan, talking low. "We've had a turn of bad luck, Duncan. She won't be able to carry you to America."
Duncan's eyes grew wide, the only sign of his distress. He turned back to the coach, addressing someone in the interior. His voice again squeaked out as a high, effeminate tenor. "Darling, my cousin has informed me of rather distressing news. Perhaps you and Justin had best return to the inn while I make other arrangements." He gave a small wave of his hanky to the driver, signaling for the coach's departure. After it turned a far corner, Duncan dropped all pretenses, concerned. "What happened?" he asked, knowing the world, for all its civility, was still a dangerous place, even for Immortals.
"I ran into Pierre DuBoise just out of Calais." Connor guided Duncan to a deserted part of the wharf, hiding in a short alley, the noise of the carriages and wagons masking their conversation. "He never got aboard, but I was hulled for my trouble. His parting cannon shot took the main mast as well."
"DuBoise, the pirate? Why would he attack you? I'd have thought he would have shied away from one of the King's favorite." Duncan had heard the stories being spread about the dreaded villain, terror of the Atlantic these days. None were very pleasant.
"He's an Immortal, Duncan. And a vicious one." Connor knew no more than that, just the local gossip and what the few brief moments in battle told him. "I'm sorry, lad. We'll be in dry dock for months. Unless you want to wait..."
Duncan shook his head, no wanting to risk spending another day near Paris. "A part of me wants to run back to Darius even now, but I can't. I can't stay here anymore. I have to find another way across." He moved to leave, Connor stopping him.
"I can be of service in that area. Come join me in a drink, and I'll see what I can scuttle up for you." Connor placed his arm over Duncan shoulders, dragging him to the Spilling Cup. "Now tell me all about that lady in the carriage, kinsman."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A fortnight later found Duncan on the high seas, aboard the Lucky Lass, bound for Boston. Julia, his current paramour took ill moments after setting sail. Her son, Justin, had the run of the ship while Duncan spent his time tending her in their small cabin. Twenty days out of France, and Julia was dead, given to the sea for burial. Duncan had spent no time above deck, only noticing after the ceremony the large number of sick crewmen, including young Justin. The Highlander watched them die, slowly, one by one, finally succumbing to the disease himself.
When he awoke, the crew and passengers were dead, the ship drifting in the currents. Slowly, in a daze, he performed last rites for them, wrapping the bodies in cloth, commending their spirits to God as he lugged them overboard. Nights found him alone, talking to the ghost of Julia, or Justin, sometimes playing dice with imagined crew.
Time passed. He didn't care how long, his mind wandering in empty and lonely places. He steered west, ever west, rarely leaving the wheel, not caring to eat or drink. A dull ache had overtaken his body, a gnawing pain Duncan welcomed, proof he was alive on this ship of the Damned. Day, then night, then day again, sleeping as he stood, dreaming not at all. He was thrown head first over the wheel as the ship ran aground, floundering in the darkness of night. What was left of the rational MacLeod prodded his body to move, his simple understanding of diseases screaming the need to destroy the carrier of the plague. With cleansing fire, the ship burned, the wood and rope eager food for the flames. He stood on the beach, torch held high, watching the ship burn, seeing the dying in the light, seeing his lover fade into embers. Holding the torch aloft...
{ { { { { { { { { {
...as they rode through the forest. Around him, the baying and yapping of hounds drew him forward, the press of horses and riders surrounding him. {This is not my memory... This is the Dream.} The hunt had cornered a stag, a gift of feasting from Hern, blessed by the Goddess.
"Well done, my lord!" came a voice beside him, the glowing red locks of Rebecca framing the delicate mouth he ached to kiss. With a sure hand, Gregor placed his arrows in the beast, swiftly killing it, as the squires prepared to carry it back to the castle. {I know this castle...}
Out of the forest they rode, the massive white construction greeting them. Towers of light thrust boldly into the night skies, the flames of a thousand torches lighting the area. The drawbridge was open and inviting, the gate raised into the ceiling. With a yelp, he and the other Immortals rode for home. Rode for Camelot.
The lively mood carried over as they dismounted, many people of both sexes congratulating him on the chase. Slung over three boy's backs, the great white stag was carried to the kitchens, the mass of people dragging Duncan to the main hall. Across the courtyard they strode, laughter and merrymaking their advanced scouts. In the center of the open area, Duncan looked left, seeing an old man and a young woman walking in the other direction.
In years past, the man remained the same, rarely changing. {Although sometimes he looks like Dawson with his peppered beard.} The woman was constantly changing over his lifetime, sometimes Grace, then Amanda, Carmen, even Linda once, but most recently Tessa. This time she had raven black hair, and eyes of fire. {Ruby red lips... I know this woman...} *Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*
} } } } } } } } } }
Duncan flailed his arms in the dark, trying to reach the flashlight he always kept on the nightstand in his cabin. Hitting strange walls, he lay back down, remembering he was elsewhere now. Rubbing his face with his hands, he reached up and keyed the flashing button next to the light controls.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. MacLeod, but we have word a package for you arrived in Florida. The return address is an accounting firm in Washington state. Shall I have them uplift it?" the ghostly male voice asked into the darkness.
Suppressing a groan, Duncan cleared his throat. "Ah... yes, please. By the way, what time is it?"
"Freedom time, it's close to ten in the morning. It's noon in Florida, and..."
"Thank you," Duncan said, switching off the com. {Ten in the morning? I didn't think we stayed up that late.} With a sigh, Duncan turned over, wishing himself back to the white castle, and the mysterious woman from the airplane, who appeared so suddenly in his dreams, his dreams of love, sex, battle, and glory. Just as he faded from consciousness, a small part of him heard laughter, and wondered if it was here and now, or back then. A smaller part wondered if there was a difference.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHOICES
by Kevin H. Robnett
Part 3 ---------- The Coldness of Space
"Diary entry, October 15, 2025, Richie MacLeod. Long range sensors confirm the PROMETHEUS is on its way to Earth. Still no luck trying to raise them. At present speeds they have a little over a month before they reach us. Unrepairable damage to the StarDrive, I guess. The Mars TF station reports our shipment has arrived intact, nothing broken except for a side thruster package. The new antenna array works perfectly, and the additional air should see them through till they get out from behind the sun. I wish things here at home would work out as easily. Minor problems are still cropping up, and we don't know if Connor is alive or dead. God, I wish we had something to go on. This waiting will kill me yet. End entry."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Duncan burst into the suite of rooms he and Dawson were sharing at the Paris Savoy, clipboard in hand. "Joe, you won't believe what I found," he began, moving from room to room. "There were two laundry trucks here the day Connor..." Duncan stopped, surprised by a naked woman in his bed. Absently, he set the clipboard in his hand on the dresser while gazing at the raven haired, ruby lipped female. The same one he had met on the plane a month ago. She writhed, opening her arms to him. Duncan started to speak as he ripped his clothes off, her mouth on his lips silencing the questions.
Later, he lay relaxed, gazing at the stranger he so eagerly and surprisingly had sex with. He was glad he remembered her face this time, a lovely face. A memory surfaced as he ran his fingers through her short hair, just a snippet of sound.
(So, brother.... How does it feel to bed your own sister?)
Shocked, a word escaped his lips before he had even thought about it. "Morgana!" Her eyes flew open at that name, sparks flashing in their black depths. He managed to get out of the bed as her hands shot up, claws. He was turning for the door as energy sizzled from her fingers, shocking him into the wall. There he hung, helpless, pink bolts running up and down his naked body keeping him pinned. She slowly advanced, almost cackling, hands raised at him.
"My, my. You are certainly well informed, Highlander. Not that it will do you any good. It's such a shame, really. I didn't want to get rid of you just yet. You're so...virile." She laughed in his face, grabbing his shoulders and flipping him back onto the bed. "How about one more... for old times sake."
This time she was less than pleasant, taking much more than she gave, running her now sharp nails over his unprotected body, clawing his face and chest. Pain followed those scratches, trails of fire, angry red welts appearing on his skin. He still couldn't move a muscle, his only response an agonized scream. She rode him like a crazed beast, never letting up until she had rung every ouch of pleasure from him. He almost cried with relief when it was over. But she wasn't through with him. She whispered in his ear, sending uncontrollable shivers through his nude frame.
The woman got off his aching body, collecting her clothing. He still couldn't move, his chest barely able to draw in air, each breath a torment. Once dressed, she came back into view, reaching her hand to his neck. "Goodbye, lover boy. You were the best since... well, how can one compare the two of you?" It felt as if a band of metal around his neck was slowly being heated, the pain constricting his throat. It burned deeper, almost as if it was beheading him. Panic slowly made its way from his gut as she cackled again.
The sharp bang of the door as it flew open distracted her, ending the torment. A voice Duncan barely recognized as Joe Dawson's spoke. "Up to your old tricks, I see." The cane and footsteps sounded muffled on the carpet as the Watcher came into the room, just barely in the Highlander's limited field of vision.
Morgana whirled, claws ready and aimed at the intruder. Orange flashes gathered in front of her, forming a ball. Duncan watched as it shot suddenly toward the cripple. He could barely believe the casualness Dawson possessed as he raised his cane, batting the globe into a wall. Orange tendrils shot out as it hit, unable to find a purchase on the smooth surface. It harmlessly discharged, a minor amount of smoke appearing where it burned the wallpaper. Morgana cried in rage, turning to Duncan on the bed, her hands moving fast. As she finished her incantation, a silver ball shot from Dawson's direction, spiraling around her until a silver wall had formed, encasing her. Red energy shot from the top as she screamed in pain. "I don't know who you are, mortal," she hissed behind the barrier, "but you have made a sorry mistake. Beware and be warned." With that, she clicked her fingers, disappearing in a haze of green smoke and a chilling cackle. The silver barrier faded as well.
Dawson stepped over to the frozen Immortal, his hands turning blue. He ran them over Duncan, unresponsive muscles finally obeying as the glow came in contact with them. Seconds later, Duncan could weakly sit up. "She always did use too much theatrics," Joe joked, helping the Highlander to stand.
"I don't think it's very funny, Dawson," Duncan hissed through the pain. They made their way with fumbling steps to the mirror, both examining the ugly red welts still on Duncan's body. His neck was a massive burn, all the way around. The clipboard on the dresser reminded him what he found this morning. Indicating it to Joe, he explained. "The day Connor checked in, there were two laundry trucks. Usually there's only one. I called the laundry service, and they confirm they only sent one. The other has to be a fake. A definite lead." Joe nodded his agreement.
"That makes two, then," the Watcher said as he helped Duncan into a chair. Duncan looked at him, inquiring if Joe found anything as well. Dawson pointed to the spot formerly occupied by Morgana and said, "I think that qualifies as Clue Number One." Duncan nodded, silent from the pain. And waiting for his unnatural healing to start.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ten hours later found him in the corridor leading toward his cabin on Freedom Station, walking unsteadily because of the torment he still felt. He was caught by surprised when Richie grabbed his shoulder, the buzz of the other Immortal lost in the haze of agony. He winced, almost crying out, as his student's hand on the welts sent ripples of pain through his torso. Richie turned him around, a look of shock appearing on his face at the sight of Duncan's wounds. The redhead slowly raised his hands as if to touch the claw marks on Duncan's face. "Mac... Oh my God, what happened?"
Duncan gasped, Richie stopping short before touching his face. The redhead ran his gaze down the cheek to the neck, his hands moving down as well. He grabbed the collar of Duncan's shirt to open it, the Highlander's hands grabbing his wrists, stopping him. "No..." Duncan managed to croak, still possessing enough strength to momentarily stop the other Immortal. The exertion proved too much, overloading Duncan's pain threshold. He collapsed into Richie's arms, unconscious.
When he awoke, he was lying on his bed, his shirt gone, the angry welts only throbbing a little. Richie came near, holding a metal bowl and cloth, the sleeves of his maroon jumpsuit rolled to the elbows. The redhead sat on the bed beside Duncan, placing the items on a shelf above his head. "You're not healing, Mac. These aren't going away," Richie said, concerned. Duncan opened his mouth to speak, trying to get a name out, but Richie shook his head. "Don't talk. Joe gave me a full report. Anything else can wait. Now, I want to try something. With your permission?" he asked, holding up his empty hands. Duncan nodded his approval.
Richie placed his hands, palm down, just inches above Duncan chest. Slowly closing his eyes and throwing his head back, he mumbled words, sounds, unintelligible. A crackle of energy gathered in his hands, the familiar whiteness of a Quickening. Small bolts jumped from hand to chest, bringing the grateful rush of power, without the troublesome spark of personality. More and more energy passed between the two, jumping over Duncan's body and face. The welcome sensation of skin growing together, of damage repairing itself, of life pouring again into his blood almost made him laugh. It wasn't as speedy as Duncan was used to, but still the pain faded as Richie continued to increase the flow. Suddenly, with a snap, it was over, Duncan's breathing no longer the agony it had been. He looked up in time to see Richie keel over, time to guide the eternal boy down beside him as Richie lost awareness, lost in the sleep of the exhausted. Duncan also welcomed the bliss of sleep, healing sleep, hoping for once Richie wouldn't snore.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Duncan awoke first, free from the pain that had plagued him yesterday. A careful look showed the welts gone and forgotten. He lay there, content to listen to his friend breath, watching from behind as the redhead slept. {He still looks so young, so helpless.} His mind brought up memories of when they had lived together with Tessa, before Richie had Awakened. Even as the Gathering had blown around the family they had made, he had felt at peace with his tormented existence. He was surprised at not experiencing a twinge of guilt thinking about Tessa. Youth stirred beside him, trying to roll over into the space Age occupied.
"Of all the beautiful women I've dreamed about waking up with, and look what I get..." Duncan joked as Richie rubbed his face with his hands.
"Morning, Mac. Serves you right..." A yawn ended the thought as Richie absently stretched his arms. Ending with a *Humfph*, Richie turned his head to Duncan. "Remind me not to do that again anytime soon. What time is it?"
Duncan brushed his black hair from his face, grinning down at the redhead. "Do you want Freedom, Florida, or Paris time?" Richie smiled as Duncan laughed.
"Have you always been this frisky in the morning?" Richie asked, punching his elbow into Duncan's freshly healed ribs. He slowly sat up, throwing back the blanket Duncan had covered him with.
"Only with my more energetic bedmates," Duncan replied, pushing Richie off the bed with his foot. Richie slid off, falling to the floor with a thud. Both Immortals broke out in laughter, Richie rolling on the floor, trying to stand and failing.
"Don't laugh," Richie said through his chuckles. "Oh God, what will the neighbors think?" That sent him off on another round of giggles. At Duncan's look of puzzlement, he added. "It's bad enough I spent the night with the you, in your bed, by the way, but when the women hear I couldn't even *walk* out of the room the next morning..."
After the pair had finished laughing, Duncan crawled out of bed, helping Richie to his feet. The redhead still couldn't stand by himself. "About this time, Mac, you usually drag me across the room and throw me in a chair." He pointed at the one next to the sofa, Duncan carrying the limp body across the room and set him down in it. "How 'bout breakfast?" Richie asked, head lolling on the backrest. "Not the cafeteria garbage. I know you keep food in here."
By the time the Highlander had whipped up two omelets, Richie had regained some of his strength. They sat, eating off the coffee table. Duncan turned serious. "What exactly did you do?" he asked, bringing up last night.
Richie sighed, aware that reality finally intruded. "I can't explain it, Mac. Other than I transferred some of the Quickening I have to you, overloading your system, so that the excess would heal the wounds." He continued when Duncan cautiously asked how. "A very wise, old woman taught it to me." Richie smiled at calling Es 'old'. "I've never used it before, and I understand now why she said it was a last ditch attempt. If you're not careful, you can pour *everything* out, leaving behind an empty husk." He took a sip of hot coffee to counter the sudden chill. {That's how Esmerelda almost died.}
"Thank you," Duncan simply said.
Richie shrugged, embarrassed. "No need to thank me. We passed that point a long time ago." He suddenly shot up, wanting to leave. Windmilling his arms momentarily to get his balance, he fended off Duncan's attempt at help. "I will not be coddled in my own castle, Duncan MacLeod."
"Whatever you wish, Richard MacLeod." Duncan walked him to the door, stopping him as he crossed the threshold. "You'll be all right?"
"Aren't I always?" Richie replied, and the door slid shut. An ending, of sorts.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Time passes. It was dark in the room, a nameless cabin on Freedom, the only light a faint glow from the computer terminal. A voice spoke to the lone occupant in the room.
"I trust everything is ready?" A silent nod from the resident. "Good. If everything goes well, I may authorize a brief respite. I'll contact you after it's over."
The screen went blank, plunging the person into darkness. Darkness, like the blot on the person's soul. The traitor's soul.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Diary entry, December 5, 2025. Richie MacLeod. The PROMETHEUS should enter orbit in the next hour, if the deceleration burns take place. If that doesn't happen, we may attempt a remote linkup if they don't respond to short-range hails. We're going to standby alert once I finish this entry. Still no word on Connor, but Joe and Mac feel they're close. To top everything off, Morgana's involved. And that means... Damn! I was hoping they'd be dead by now. And I'm an hour away from seeing Augie and Jeremiah. I pray they're as pleased to see me. End entry, and go to standby alert."
Richie watched as technicians moved to their stations at the soft pinging sound. Freddie rushed in, zipping the front of his maroon jumpsuit, a half eaten sandwich in his other hand. All stations were operating and staffed, including the medical station usually left empty. He swung his seat to face his terminal, patching through to Sanctuary's main hanger. Lucas' frantic face appeared on the monitor as Richie spoke. "How close are you guys?" In the background, people rushed in and out of a sleek shuttle, fumes escaping from relief valves, giving everything a hazy look.
Breathlessly, the scientist replied. "The medical team is finishing loading the EINSTEIN now. We'll uplift in..." He stopped as he checked his watch. "...two minutes. I'll be off your starboard bow in twelve. Sanctuary out." The video faded as the blond man ran to the shuttle hatch, struggling with a large case in the press of scurrying people.
Next, Richie keyed in Fitz's personal access, surprised to find the Englishman strapping into the seat of something other than the SEAGULL. "What miracle is this?" Richie began, watching Fitz look up, startled. "Something wrong with your shuttle?" the redhead joked.
Fitz gave him an annoyed look, reaching for the com switch. "The DARIUS is still the largest transport, even without a StarDrive. If you'll excuse us, we have work to do." With that he killed the circuit, sending Richie's monitor to black. Properly chastised, Richie swung around in his chair, taking in the hustle of the command center, before resting his gaze on Wendy Mitchum.
She noticed his gaze, and softly in his earpiece, she whispered, "Don't you dare start harassing us, Rich. Just shut up and let us do our jobs. That's what you pay us for." Sighing to himself, he stood, planning to pace and drive everyone crazy. A flash of light outside the windows drew his attention, coming from the back of the station. He had turned and taken a step toward the glass when the station jerked left, sending him tumbling to the floor, sliding into a console. Others were thrown from their chairs, their cries of pain mixing with a distant sounding explosion. Ceiling lights blinked off and on as Richie tried to stand, clutching the console for support. Lights turned scarlet as an automatic red alert began.
Richie tried to make his way toward Freddie, who was still in his seat shouting orders over the com. More tremors enveloped the station when Richie reached the technician. The Immortal looked over his shoulder, seeing the monitor as it displayed the unthinkable. Cylinder Three, at the back of the station, was floating free in space, slowly moving away from Freedom. From the hole that once connected the cylinder, debris and bodies floated into space. From the unusual angle of the Earth through the windows, he guessed the station was tumbling out of control as well.
From the right, he heard the engineering officer shout orders to his people through the com. Medical was busy coordinating the med teams. "Freddie, get back to the PROMETHEUS. Have they started deceleration yet?"
A few keystrokes later, and Freddie had an answer. "No. No change in speed or course."
"Damn."
Freddie called up more information. "It gets worse, Richie." The blond technician pointed to the monitor, showing the free floating cylinder. "Three is moving smack dab into their projected path. If they don't slow down, or radically change course, they're toast. And they could take us with them."
"Can you gain control using short-range?"
Freddie tried. "No luck. They may still be too far, or...."
Richie started running for the service hatch. "Keep trying. Contact Fitz, get all craft out. We may have to try and pull them off before they hit." And then he was sliding down several levels using the service ladder, followed by a dead run to his Lamborghini in Bay 0-0. Once in the seat, he engaged all systems, barely able to wait for the airlock to cycle, desperately wanting to blow the outside door. Then he was away, thrusters, blazing, the sleek vehicle at home among the stars.
Calling up short-range sensors, he saw the EINSTEIN had changed course, heading away from the station. No other craft but his had left Freedom as he keyed ship-to-ship. "What the Hell do you..." he started as Lucas cut him off.
"Not now!" the blond shouted. "I can stop them before it's too late. Engaging StarDrive. Hold on back there," he yelled behind him as the link dissolved. Richie watched as the shuttle jumped and shot out of orbit, heading toward the damaged PROMETHEUS. Keying his own systems, Richie followed, watching the stars shift and dissolve. His computer automatically displayed an ETA of eight minutes. A final sensor sweep behind showed two craft had made it out of Freedom, the station listing badly. Richie called up schematics of the Mars probe, searching for a usable airlock near to the bridge. Finding two prospects, he then switched to engineering drawings and control systems. Looking up as the one minute alarm went off, he slowed, piloting the Lamborghini in a smooth 180 degree turn. As he once again speeded up, the bulk of the PROMETHEUS slid smoothly next to him as he matched speeds. He keyed the com, praying the probe launch sequence worked. A rectangular hatch slid open, discharging a remote probe. Richie slid the Lamborghini into the clamps, keying the recall sequence. The clamps engaged, sliding the car into the bay. The door shut, air automatically being pumped in. With a *whoosh* the pressure was equalized, allowing Richie to get out.
He raced through the dark ship, trying not to gag at the revolting smell of stale, putrid air. He burst onto the bridge, almost tripping over the prone Lucas, head and torso buried in wall. Starting to curse, angry at the risks the mortal was taking, Richie got kicked by the black booted feet. Lucas' disembodied voice yelled at him to check the navigation console for power, a few choice words snapping Richie out of his rage.
Jumping debris, he reached what was left of the station, answering Lucas' shouted questions until partial power had been restored. Patching through to the Lamborghini's onboard computer, Richie computed a safe deceleration blast schedule and course corrections. The answer flashed back, the safest being minutes ago. Richie keyed in what he hoped was an unobstructed heading, shouting for Lucas to hold on, adding a silent prayer to the Goddess not to hit either part of Freedom. Engaging the engines, Richie was thrown across the room, twisting his ankle as he landed, more metal braces falling around him as the ship shook. Feeling the blast stop a little too early, Richie limped around the bridge trying to find Lucas. The blond dug himself out of a pile of chairs, helping the injured Immortal to activate another terminal.
The blond quickly called up status diagrams, yelling that all life signs were concentrated in Science Lab One, midway down the ship. He also noted the DARIUS had docked at the closest airlock to the lab. Half carrying the healing Immortal, they raced down the main corridor, arriving at the lab door as Fitz and the others turned a corner on down the hall.
With the sound of seals breaking, the lab door slid open, the two men shocked at the sight. Twenty-four crew members were crammed in the small space, most lying on the floor. Lucas rushed to a bearded Jeremiah, Richie hobbling just behind. Arriving, the scientist checked for a pulse and breath, exclaiming he had found both. Richie watched as the others gathered what was left of the PROMETHEUS crew, Fitz gently carrying an unconscious Gregor. An expletive from Lucas turned him back, noticing the blond was again studying charts on wall monitor.
"There's a leak in the main reactor. She's gonna blow in less than five minutes. I'm keying automatic activation of the StarDrive in four. LET'S CLEAR OUT, PEOPLE!" he shouted to everyone left helping the injured crew. Richie struggled to lift his feeble son, Lucas doing it instead. They ran down the hall following Fitz, the hardly limping Immortal keeping pace behind Lucas. Reaching the airlock of the DARIUS, already packed with people, the blond turned to Richie, handing off Jeremiah to him. "We won't all fit. Where did you park your car?"
"The remote probe bay..." was all Richie got out before Lucas punched the hatch close button, turning and running down the corridor, yelling in his pager for the EINSTEIN to move away. After the hatch shut, Richie looked out the plexiglass window, for once hoping the young man would make it. "Godspeed, Mr. Wolenczak."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Wendy glanced up from her monitor, looking out the glass windows. She gave a start of surprise as the hulking PROMETHEUS slid smoothly to a stop between the tumbling Cylinder Three and Freedom, the blue Earth acting as a backdrop for the whole bizarre tableau. She released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, barely making out Freddie's voice across the room.
"Engineering says her reactor's gonna blow... In ten...nine..." And then his voice echoed across the station. "ALL HANDS. BRACE FOR IMPACT. In five...four...three..." And then a flash of white, and the blackened hulk shot ahead, bits and pieces wrenched off as it sped wildly out of orbit. She followed it with her gaze, almost blinded when it exploded in a blaze of light seconds later. The shock wave shook the station, almost minor after the earlier ones. And then her com board lit up like a Christmas tree.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Richie stood pressed against the airlock of the DARIUS, unconcerned with everything but his son, still limp in his arms. When his eyes cleared from the blinding explosion, he vainly searched the dark for any signs of his car, any clue to Lucas' fate. He absently heard Fitz somewhere in front, piloting the shuttle to Freedom, trying to match the gyrations of the wildly tumbling station. He looked down at the sleeping face of Jeremiah, whispering softly. "We're almost home, my boy. Almost home." He hugged the body closer, wishing he could turn back the years. Back to a time they had known one another.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Jeremiah Russell dreamed he was far under the ocean, watching the SeaQuest speed off without him. Trying to run in the murky water, thick as molasses. Yelling for them to stop. He looked up, the surface miles away, his only chance at life. He kicked off his boots, climbing rather than swimming upwards. Ever so slowly, the murky water got lighter, the sound of waves crashing became louder. Almost there. His head broke the surface as he gasped for precious air. Good clean air, as he...
...sat up out of bed, gasping, coming face to face with a blond angel. Another gasp and he lay back down, his eyes focusing. "I *know* I haven't... gone to heaven, 'cause you...," he said.
Lucas Wolenczak softly laughed as he sat on the bed beside Jeremiah. "Thanks for the compliment." His hundred kilowatt smile was genuine, but his eyes betrayed his concern. Jeremiah looked around, noticing he was in the medical unit of Freedom, one of the small, private rooms. He turned back, raising his hand with effort to Lucas' hair.
"You let it grow," he weakly commented, the burst of energy he had felt rapidly fading. Lucas chuckled as he grabbed Jeremiah's hand, lowering it to the bed. "What happened, Lucky...," Jerry started, trailing off into silence, speech becoming an effort.
Lucas frowned, deciding how much to say. "We managed to pull of all twenty-four of you out before the reactor went critical. Michaels, Going, and Hudson are touch and go, and Greg is... alive. You'll have to ask Dr. Mitchum for more details. I may be head of the Science Division..."
"...but you still faint.... I get the picture." Jeremiah pulled his hand up to cough, noticing Lucas still clutched it. "Told you I wouldn't die," he said, turning his head to clear his throat. Lucas reached to the side table and brought back a glass of water, straw attached.
"You came awfully damn close," he said, watching Jeremiah sip to liquid. Once done, he put it back on the table. "Everyone is waiting outside. Do you feel up to seeing them?" At Jerry's weak nod, the scientist got up, walking toward the door. A few quiet words in the hall, and then people started slowly walking in; Richie, Joe, Fitz, and a stranger. Something about the newcomer's long ponytail caught Jeremiah's eye. His memory of Duncan MacLeod had faded over the years, but enough was left to make the connection. The face was the same, but his uncle didn't look as gigantic, as towering as the superman Jeremiah remembered. Now he seemed normal, possibly a fraction shorter than Jerry. And as tenuous as the rest of them.
"Uncle Mac!" he exclaimed, using most of the energy left. His pained expression brought worried glances all around. Fitz and Joe quickly offered their support, telling him they would return later, informing him how glad they were he was safe. Lucas stood by the door, not wanting to intrude, opening it for the two as they left. His father just stood there, looking, so he turned to Duncan, trying to think of something to say. It struck him that one person hadn't entered the room. "Where's Connor?" Both Immortals looked stricken, exchanging looks, but neither started talking. Duncan finally broke the stalemate, resignation tingeing his accented voice.
"He's on Earth," Duncan simply said, wiggling Jeremiah's bare toes sticking up from under the blanket. "We'll talk later, when you've rested some more." With that, the Highlander left the room, a nod to Lucas on his way out the door. That left his father.
Richie just bent over, kissing Jeremiah on the forehead and then messing up his son's hair. "Sleep well, and get better. I love you," was all he said, turning and leaving as well. Lucas only shrugged before turning out the lights as he left, leaving Jerry to rest.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The room holding the circular table was crowded, not only department heads, but all key personnel were present as well, crammed together. Richie looked around the room, mentally noting everyone was present. "Let's begin. We'll start with the PROMETHEUS. Anyone have anything to add to the report from the terraforming station?"
Across the room, and older woman stepped forward, clearing people away from the viewer in the room. At fifty-one, Angela Davis still felt responsible for the people she selected to work for Camelot Industries. The revelation of a traitor was a devastating blow. She had flown here especially for this meeting, and the added strain showed. A picture formed as she spoke, showing a normal man, with an apparently normal life. "Samuel Jacobs, age thirty-five. Originally from Texas. Computer technician, grade Beta. Degree from MIT, joined us in '18. No record of a tattoo at any of his physicals. Cross referencing the Watcher database found no listing except a Martha and Brent Jacobs, who we believe are his parents. They were recruited by none other that James Horton." A murmur ran around the room from the few people who recognized the name. "Excellent work evaluations, no previous incidents. One of the Mars Project's top people." The screen faded as she sat along the wall.
Richie nodded to his old friend, mentally adding space to his calendar to spend some time with her. The strain of the last decade had reflected on her health. {This may be the last time she uplifts. And she definitely deserves the rest.} Looking at his notes briefly, he moved to the next item. "About the PROMETHEUS crew..."
Dr. Mitchum cleared his throat from his position behind the seated Mr. Wolenczak. "Four are still in critical condition. The rest are currently stable and good health, fine except for malnutrition and dizziness. I would like, however, to hold off questioning any of them for at least another, say, twenty-four hours."
Richie nodded. "I concur. Would noon tomorrow be satisfactory?" The doctor smiled agreeably, issuing an apology at his departure. The door was closed before Richie moved on.
"About the ship herself..." Richie offered, turning his chair to face the Engineering Chief next to him. The white haired gentleman raised his hands in helplessness.
"Teelemetry enformation eese veddy leettle. Major dameege, all systeems. Now no sheep, no eeasy answers. Weel take time." No one but Angie could say where Guillermo was originally born, but all agreed English was not a language he did well in. But nobody could come close to him with machines, making the language barrier worth it. Richie sighed, knowing the man could find the solution, it just needed to be translated. The redhead thanked the Chief, swiveling back, moving on.
"Any more word from the terraforming station itself, Freddie?"
The technician looked terrible, stubble on his face and jumpsuit rumpled, the results of working forty-eight hours straight. "All reports indicate everything is going perfectly. No accidents, no problems, not even a broken fingernail. They've slipped behind the sun's corona, cutting off all contact for awhile. A long while. So maybe I can finally get some sleep." He looked pleadingly at his boss.
Richie laughed, amused. "I'll buzz you in three months, mister. Next, Cylinder Three. Casualties?"
Fitz raised his hand. "Mine. The numbers are *not* good," he started, shuffling papers. "Twenty-one dead. Sixty-four injured. All emergency backups engaged on our side, but the people in the labs didn't have a prayer. Research has been moved to Sanctuary until we can reattach it. Two months, tops." He set the papers down, rubbing his eyes. "We need to set a time, soon, to inform the families that aren't here on Freedom."
Richie froze, having forgotten that terrible task. He slowly nodded, returning to the safety of his notes. He looked up, dreading his next words. "Cause of the explosion, Mr. Wolenczak?"
The blond scientist looked up, jerked back to the meeting. "Uh... nothing yet. We're still chasing loose pieces of the docking assembly." A flush of guilt crossed his face, or one of embarrassment. Something inside Richie twigged, not wanting to let it go at that.
"That's all?"
Lucas slammed his hands on the table, standing up. "Damn it, MacLeod. I'm not a magician. It's not like we didn't have a large spaceship plow right through the debris field. Try asking Dawson for miracles!" Angry, he turned away, walking away from the table, running his hands through his long hair.
Richie chastised himself. "I'm sorry, Lucas," he called out, the crowd silent. "Please, come back. I shouldn't ask for things that aren't available yet." A few breaths were released as the young man returned, sitting again and examining his notes, not looking up at anyone. "How about the saboteur angle?"
Gillian opened her folder, spreading papers out. "Twelve people are on board who are not Camelot employees. I recommend removing them from the station to Florida, unless Mr. Wolenczak would like the two stellar scientists relocated to Sanctuary." She continued after Lucas nodded his approval. "Of the rest, all passed original security checks at hiring, but in light of the PROMETHEUS information, a recheck is in order. If the science labs can find a timer or such, anyone here could be a suspect." No one in the room looked as if they liked that statement, some glancing right and left. "We have engaged a level two security protocol for now. That's it," she concluded, closing the folder.
"Last, Connor MacLeod," Richie said, no longer looking at his notes.
Duncan pushed forward. "The laundry truck angle seems to have dried up. Every other lead is cold as a frozen herring. We're still at square one." Finished, he faded back into the crowd.
Taking a look at each person in the room, Richie wrapped the meeting up. "I wanted all of you here so that you know what I know. I trust each of you in this room. Keep an eye out, report anything strange to security. But remember, this is NOT A WITCH HUNT." They all were paying attention now. "Dismissed." The crowd began to file out, talking softly among themselves. Lucas grabbed his notes, pushing his chair back as he stood. "Mr. Wolenczak..." Richie called, "...stay a moment." And the scientist stood there, his back to Richie, until everyone had left.
Richie got up, walking around to face Lucas. "I wanted to talk to you..."
Lucas broke in, using his two inch height advantage to look down at his boss. "To thank me for keeping your precious station from becoming space junk?" The anger dripped off him like sweat, pooling at the Immortal's feet.
He tried again. "No, about my son..."
The scientist was not going to give the Immortal a chance. "Saving his life or taking him away?"
Richie let himself get angry, barely restraining himself from throttling the mortal. "Never let it be said," he hissed, poking his finger into the blond's chest, "that I didn't try." Smartly turning, he was out the door, storming down the hall, the imaginary white flag fluttering to the ground. Lucas left a long time later.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The next day, precisely at noon, Richie entered his son's room. He smiled at Wendy, sitting on the bed with his son, barely glancing at the sleeping form of Lucas in the corner chair. Quietly moving to the bed, he sat on the opposite side of Jeremiah. "Hi..." he whispered, exuberant at seeing the life in his son's face. "How do you feel?"
Jerry shrugged, unwinding his hands from Wendy's. She excused herself, claiming work, and kissed Jeremiah goodbye before she left. "Like a StarDrive plowed over me," the young man said, clutching his side as he laughed. Richie managed a smile at the good humor. "I guess you want to know what happened..." Richie nodded as his son stole a glance at the unmoving scientist. "At least seven major systems were totally wired, all set off except the ones on the airlocks. No one had a clue Sammy was planning this. Had no idea what had even happened to them until we tried to contact Scott Keller. Then we discovered the open airlock. We found their bodies outside less than an hour after the incident, but Greg was already dead..." Richie grabbed his son's hand as Jeremiah started to sniffle. "We didn't know if he'd come back, and trying to explain it to the crews, well... How do you explain Immortals? We kept him hidden on the PROMETHEUS while we finished repairs. He woke up just after we left Mars..." Tears were flowing, now. "He didn't recognize us, Dad. Kept asking for Arthur, or Gwen. We had to tie him down when he became violent, yelling we were all traitors to Camelot..." He couldn't whisper anymore, his voice failing.
Richie couldn't resist any longer. Taking his son in his arms, letting him sob into his shoulder, trying to comfort him from the horror he had faced. "It's all right. Everything will be all right," he softly said, over and over, not knowing what else to say. They sat there for awhile, until the tears stopped, and Jeremiah was better. Richie got up to leave. "I'm going to go see him, now." Jeremiah nodded, wiping his cheeks, trying to smile. "Get some rest. I'll be back later."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Cabin 27, Aft Level 3 was written on the door. Richie leaned against the wall, staring at the numbers, letting the feeling of Gregor wash over him. The doctors had told him all the theories, all the guesses. The facts were Gregor was alive, and healthy. Mentally was another question. Richie rang twice, receiving no answer. Using his override code, he manually opened the door, letting his eyes adjust to the black interior. The door shut after he entered, removing what little light was available in the room. Richie had spent many hours in here, knowing precisely where everything was. Recognized the dark shapes scattered around the room. Except for the one in the window sill, blocking the stars. A human shape.
"You really shouldn't be up, Augie," Richie commented moving to the portal. A face swiveled to look at him, faintly lit in the starlight. Dressed in all black, Gregor disappeared in the gloom, only his skin reflecting the little amount of light. Sitting in the alcove holding the window, one leg on the ledge, the other hanging on the side, one hand on a knee, caressing the invisible glass. The picture was eerie, a brief look back at a time Richie cared not to know about.
"I could not wait below, my lord. My nerves.... Besides, what will find me here on the battlements? Death? I think not." The voice was definitely Gregor's, but the accent had long been forgotten. He who was once Lancelot graciously indicated the other half of the circular window, a request Richie wasn't about to ignore. Gregor continued to talk as he turned back to the night. "Tis a strong spell Morgana weaves, ensorceling Camelot in eternal darkness. What is your will, my lord? Shall we take the fight to her and her bastard son?" A smile crept on the dark one's face at the thought.
Richie slowly let out the breath he was holding, letting his wishes and hopes fade. Carefully, he put his hand on Gregor's arm, trying to will the other back to the present. At the contact, the last knight of Camelot flinched, gazing at the hand of his king. "My lord," Gregor sternly spoke," you mayhaps recant your oath, but mine remains." Slowly, he removed his arm from Richie's grasp, deliberately pulling back. "I will fight for you. Even die if that is your wish. But I will not dishonor myself with your desires. Ask me no more, banish me if need be, but turn your attentions elsewhere." Looking up, their eyes locked, a cold, hard glint reflecting the light from the dark knight's eyes. Hate, disgust, anger; all mixed together and barely restrained. The conquered animal, daring the hunter to reach closer.
Something inside Richie knotted, a primal urge to flee bubbling in his gut. He stood, retreating from the window two steps. There he paused, wanting to say something but afraid. He quickly turned back and continued across the room, reaching the door, as the soft voice spoke again. "What of Gwen, my lord? And Percival? Or the other knights? Have you bid them shun me? Solitude is no stranger, Arthur. You may chain me in your darkest dungeon before I forswear my pledge."
"I have made no edict against you, friend," echoed a voice more past than present, as the future king stopped in his tracks. "They have important work to do and cannot spare even a moment. Work you would join, ere your health improves." Barely turning his head back to Gregor, the red haired Immortal paused, judging his words. "Even the mightiest warrior faces injury, and weakness. It is their duty to rest, and heal, to carry the fight another time. Now is your time to rest, and heal. We can argue later."
Only a step Gregor took, accustomed to the fire called Arthur, as if trying to warm himself. "I feel no ill, my lord. Though, in truth, Merlin did say much the same to me."
"Merlin was here?" The voice deepened, the tone darkened. A feeling of deja vu flittered at the edge of Richie's mind. The only people that had spoken to Gregor were the doctors and... {Joe. Damn!}
"Aye. He bade me let his bleeders prod and poke me, in hopes of their learning a lesson he taught about our kind. He told me I have a sickness of the brain, my lord. A sickness that..." The knight faltered, his voice trailing into silence. In a flash, he was on his knees, bowing in front of Richie, head almost at the redhead's feet, the words a jumble. "I beg your forgiveness, my king. My mind is ill, and the words I carelessly bespoke are not of my heart. If your desire is..."
Richie stopped him, reaching down and grabbing the hairs on the nape of Gregor's neck and pulling him up. "Augie," he began, freezing as his stood face to face with his black haired friend. "We will talk of this later. Now rest." And then he was out the door, running down the corridors of Freedom. Fleeing the vision in his mind, the feelings that overwhelmed him. He locked himself in his cabin, alone, crawling into a corner. Pulling himself into a ball. Wishing the undescribable emotions would go away.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Begin diary entry, January 19, 2026, Richie MacLeod. I'm sitting here on the observation deck in Cylinder Two, or 'the Farm' as some of the younger crowd call it. They come here, to the acres and acres of growing, living things to get away from the cold, still life up here. Why am I here? Below are Lucas and my son, walking up and down the trails. He's better, almost well, but still weak, needing these moments of exercise. Why does the help of his friend bother me? Their closeness? Yet here I am, day after day, watching like... like a Watcher. I wonder if he hates it as much as I did? Duncan found Connor's sword, and what was left of the body outside Cairo. His katana is sitting on the table, right here in front of my face. We buried him beside his tower in Scotland... God, Dougal looked so old. But very proud of his daughter, Jeannie. We all stayed for the Games the next week, one bright spot in this dark night.
" We've had two more bombs here, both found before exploding, but... Our luck won't hold for ever. The science people are gone, except Lucas, and most of the other personnel are on Earth. All that's left is a skeleton crew, fifty-seven of us. So where do I concentrate? The accidents? Morgana? My son? The Jupiter probe we're launching today? Which gets my attention, which languishes in the dust? And who am I to make that choice? Who... am I? End entry."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"The ARCHIMEDES is moving to the launch coordinates. T minus ten minutes and counting," Freddie announced to the control room. The place was crowded with everyone left on the station. Richie turned to Wendy, asking her to patch in Mel. A beep later, and Freedom was connected to the ship.
Richie smiled, talking to the empty air. "Well, Captain Davis. Ready for a grand adventure?" The brunette appeared on the main viewscreen, blushing. At twenty-five, she shared all the characteristics of the Davis children; bright, competent, over-achievers, and much loved by Richie. Where as Jonathan was studious, and Maxwell athletic, Melinda was the adventuresome one. She practically murdered the competition to get this job. And kept it by not giving anyone a reason to want to replace her.
"Stop it, Uncle Richie. The only reason you made me a captain is you needed someone young and pretty for this ten year trip. I still think Jeremiah should be the one going!" Mel brushed the hair out of her eyes as she called up the preflight checks again. Richie spared his son a glance, sitting at the secondary engineering station, before replying.
"Now, honey, you don't expect me to let him leave just when he got back. Besides, this will keep you from complaining you have nothing to do." A few old-time station personnel got a chuckle from that exchange. Mel just glowered on the screen, a look she used to keep most of the eligible bachelors at a distance. Nothing was going to hold her back.
"A three year trip to a ball of ice, four years of surveying the neighborhood, and then another three years home doesn't strike me as exciting. Unless we find little green men." With a snort, she turned back to the controls, issuing orders to the bridge crew around her.
Lucas commented under his breath. "They're not little, and they sure ain't green." Jeremiah leaned over and hushed him with a grin on his face. Lucas couldn't help grinning back. "And if you think of even looking at Jupiter, I will break both of your legs." They laughed as Freddie called out.
"T minus four minutes. Engines to full. Thrusters at station keeping. You are clear for vector 7-5-9."
The assembly held their breath as the four minutes went by. At zero, a flash of light and the needle shaped ship moved out of orbit, heading past the moon. Comments went back and forth, all systems green. The ship had just slipped behind the moon as another bright flash occurred, the monitors and telemetry going black at the same time. It took only seconds for the technicians to find the problem. Freddie announced it to everyone present.
"She... blew up. The ARCHIMEDES is... gone. Destroyed."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Begin diary entry, March 9, 20... Wendy, not now! Tell them to wait. Begin diary... What does Dougal want?... Oh my... NO! GO TO RED ALERT! Freddie, get Duncan, Fitz, Gilly,... and Joe. Have them meet me at the DARIUS and tell them to bring their swords.................."
Bay 2-2 was little bigger than the supply shuttle DARIUS, not much room between the corridor and the ship. Richie burst through the hatch with his sword, surprised that someone had beaten him here. It took him a second to realize it was his son, wearing fatigues, with sheathed sword in hand, moving to the pilot's chair. "Now just a damn minute..." he began until he was pushed from behind by Duncan entering the craft, almost knocking Excaliber from his hands.
Jeremiah took that moment to turn his head back, talking as he fastened his safety belts. "If you want to land as soon as possible, you need the best. I'm the best." Then he was busy at the controls, the sound of servos and machines coming online. Another person pushed past him, catching the last of the statement.
"He's right," Fitz admitted, stopping. "He's the best. Do you want to waste time and argue?" Richie looked at Fitz before turning to look at his son again, both Immortals being shoved apart by a blond, racing for the other front chair. Lucas Wolenczak.
"Not on your life..." Jeremiah said when he noticed his co-pilot. "At least stay in the shuttle, Lucky." Lucas just locked his belts and began activating the auxiliary controls. He flashed a quick grin at the pilot and then turned back to the panels, ignoring everyone. Richie resigned himself to the fact that no one was listening to anything he said, instead watching Fitz help Duncan with the safety harness.
Jeremiah's voice came from the front, going down the flight list. Each item received a confirmation from Lucas as they waited for Joe. "Gravity Plates. Gyros. Engines to standby." Joe rushed by, Richie keying the hatch closed. Both raced for seats as Richie announced their readiness. "Screw it," Jeremiah yelled over the whine as he keyed the outside door to blow. The explosion was barely heard over the shuttle noise, the only change was the sudden blackness out the portholes. Looking out the front windows, the Earth rose from below, the engines kicking in, pressing everyone into their seats as they shot out of the bay.
"Available power to heat shields. Going to full throttle," Jeremiah announced.
"Roger, internal gravity to standby, augmenting shields. Engines at 110 of max," Lucas replied. Sitting back, enjoying the roller coaster ride, Richie grudgingly admitted the compatibility of the two young men, at least in this instance. The rush of adrenaline hit with the acceleration as they dove for the planet, Richie reflecting on the call that provoked all this mayhem.
"Encountering turbulence. Activate defensive grid."
"Grid activated. Engines at 140 of max. Shields holding. Height, eight clicks and closing."
Dougal MacLeod, present chief of Clan MacLeod, had called on an emergency channel, asking for help at Dunvegan Castle, on the Isle of Skye. Before being cut off, Dougal had started to report an attack by forces unknown. And swords. All other details were lost as the signal faded. Richie guessed it was an attempt to draw him away from Freedom. One he couldn't ignore. {I'm too predictable.}
"Four clicks and closing fast. Jerry, now would be a good time to pull up..."
It wouldn't be too hard to figure out Richie and Dougal were good friends, especially the last ten years. The Scot was one of the few people left on Earth that Richie would protect at all costs. But something nagged the Immortal's thoughts, something about Dunvegan...
"Height, one click and steady. ETA Scotland, two minutes. Local radar indicates heavy thunderstorms, possibly severe. All hands, prepare for maneuvers."
Dunvegan Castle, ancestral home of Clan MacLeod. Dougal's home. And Jeannie's. An important place, of sorts. Isle of Skye. Home of Clan MacLeod. {I am Richard MacLeod of the Clan...}
[PROTECT THE FLAG!]
Richie flinched with a start, turning to Fitz sitting in the next seat. "What about the flag?" the redhead asked. The Englishman turned toward him, a funny look on his face.
"I don't know anything about a flag, Richard," Fitz replied, puzzled. He made a grab for his sword as the shuttle hit turbulence. Richie looked around, trying to guess who the comment had come from. No one looked as if they had spoken to him. A voice with no owner.
{Hello. Is anyone in there? Did someone say something?} No internal answer came. The voices rarely had spoken in decades, the novelty wearing off, the knowledge not worth the insanity. He had been cruel, and petty, even rude, until the voices finally stopped. Only the memories sometimes intruded, unbidden. But those could be tolerated. The voices, however...
{ { { { { August, 2007 { { { { {
"An' here is the pride an' joy of Clan MacLeod, American!" Dougal gushed to Richie, pointing at a frame on the castle wall. Inside, the tattered remains of cloth lay, faded and unraveling. Richie looked for anything special, seeing only an old scrap that probably should be thrown away.
"So?" Richie asked, not one for subtlety. He realized he had made a dreadful mistake when he saw Dougal's look of pained astonishment. The rest of the tour group had left, following the guide. Only the two MacLeod's were still in the room, one of Dunvegan's libraries.
"Dinna tell me no one has told you of the Fairy Flag? Auch, the bleedin..." Dougal cursed, shaking his head as he guided Richie to a bench in the hall. "Where ta' begin, lad. A long time ago, there was a lass, a fairy lass."
"You mean an Immortal," Richie dryly commented, forever trying to translate Dougal's stories into a reality he understood. The Scotsman looked upset at the interruption, a common occurrence between the two.
"Aye, an Immortal. But you're MacLeod, Richie. They're called *fairy*. Now as I was sayin', this lass fell in love with a clan chief, an' they lived together for a year. But fairykind found her, an' took her back. She left the chief her shawl, claimin' a MacLeod could use it to call for help three times. Twice, a chief of the clan has unfurled it. Connor came the last time, back in the 1600's." Dougal stopped, lost in memories of his youth. Richie sat and watched, not wanting to interrupt, knowing what memories could be like.
/It was Merlin's cloak, you know./
{Es? Is that you?}
/Of course. How many Immortal women would scandalize themselves with a mortal, even a good looking one like Ian MacLeod? Don't answer that. Nowadays it's very common, but back then.../
{Wait a minute. It was you Dougal was talking about? The fairy lass?}
/Didn't I just say that? Anyway, Arthur was so furious, he came and dragged me back. I told him I wouldn't stay. And I eventually found a way to leave even he couldn't stop.}
"What?" Richie asked, forgetting to not vocalize his thoughts. Dougal snapped out of his trance, thinking Richie spoke to him.
"Anyway, legend has it that the flag also possess magical powers, an' if someone other than a MacLeod touches it, well... It's no' a very pleasant thought." Dougal stood up, smacking his lips. "Care for a spot o' ale, lad? All this informin' tends to get a might tedious without a drink."
"Huh?" Richie was trying hard to handle the two conversations at once. {Es, come back. Es!} But a long time ago, he learned the voices only spoke when they wanted, and lately, they didn't want very much. He let Dougal lead him to the car, and off to the pub, a vision of Esmerelda clad in Merlin's cloak on a windy cliff floating in his mind. Driving, Dougal turned in the car and spoke to him, saying...
} } } } } } } } } }
"Thirty seconds to landing. I'm aiming for the parking lot. Throttle to half. In five... four..."
With a bump, they were down, the sound of the wild storm thundering around them, invading inside the shuttle. Belts unfastened, swords draw. They were ready. Even before the hatch had fully opened, they leapt out, military style. Fitz and Richie taking point, Joe next, unarmed, Jeremiah, katana drawn, bringing up the rear. Lucas hurried to a trapped Duncan, helping with the catches, as the other five moved away from the shuttle, rain already soaking their clothes.
They cautiously made their way across the asphalt to the hulking construction barely visible in the downpour. The area was briefly lit by a sudden flash of light, the thunder deafening only a second later. A black mass was revealed against the gray stone, another group making their way from the gate. Richie pointed to Fitz, and they were off across the flat surface at a dead run. The familiar warning hit as they approached, the genetic alarm informing them the other group had at least one Immortal as a member. Behind them, the others separated, preparing to flank the terrorists.
A shout over the weather came to them, their targets splitting up. Richie headed toward the buzz, hoping to engage the other Immortal. The shapes resolved into people, Richie heading for one holding a hostage. Another lightning flash, and the features of Dougal appeared, an arm in black around his neck. His captor flung him to the ground, drawing three feet of steel, waiting for the attack.
Richie deftly jumped over Dougal's sprawled body as a female scream pierced the air. Ignoring it, he thrust at the bald Immortal. Blocked, he ran by, trying a turn and slice from behind. It was anticipated and neatly countered. {Only the best has survived to the end of the Gathering.} He watched as two more enemies approached, a prayer for reinforcements on his lips. His attention was forced back to the other Immortal just as Jeremiah dove for the duo's feet, knocking them over. And then Richie was busy with the wildcat he faced, hoping his son would survive.
Fitz ran toward a group of three, two people in black herding the issuer of the scream. She was holding something, a package, as they hustled her in the direction of a troop transport, running lights blazing in the downpour. Never one to ignore a damsel in distress, he drew his sword, charging. They released her, scattering apart. She fell, the package slipping from her wet fingers, flying across the parking lot. It landed with a crunch of glass. Fitzcairn barely slowed, keeping both at bay. Smiling, he neatly dispatched one of the men in black, the other deciding against a confrontation as he ran toward the transport, leaving the Immortal unopposed.
Moving away from his father, Jeremiah kicked one of the fallen terrorists in the face, leaving himself open for a punch from the second. As the three fought, the battle slowly turned in favor of the duo. Jerry doubled his efforts, handicapped by his reluctance to draw his sword. Hand to hand he was no match for the experts facing him. It wasn't until one pulled an automatic weapon that he was forced to get serious, drawing his father's old katana. There he stood, in the rain, facing death with just a thin blade of steel. Odds he was getting use to. They stood as a blinding flash of light, tinged in orange, lit the sky. They expected a crash that never came, instead, the anguished wail of a man cut the night air from across the parking lot.
Fitz was down, surrounded by orange tendrils of energy, writhing on the pavement. Behind him, leaving the shelter of the troop transport, a hooded figure advanced, hands forward, walking slowly to the downed Immortal.
Dougal ran across the parking lot, looking for Jeannie. Finding her unhurt, he glanced around, judging if Richie or Jeremiah needed his help more. Another scream pierced the storm, the hooded figure shooting orange lighting at the writhing Fitzcairn. The clan chief was rising, planning to attack the mysterious person himself, when a ball of blue light shot between them, drawing their attention to Joe Dawson, patiently waiting. The figure cackled, abandoning the helpless Immortal and Scot, heading instead for the Watcher.
Weapon fire rang out over the storm, Jeremiah performing a bizarre dance as one of his opponents took a shot at him. He was thankful the thug was being careful not to hit his buddy currently engaged in hand to hand. It was the only thing keeping Jeremiah from being gunned down. Mysteriously, the man lowered the automatic, running away, heading toward Dougal. Faced with only one unarmed opponent, Jeremiah moved closer to his fallen sword, laying on the ground near the castle wall where it had been kicked. He managed to keep hold of the guy long enough to ram him head first into the stone, knocking him unconscious. Leaving the unmoving man behind, he scurried to his sword, blinded by the driving rain, bending to pick it up. The sharp click of a revolver in his ear, and the barrel appearing in his face stopped him. He slowly stood, sword still on the ground, standing face to face with the blond man in a trench coat, hidden in the shadow of the wall. The mortal looking down the barrel of a gun, aimed at his head. The blond man smiled.
Dougal lay grasping his daughter Jeannie, arms protecting her head from stray gunfire. Nearby, Fitz moaned, still in torment. His daughter pointed weakly where the flag had fallen. They both watched, helpless, as a terrorist ran toward it, his automatic weapon glinting in the lightning. Dougal cried out as the stranger reached for it, picking it off the ground, soaked cloth dripping in his hand. Suddenly, the man eerily glowed, brightening to a level that was painful to look at. With a crash, the light vanished, leaving only an outline of dust, scattered by the wind before it could fall to the ground. The orange flag fluttered gently to the wet grass, unaffected by the squall around it.
Richie had managed to knock the Immortal to the ground, stunned. Another cry of anguish rose above the thunder, drawing his attention momentarily. He had barely turned when he noticed his son at Dunvegan's wall, a gun in his face. Rage flashed as the trench-coated figure took aim. "Noooooooo...." Not really thinking, Richie grabbed Excaliber's hilt backwards. Taking two running steps, he hurled the massive sword like a javelin, straight at the man threatening his son. It flew through the air, straight and true, lit by a marvelous display of lightning between the clouds overhead. It sliced into the man's wrist as the gun went off, bullet grazing Jeremiah's head, knocking him to the ground. The sword continued on, burying itself into the castle wall, pinning the wrist. The man shrieked, pulling at Excaliber, as the Immortal Richie battled grabbed him from behind.
Determined to rescue the flag, Dougal stood, catching sight of the man in the trench coat pulling out Excaliber, pinning his wrist to the wall. The man then ran toward the Scot, looking furiously behind at the unconscious Jeremiah. A flash of lightning momentarily blinded Dougal, and when his sight cleared, the man was before him, Excaliber in one hand, a revolver in the other. The thunder and the gunshot occurred simultaneously, the impact sending Dougal sprawling on the ground. The rain mixed with blood as he lay there, consciousness fading.
Dougal watched the arcane battle between Joe and the robed figure. Colors barely describable arced between the two, balls and bolts, like a bizarre tennis match. Occasionally a lob got through the other's protection, obviously causing pain, but neither could gain an upper hand. Dougal held Jeannie closer, praying this would soon be over.
Richie struggled futilely in the Immortal's grasp, watching helplessly as first his son, and then Dougal fell to the ground. He renewed his efforts as a new figure left the terrorist's transport, moving toward the still glowing Fitz, a fresh buzz signaling this also was an Immortal. Richie watched as the newcomer raised a sword, no one stopping him as he effortlessly beheaded the Englishman. In a rage, the redhead rammed his head backwards into the other's face, his skull crushing the nose and sending the fragments deep in the bald Immortal's brain, killing him instantly. Anger rushed through his body as the energy began coursing over Fitzcairn's body. The newcomer raised his hands and sword, ready to receive the Quickening. With no time to spare, Richie closed his eyes, pulling mentally with all the concentration he had.
Weakly, Jeremiah forced himself to sit up. His head pounding, he saw lightning play over Fitz's body across the parking lot, a new person standing next to it with sword raised. Small bolts of energy shot between the two, as a ghostly fog spread from the dead body. Eyes closed, the stranger waited, but the bolts suddenly veered away, shooting across the space to his father, followed closely by the fog. The bolts got stronger, and more numerous, the stranger finally opening his eyes. There was murder in them as he saw the last of the Quickening enter Richie, who collapsed on the ground, moaning. The stranger's voice cut through the storm, straight to Jeremiah's soul.
"That wasn't very nice, father. But that's fine. I'll take your head now, and no one is left to stop me. Say goodbye, Pendragon..."
Forgetting the pain in his head, not noticing the blood in the storm, Jeremiah forced himself to stand, searching for a way to save his helpless father. On the ground, faintly glowing orange, was a piece of cloth. The mysterious, magical flag, on the other side of Dougal and Jeannie. Jeremiah started running.
More powerful spells shot between Dawson and the robed one. Jeannie watched, terrified to move from her injured father, as the light made strange patterns and shapes, dragons and snakes. The lights stopped as Joe dropped his arms, a blade sprouting from his chest, the blood stain growing on his shirt. A look of shock crossed his face, then pain, as the sword was twisted. Dawson died slowly, watching his life drain like the blood on the sword, washed away in the rain. The man behind him, in the trench coat, used his foot to pry the dead body off the sword, the robed figure cackling in glee. The hood was thrown back, the wild hair of an old crone revealed in flashes of lightning. "I warned you, mortal," Morgana cackled, her eyes alight with an unearthly glow. She ran for Joe's body, gleefully chuckling as the other man wiped the sword. Together they turned as Jeremiah approached, Jeannie following their gaze as the young man picked up the flag, racing back to his father.
The pain faded from Richie's body as the new Immortal approached. He was still crouched on the ground, weak and exhausted from the Quickening. Looking up, he saw the other raise the sword for the killing blow. "Mordred..." The name escaped his lips, the other smiling at the recognition. Arthur's bastard son. Suddenly a shape interposed itself, blocking Richie's view.
"I wouldn't count on it, if I were you," Jeremiah said, raising the flag like a shield. Presented this way, the glow intensified, growing. Mordred looked as if he would split it asunder as the crone approached, the trench coated man following.
"No matter what you think, my son, it still is Merlin's cloak. We are stymied," she said, pulling on his sleeve.
"Perhaps, but this young pup is wielding it, and he is no more MacLeod than I. Its power is gone," Mordred replied, again readying the blow.
Jeremiah gritted his teeth, trying to send all his energy into the flag. "MacLeod is a state of mind, you bastard." He was rewarded by a large burst of orange, a ghostly wall spreading out from the flag, separating the two groups.
"You have determination, brother mine, but that won't save him in the end. Nor you." Mordred saluted at the father and son, turning and walking toward the transport. Jeremiah stood frozen until it took off, running lights disappearing into the storm. Only then did he drop his arms, relaxing. At that moment the pain caught up with him. And the blood loss. He was unconscious on the ground as Richie struggled to stand, first looking at his son, then Fitz, finally Gillian and Joe. Without a word, he walked over to the recovering Immortal he fought earlier, decapitating him with his own sword.
"Rot in Hell, you miserable..."
And again Richie accepted a Quickening, this one leaving him moaning in the mud, his body curled protectively into a ball. Around him, people were picking up the pieces. Dougal was standing over Fitz's body, Jeannie helping Jeremiah to stand, the Scottish lass holding a cloth torn from her skirt to his head. She helped him limp toward the shuttle, Dougal staggering over to help Richie. Shaking off his friend's assistance, the lone Immortal forced himself to stand, heading after his son, leaving Dougal behind. Richie caught up with his son, passing him. He jumped up the step into the DARIUS, almost tripping over the body of Lucas lying near the hatch. He caught himself, straightening as Jeremiah and Jeannie got there, his son's shout of concern echoing in the cabin.
Richie found Duncan sprawled next to the co-pilot's chair, sword still in the sheath. A quick search revealed the tiny dart in his chest, the point still glistening with a drop of black moisture. A check for pulse was futile, the body already turning cold and clammy. Stepping back, he turned and found himself standing over Lucas, Jeremiah pulling a similar dart from the back of the blond's neck. A similar check found a weak pulse, and a slow, but steady breath. Relieved, Jeremiah dragged the scientist to a chair as Richie helped Dougal inside the shuttle. Richie asked his son if he could fly the DARIUS, Jeremiah shaking his head yes, quietly asking Jeannie to help. The pair sat, Richie manhandling Duncan's body into another seat. Two more trips in the rain, and the Immortal had the two bodies stowed in the cargo compartments. The thunder roared as they took off, Richie's mind slowly shutting down, numb, only one thought running over and over in his mind.
{Mordred...}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Richie sat alone in his darkened cabin, watching the file of Duncan's debriefing repeatedly. "Lucas had just undone my belts, then he turned and walked to the hatch. As I stood, he turned around, then collapsed on the floor. I looked up just in time to see a small object shoot at me, landing in my chest. I started for the com panel when I felt weak, falling down. That's all I remember." It was all Richie kept remembering. That and watching Mordred behead a good friend. He filled in the rest of the blanks, including Joe's death, from the other files. He had tried to get an accurate description of the mysterious man in the trench coat, but the weather made it impossible. The only other person who could positively identify him spent the battle lifeless in the DARIUS. Richie felt sure he was seeing things, his eyes playing tricks after receiving Fitz's Quickening. Besides, the man he thought he saw was dead. But then again, he had been dead before. The Immortal keyed a panel.
"Freddie, get me everything in the databases about a James Horton. Thanks."
His door chime rang again, an Immortal by the buzz. He didn't feel like speaking to either one left on the station. He slowly climbed into bed, pulling the covers to his chin, wishing desperately Grace was here. Or Connor. Or even the Gregor he knew. Anyone but Duncan.
The MacLeod in question stood with his head resting on the door, silently praying his friend would open up. He was tempted to yell like Richie had many months ago. Softly cursing, he banged his fist on the door, turned and left. Walking the corridors, trying to find someone to beat up. Fighting Immortals was perfect as the damage never was permanent, but he didn't think Gregor in his current condition would take kindly to a trouncing. But there was a mortal who loved to fight. {Now if I can just find her.}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Gillian was sitting on the sofa, leaning over to reach the glass of wine Duncan offered. He took the moment to gaze on her lycra clad form, always in top condition. Usually, his thoughts would turn more erotic, but the cloud of Fitz's death drove everything else away. Tonight, the lovely woman was not a possibility, just another of the Englishman's friends who needed to grieve. He noticed her appreciative look as he striped off his shirt, the shower his first. When he was finished, hair toweled dry, wrapped in a plush robe, she handed him his glass as she took over the bathroom. The vegetables were miraculously chopped, ready for his cooking expertise. Once clean, she found another robe, the sound of frying greeted her as she entered to living area. They ate off the coffee table, sitting on the floor, finally relaxed.
She spoke of meeting Fitz, working at a television station in Montreal. How she learned of his Immortality. What they meant to each other. Duncan was surprised at how little of their relationship he knew. Lovers, friends, partners; all spread out over twenty odd years. The coldness was just an act, to help them stay professional while on the job. What they really wanted was to....
Duncan knew the story well. As her tale faded to silence, not an awkward one, but one of peace, Duncan refilled their glasses. They clinked them, toasting their departed friend, the alcohol...
{ { { { { May, 1630 { { { { {
...slammed in front of him by the wench. He angrily grabbed at it, almost missing in his drunken daze. The crowd around him was lively, exuberant at the birth of Nathan's little boy. On and on they sang, occasionally bumping into the hunched over Highlander. Once, when he had almost forgotten the emptiness, a careless arm hit his back, jostling the last of the ale on the table. He rose, turning, hand forming into a fist, wanting to FIGHT SOMEBODY.
The other man easily grabbed Duncan's clenched fist as it flew unsteadily toward his face. It was simple to push the Highlander back on the bench. "What ho, my fine fellow?" the man asked in a decidedly English accent. Another mark causing Duncan's blood to boil. His drubbing at the hands of Hyde yesterday had given him the urge to hurt an Englishman. And lo, here was an English pig, ready for roasting.
"Ye...Ye made me spill mah drink..." he sputtered angrily, saliva spewing as he spoke. The smile he received in return was not what he expected. The stranger swung him around so he was facing the table again, walking around to sit across from him. "Yah... owe me... a drink!" he spat, again running his hand over the wet surface. The stranger laughed, holding up two fingers to a passing wench, sparing his other hand for a pinch as she strode by. Then a wink, and he was talking to Duncan, the words barely making any sense. All Duncan cared about was the mug that was set in front of him. Killing this pig could wait.
Somehow, they ended up toasting the King, the wench, the Duke of Kent, and Nathan and his wife. Duncan found himself standing in the almost empty room, the stranger trying to learn a jig from him. The Highlander stopped, setting the mug haphazardly on the table, turning to look in the stranger's eyes. "Have you seen Conno..." And then the lights went out.
Duncan came around laying on a table, the morning light shining through the open doorway as the innkeeper brought in wood. The fat man rolled Duncan onto the floor, kicking him and yelling for him to get up. Moments later, he found himself thrown outside on the ground, his head pounding. He stumbled to the water trough, immersing his head in the cold water, holding a lungful of air. When he couldn't hold his breath any longer, he tried raising his head, but there suddenly was a gloved hand on his neck keeping it underwater. In a moment of panic, he began to struggle, unable to breathe. His lungs bursting, almost passing out, and the hand disappeared, Duncan's head shooting up out of the water, his long hair slinging huge droplets flying in all directions. It took a second for him to focus on the Englishman from last night. "You bloody..."
Duncan stopped when he felt the sword point sticking in his throat. He slowly realized the pounding wasn't from the hangover, this man was an Immortal. The fop just smiled, reveling white teeth. "As a drunk, you certainly are entertaining. But in the morning, what a temper!" Duncan got angrier, mindlessly sneering, baring his teeth. "This young pup has a bite as well."
In his anger, Duncan thoughtlessly grabbed the blade of the foil with his bare hand. "I will no' be called..." The stranger pulled the blade away, slicing into Duncan's hand as it was removed. He reacted instinctively and pulled the hand away, grimacing at the pain as blood freely flowed for a minute.
"Then you are a fool, good sir. I pray you lose your pride before your head." With a mocking salute, the foil was sheathed, and the stranger walked to his horse, mounted, and rode off as Duncan watched.
} } } } } } } } } }
Gilly turned to him at the door as it opened. "Thank you, Duncan. You are a good friend," she told him, cupping her hands on his cheeks, feeling the tears from his eyes. He grabbed the hands in both of his, bringing them to his lips for a gently kiss.
"Anytime, my dear. Anytime."
She was gone, down the hall, Duncan left with the memory of Fitz still haunting his soul. Turning around, he caught sight of the pipe on the desk. Walking over, he picked it up, staring at it. Wondered if Fitz would think the same of him as Gillian did. Running his hand through his loose hair,...
{ { { { { May, 1630 { { { { {
... checking his leather headband. A swipe to brush a bit of dirt from his kilt, and he was ready, looking every bit the Highland warrior he was. Impressions counted at this moment, nervousness gone as he mounted the steps to the tavern. The horse he had been following whinnied behind him, his own mount answering. He opened the door...
...taking a look at the rough lot inside. There, in a corner, was the man he had chased this last fortnight. The Englishman. Confidently he strode across the room, low comments following him about his 'dress'. He expected as much here in Liverpool. He stood in front of the stranger's table, his presence already proclaimed by the annoying feeling of Immortals. "I am Duncan MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod. I think we need to go outside," he announced, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, for added emphasis.
"Hugh Fitzcairn, at your service, dear fellow," the Englishman replied. He gestured at the bench in front of Duncan. "I'd have thought you'd given up by now. I see I was mistaken." A small signal, and a mug appeared in front of Duncan, the wench gone before it had landed on the table. Duncan eyed the brew skeptically.
"You were mistaken abou' a lo' of things." He pushed the offending offering away, opening his mouth to add more insults. He didn't have time to speak, a calloused hand on his shoulder stopping him. Putrid breath wafted across his face as the man behind him laughed.
"It's one of them Scottish laddies, lost him mum, he did." The gathering crowd laughed as well. "Come on, boy. Show us what's under them skirts." Duncan growled, ramming his elbow in the gut of the farmer. The ugly lout went down with a huff, several others taking his place, pummeling the Highlander.
Duncan felt himself pulled into their midst, blows coming from all around. In such close quarters he couldn't draw his sword, so he returned the favor with blows of his own. He felt several connect with soft places, two men going down. But the odds were definitely against him. Fitz calmly stood, using his bench to neutralize several of the younger ones, pushed to the outside of the mob by their aggressive elders. By now it was hard to tell who was fighting who, Duncan struggling with anyone in his way, releasing all the frustrations about Connor and Hyde on the hapless victims. At one point, he saw the English Immortal fly across the bar, using the plump cook for a landing place. Both went down behind the bar, not to be seen before Duncan was forcibly turned and punched, sending him reeling over the very same bar.
He landed on Fitzcairn, flattening the Englishman. As they stood, mugs came flying in their general direction, forcing them to duck again. Fitz pointed behind Duncan, drawing his attention to the shuttered window at the end of the bar. Nodding his understanding, the Highlander ran toward it, raising his arms as he barreled through the shutters. With a crash, he was through, getting up as Fitz landed behind him. They dashed to their horses, mounting as quickly as possible. Already shouts were coming from the tavern, a few of the noncombatants running outside. With a "Hah!", the two were off, dashing through the foliage.
They stopped momentarily, in a clearing of sorts, waiting for signs of pursuit. The horses were breathing hard, the Immortals gasping as well. Duncan turned his mount in a circle, thoughts whirling in his brain. For some ungodly reason, he liked this man. Something about him touched a chord, one silenced since he left Connor. He knew it was a risk, but the thought of living for eternity alone was more terrible than knowing an Englishman. "My friends call me Duncan," he said, quieting his horse. Already, sounds of the chase grew louder.
"Fitz," the other replied, lifting the brim of his hat. With a yell, he struck his horse, plunging into the trees. Grinning, Duncan did likewise, already feeling better. The branches grabbed at his body, limbs raking his chest...
} } } } } } } } } }
...as he slid the robe off his body, rummaging in the closet for sweatpants. Keying the lights to a low setting, he began a kata, hoping it would ease the pain for just once in his life. The angry sound of the com cut the stillness like a knife, sending another rush of anger through him. Sitting at his desk, he activated the monitor, a dark shape appearing on the screen.
"Things didn't go so well, MacLeod," the soft voice hissed. James Horton stepped into the light, eyes glinting evilly. "He'll have to be punished for that. I hope the bomb in the control center works better, or I might finally learn how much pain will make an Immortal go insane. He's awfully close. Care to see for yourself?" The scene changed to an overhead shot of Connor's cell, the naked Immortal dancing spastically as his bare skin touched the metal floor and walls. Sometimes sparks occurred as the electricity was poured into the room, Connor wailing from the pain, sounding like an animal at times, echoing in the small cell. Duncan shut his eyes, aching to turn it off, but that would only add to the torture. He sat in darkness, hearing the screams of his kinsman, praying it would end soon. The sound suddenly stopped, replaced by the oily tones of Horton. "Remember, Highlander. No mistakes. I might forget to shut it off next time." The connection went dead, but the sound of the screaming continued to haunt Duncan, tormenting him as he sat at the desk for the rest of the night.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Part 4 ---------- Skean Dubh
"Begin entry. March 13. On this day, we surrender our friend, Joe Dawson, to the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Dear God, what am I suppose to do now?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Dearly beloved..." began the priest. Richie glanced across the casket, watching Harold and Lynn Floyd, Joe's only relatives. {Not counting the brother-in-law from Hell. Again!} Gilly stood next to Duncan, who was still not recovered from the double losses. Jeremiah, Lucas, and Wendy formed a threesome off to the side, both of the men holding umbrellas. Richie never minded the rain, always thinking it was God crying. {Now who told me that one? Emily Ryan?} Jonathan Davis and family were in the small crowd somewhere, lost among the other Camelot employees and still-living Watchers. Lynn had limited it to fifty people, according to her uncle's wishes. Platitudes were said, rituals observed, and Joe was lowered into the ground, a stunning reminder that Death would somehow take its due, even from Immortals. As the dirt was shoveled on the coffin, Lynn again broke out in hysterics, anguished wailing radiating across the cemetery. People came by to offer their condolences, leaving the six from Freedom last.
Lucas and Wendy went first, meaningless words of sympathy uttered on both sides. Jeremiah said nothing, wordlessly handing Lynn a poem he had written for Joe in third grade. She silently slipped it into her purse before giving the young man a kiss on the cheek. Richie went next, knowing Duncan might not move for decades, offering anything Camelot could do for the family. Lynn nodded, promising to call in a few days. Richie walked away a few yards, turning to wait for Duncan. The Highlander said a few words to Gillian, who left him, walking to join Jeremiah as he left the grave site. Duncan meandered around the hole, stopping in front of Lynn. She also spoke to her husband, asking him to give the two a moment. Harold moved to the children, slowly walking the other direction to the limousines.
"I am so terribly sorry..." Duncan began, clutching Lynn's hands in his own. He learned long ago, any words he said were useless, wasted energy. Knowing there were others on the planet, sharing the loss, was the only thing that really helped. And knowing a better place was waiting.
Lynn looked into his eyes, tears streaming from hers. "I was there... when your father died. He saved Uncle Joe from... my father. I asked him why... Why do people have to die? I still don't have a good answer. Only questions..." Far away, the thunder rumbled, an echo of a night long ago. The night James Horton should have died. More words were exchanged, finally a hug. Then Lynn was running to her husband, leaving Duncan alone at the pit. He turned, looking down in the dark recess, pulling the boutonniere off his suit, dropping it into the grave. A farewell.
Richie waited until Duncan had finished, walking with him to the shuttle. They were the last to board, taking seats in the back. Jeremiah's smooth piloting had them at Freedom in moments. The two Immortals waited in the corridor, watching the other four people make their way down the hall, off to find their own way to grieve. Richie spoke to Duncan, not taking his eyes off the younger generation. "I should box up Joe's things and give them to Lynn tomorrow at the reading. Feel like helping?" he asked, finally turning to look up into Duncan's face.
The other Immortal silently nodded, the slack face not yet giving way to sorrow. He tried to speak, his voice not working. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "I'll bring... a bottle," he said. Richie agreed, knowing each of them needed time alone, before they made time to help each other.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"I feel like... like a peeping Tom, Mac," Richie said, digging in the cabinets for two glasses. Duncan took the time to study the bookshelves, never really spending any time in a place Joe lived. He picked up a picture of Joe and his son, taken thirty or so years ago. Richie came, holding the glasses, looking at the photo in Duncan's hand. "Yeah. Joe and Jeremiah Dawson. What a pair." The redhead turned, crossing to the table and the bottle.
Duncan looked from the picture to Richie, watching him open the bottle. "I never knew Jeremiah really well. You and Greg didn't talk about him much. Even after his death..."
"Well, you and I weren't the closest of buddies back then. Living on separate coasts does that, I imagine. Besides, I don't remember you ever asking." Richie downed his first glass all at once, pouring himself a refill. "He was a... good man. They both were. A toast!" he suddenly said, raising his glass. "To the Dawsons, may God have mercy on their souls for knowing us!" And down the gullet went his second glass, the sharp sound of it being slammed on the table echoing in the quiet room.
Duncan turned back to the shelves, returning the picture, not wanting to comment. Instead he moved along the shelf, finding a leather pouch, tied shut with a drawstring. Intrigued, he brought it to the table, showing it to Richie. "What have we here?" he rhetorically asked, knowing his friend probably wouldn't answer.
Richie just leaned closer, empty glass still in his hand. "Not a clue. Joe was a sneaky little bastard. And full of secrets." Duncan's sober fingers pried the knot apart, allowing the small bag to open. Upending it on the wood surface, several small, flat stones fell out, scattering. Duncan began turning them over, each bearing a cryptic rune on one side. "Those look like the things Darius sent you that one time," Richie pointed out. Duncan moved them about, trying different combinations, until he had settle on the one that looked the best. He read them silently, over and over, wondering what the mystifying message meant. "Spill it, Mac," Richie ordered, nudging Duncan's arm. "What does it say? Is it from Darius?"
"I believe so," Duncan replied, his voice so deep it was rumbling. "It roughly translates into 'the dark night is upon me. Prepare. Watch the intended.' And the symbol that represents lightning. I can't place that one." He tried again, moving the lone rune around, adding it here and there, no combination feeling definite.
Richie had meanwhile dug a scrap of paper from the pouch, unfolding it on the table by the stones. It was a Federal Express slip, the writing almost faded. "It's an overnight form. From Paris to... looks like the address of the bookstore Joe owned. Dated..." Richie squinted, not able to puzzle out the numbers. Duncan reached for it, moving it around in the light. Suddenly he stopped, setting the paper down, looking absently into the air.
"Dated the day before Darius died. He knew, damn it! He knew..." Duncan lost all control then, crumpling to the floor. Richie bent down, not knowing how to help. The com buzzed, drawing the redhead away from his old mentor.
Stumbling over Duncan to the desk, punching the button harder than necessary, Richie spat a "What?", drinking straight from the bottle. Wendy's voice sounded upset, informing him that Lynn Floyd was on channel five, wanting to speak to Duncan. Richie had Wendy connect the call, turning and finding the Highlander right behind him.
"What can we do for you, Lynn?" Duncan softly said, reaching around Richie to rotate the monitor so it faced the two Immortals. Richie, trapped between Duncan and the desk, turned back and sat in the chair, Duncan leaning in over his shoulder. A sad face appeared, even more red and puffy than that afternoon.
Her voice shook, but underneath was strength. "I forgot to tell you something at the..." She took a moment to wipe her nose, the two men patiently waiting. "Uncle Joe wanted me to give you a message before the service. I was to tell you 'never teary'. He didn't explain what it meant, just that you would understand."
Duncan leaned in closer, talking right in Richie's ear. "Never teary? That's it? I have no idea what it means. There was nothing else?"
Lynn sniffed. "Oh, there was plenty of stuff like that in his instructions. Having the funeral exactly ninety-six hours after his death, the closed casket. He even refused to donate any organs or such, didn't want an autopsy, no matter how he died. Lots of weird stuff, but that was all that related to you." She thought a minute, adding, "I haven't seen the will, there could be more about it in there. You and Richie will be there tomorrow?"
"Of course we will, Lynn," Richie replied, noticing Duncan had started pacing the room. He reached up to switch off the monitor, reflecting, "Joe was always one to make sure you eventually got the message. Good night, Lynn. Give my best to Harold and the kids." And with a touch, the communication was over, the questions multiplying instead of dividing. "Of all his bizarre stunts, this takes the cake."
Duncan continued walking, getting angrier as he muttered 'never teary' under his breath. Richie was getting sick watching the movement, struck by a stray thought. How strange Joe could be sometimes. It came to him, a mental picture of Joe, back in his forties, cane and pepper hair. Commenting on the pigeons in Paris. The stupid pigeons...
{ { { { { { { { { {
...cooed as the old man fed them supper. Richie was getting upset at the delay, such a trivial matter that someone unimportant could handle. A foolish suggestion as NO ONE was to supervise the birds. On pain of death. Many of them. He reached his limit, barking, "Enough, old man. What shall I do about tomorrow? About Mordred? You must have a plan."
The old man turned, flicking weary eyes over Richie. "Yes. I have plans. I always do. Take my dear apprentice. She has plans of her own. Plans that require my plans. As my plans need hers. And through all this weaves your plans. Or lack there of." The man threw the last of the seed at a bird, dusting the remaining flack from his hands, moving closer to Richie. "I take everything into consideration. Even spoiled children. Now go, before I *use* one of my plans on you. That's how your father died. One of *my* plans." The eyes flashed, hinting at great power. Power that could easily destroy Richie. Power barely held in check.
Richie left, his feet moving of their own accord. Once in the courtyard, the fear left him, leaving him as bitter as usually. Mimicking the old man, he haughtily intoned, "He always has a plan. He always...
} } } } } } } } } }
...has a plan..." Richie sat quietly in a chair, hand rubbing his chin. He looked up, noticing Duncan had stopped pacing and was watching him, a curious expression on his face. One that meant Richie should explain. "Merlin always had a plan. That was one of his favorite boasts. Being prepared for anything that could happen. It always seemed like he knew the future."
"Like Darius," Duncan commented. "He dreamt of his death, and tried to tell me about it. But I was too stupid to listen. He sent Joe a warning as well. What was Joe trying to say? 'Never teary'." Duncan finally filled his glass, sloshing the liquid around, wandering randomly around the room.
"Closed casket. No autopsy. Sounds like one of us, Mac. But Joe wasn't an Immortal. Besides, Lynn didn't wait four days before burying him. So why is tomorrow so special to be buried?" Richie leaned back in the chair, his head hurting from the thoughts going around in circles. The alcohol didn't help either.
"Because it would be too late. Just like an Immortal... 'Never teary'... Damn it! Nefertiri!" Duncan shouted as he slapped the counter top, the loud noise hurting Richie's ears. "That's it," Duncan continued. "He was telling me Nefertiri." The Highlander came over, roughly dragging Richie to his feet, propelling him out the door. "Get your car warmed up. I'll meet you there. He's planning on coming back, but Lynn buried him too soon. We buried him ALIVE, Richie." He was off, running down the corridor, Richie left standing, watching the ponytail flop around Duncan's back. The words echoed, finally cutting through his fog shrouded brain. Then he too was running....
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Duncan's shovel was the first to strike the metal coffin. The two Immortals were knee deep in mud and water, the incessant storm not stopping for them. Richie tried bailing the water out with a bucket from the car, Duncan clearing more mud from the coffin. He tried yelling instructions to the redhead, but the furious storm overpowered all sounds. He then pantomimed using the shovel to lever the lid open. Richie nodded his understanding, moving to the other side of the casket. On the third attempt, the shovels visibly moved, the muddy water being displaced suddenly. Panicked, Duncan began prying off the lid, hoping Dawson didn't drown before getting him out. The lid came off, the Highlander handing it to Richie as he dived in the muck, trying to find the body. It felt like minutes passed as Richie threw the lid out of the hole, but suddenly Duncan surfaced, cradling Joe's head in his hands, keeping it above water. It took both of them to lift Dawson out of the grave, letting him lie on the mushy grass as they found a pulse. And breath. Then they sat back and laughed, not minding the downpour, as the mortal choked and gasped between them.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Well, not having anything to go on, mind you, I'd say he'll be fine," Dr. Mitchum commented to Richie and Duncan, all three watching Joe Dawson talk to Jeremiah Russell across the sickbay, the younger man sporting a bandage around his head. Richie expressed his thanks to the doctor before the man moved on to other patients. The two Immortals walked over in time to catch the last of Dawson's comment.
"...all my secrets, young Jeremiah. Let's just call it magic." His eyes alighted on his new guests, a smile appearing on his face. "And my rescuers. What did the doctor have to say?"
"To shoot you now," Richie said, "and put you out of our misery." That drew a chuckle. "Really, he says you'll be fine. Until Lynn gets a hold of you." He stopped talking when Jeremiah broke in, telling them he had to go. Motioning to Duncan, the two walked to the door, leaving Joe and Richie alone. "What do you remember? About the fight?"
Dawson looked skeptical. "You mean my dear *dead* brother-in-law showing up? Talk about a bad penny!" Richie instinctively glanced at the retreating Duncan, gauging to see if he could have heard. A move Joe picked up on. "You haven't told him, have you."
Richie shook his head. "What can you say? 'I *think* your worse nightmare is up and walking again? For the third or fourth time? By the way, Mac, nice haircut.' I don't see it happening." He sat on the bed, looking at Joe Dawson, trying to decide how much of Merlin was there, and how much of Arthur he was willing to acknowledge. "You knew it was going to happen."
"I guessed. It was only a matter of time before they drew you out. The Gathering has been whittled down to four. And if Morgana is involved, I'm involved. Chances were I'd die."
"Four?" Richie asked surprised. Understanding dawned. "You mean one of them and three of us. If you can count Augie."
Dawson only smiled, adding cryptically, "Greg's the least of your problems. Now is the time to get your house in order." The old man reached over, pressing the call button. A perky medical type appeared, Joe asking for supper from her. Turning to Richie, he raised his eyebrows, pointing after the woman. Richie shook his head 'no' at the silent offer of supper. Dawson shrugged. "Whatever. You'd better get going. I believe the information you wanted from the database is ready." Richie just laughed, amazed, promising to stop by later.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The gulls cried along the Florida coast, Jeremiah and Duncan walking in the sand barefoot. The mortal had been quiet all the way down from Freedom, even while taking off his shoes and shirt. Now he seemed anxious to talk, just afraid of how to start. Duncan stopped, venturing a guess. "Is this about your father?" The other's startled look revealed how close to the mark he had come. "Problem? Or do you want to know something?"
Jeremiah sighed. "A little of both, really. You've known him for a long time, haven't you?" The water rushed up the sand, running over their feet. Duncan motioned to a spot, not wanting to walk and discuss this at the same time. The Highlander sat lotus fashion, Jeremiah joining him on the sand, sitting and pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.
Duncan looked out over the water, remembering. "I met him back in... '92, his eighteenth birthday. He's told me a smattering of his life before that time. I saw him fairly often until he graduated in 2000. We've had no contact for the last twenty years. Does that help?"
"A little," Jeremiah replied. "What was he like, as a kid?"
"Well, let's see. He was robbing the antique store when I first met him. In fact, he didn't really break that habit for a couple of years. Never listened, controlled by his hormones. Incredibly obnoxious. Got into all sorts of trouble. Cocky. That's the word. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Was he a... good person?" Jeremiah hesitantly asked, confusion on his face.
Duncan shrugged. "For a teenager, sure. Tried to do the right thing, always apologizing when he screwed up. Don't get me wrong, he could cross the line. But that happens with youth. Trying to test the bounds." The Highlander softly laughed. "I wouldn't use the term 'straight-laced', but all in all, yes. What's bothering you?"
Jeremiah just shook his head, asking another question. "Is he anything like Arthur?"
Duncan stood, nervous, dusting the sand off his pants. "What does that have to do with Richie?"
"I want to know if he's like Arthur," Jeremiah repeated, standing also.
Duncan moved up to him. "What happened?" he asked again. Jeremiah broke, turning away, ashamed at what he was thinking.
"I've been talking to Uncle Greg... He's been telling me about Camelot, what happened back then. About Gwen, and Gawain. And himself. Especially Arthur. Some of the stories are... scary. Terrible. Joe told me Arthur planned to come back. That's why my father is here. He's Arthur. Reborn. It scares me, because I think he could be. Could be capable..." Jeremiah shivered at the pictures he imagined, the things he thought his father might do.
Even though it was hot and humid, Duncan still saw the tremors along the mortal's bare back. "Richie isn't Arthur. Maybe in body, but certainly not in spirit...."
"Tell me he's never cut off someone's hands," Jeremiah suddenly asked. "Tell me."
The gulls cried in the emptiness. Duncan melted inside, not wanting to answer. The silence was answer enough. It looked to him as if Jeremiah wilted, grew smaller in some way. Growing uncomfortable staring at the mortal's back, Duncan looked around, noticing for the first time the sun was setting. And it was getting cold.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Richie's door buzzed, Freddie's voice blaring over the com. Once inside, the technician set a huge folder on Richie's desk, full of paper. Richie looked up as it landed with a thump, noticing the strange look in Freddie's eyes. The mortal didn't say a word, just turned and left without making eye contact. Puzzled, Richie went through the file, noticing one of the last pages was wet, drops of water making the paper soggy. Reading the section, he noticed it was Horton's last attempt at killing Duncan in Paris. The fake Tessa, the pretender Pete. His gaze locked on Pete's biography, noticing the last name. Peter Cummings. A light ignited in his head. Freddie Cummings. {Damn! He didn't even bother changing his name. Not that I ever would have guessed. Damn, damn, damn.} Richie turned to the keyboard, accessing the Freedom personnel database.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The fire Duncan had built blazed into life, lighting the small section of beach. They hadn't left this spot, not even returning to the shuttle for Jeremiah's clothes. Duncan thought the night air was nothing compared to the cold Jeremiah felt inside. The mortal sat there, silently, arms wrapped around his torso, staring into the flames.
"Do you think my father loves me?" he suddenly asked, startling the Highlander. Duncan looked up across the fire, catching Jeremiah's intense gaze. "I mean, am I more than a responsibility of his? Did he even want me?"
Duncan took a moment, realizing how delicate his answer had to be. "I only know what I've seen these last few months. When you were gone, on the PROMETHEUS, he was a bundle of nerves, worried. Now that you're here, it's like a cloud has been lifted." The Highlander cocked his head, a questioning eyebrow raised.
"But is that because of love, or his promise to my parents? Does he protect me because it's his duty?" The young man's voice sounded more frustrated, more aching. And softer. Treading on long unspoken territory. "Grace resented me. She though I was a pest."
"That doesn't sound like the Grace I knew," Duncan retorted, unconsciously shaking his head. "She would be the first to smother..." He stopped as Jeremiah stood up.
"You *don't* understand!" the young man spat, turning away from the fire, walking to the surf. The moon reflected of the silvery water, the mortal lost in shadows of the night. Duncan slowly followed, trying to help the tension between father and son.
"I understand that every relationship, be it man and wife, lovers, friends, or even parents and children, is different. There is nothing to compare what the two of you bring to it. You don't have blood connecting you, but you have something stronger. Love." Duncan stopped behind Jeremiah, taking in the view as the mortal saw it. "Richie and your parents were the best of friends. He didn't have to think twice about adopting you. It wasn't easy, and not something done lightly, but he felt it was his responsibility. And he does love you. He gave up so much because of you, and even now, he has no regrets."
Jeremiah was quiet, absorbing everything. "How can you be sure? How do you know?"
Duncan chuckled. "If he only felt it was his duty to raise you, he wouldn't have though twice about forbidding you to go to Mars. And found some way to keep you here. It took love, a special love, to let you go so far away. That's how I know." The Immortal put his hand on the young man's shoulder, remembering other men he had befriended over the centuries. "We do what we think is best, and hope we get it... My God, you're freezing!"
Duncan wrapped his arms around Jeremiah, distressed at the low body temperature. The young man's teeth chattered as he commented under his breath. "I've been so cold for so long..." Duncan half led, half carried him back to the fire, setting him down close to the flames. Adding more wood, building up the blaze, the Immortal knelt beside him, turning the unresisting face to look at him.
"We take love where we can find it, Jeremiah, in what ever way, shape, or form. And hold on for as long as it lasts. That's the only thing we really have."
"Even if he doesn't approve?" Jeremiah asked, his dark eyes black in the night.
"Of Lucas?" Duncan guessed. The young man slowly nodded. Duncan smiled, sitting again on the sand. "Let me tell you a story about a doctor named Michael ..."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Again Richie's door chimed. Still pouring over the file, he angrily yelled out. "Go away, damn it!" The door opened anyway, the one person with access storming in. Gillian Fenmore. "What, pray tell, do *you* want?" he asked, as she strode up to the desk.
Her face was filled with rage as she threw down a data cartridge on front of him, landing on the mass of paper. "I told you I didn't trust him. But no, you knew better... Don't worry, I've taken care of the surprise. I'll leave the traitor to you." With that, she turned and marched out of the room, leaving the stunned Immortal speechless. Slowly he reached forward, grabbing the media, carefully inserting it the reader. Ready for the show.
The screen flickered to life, the strange view from the ceiling of a shuttle interior taking shape. From the playback data at the bottom, it was the DARIUS, the night of the attack at Dunvegan. Richie watched the heads move about in the shuttle, most exiting the hatch, two at a chair. Lucas helping Duncan, trapped by a simple safety harness. Lucas turned away and moved to the hatch, not watching Duncan stand. He didn't see Duncan pull a dart gun from his jacket, shooting it first at Lucas, then at himself. But Richie did. The scene faded as Duncan staggered to the co-pilot's chair, hiding the gun, finally collapsing. But the worst was yet to come.
The statistics on the screen showed the salvaging of a deleted message file, dated two days later, early in the morning. It was incomplete, sound and video garbled, but enough was left. "Things didn't go... acLeod," Horton spoke, a voice Richie had never heard before. "He'll have to be punished... bomb in the control... learn how much pai... to see for yourself?" It matched all the descriptive words the Immortal had heard used for the first Hunter, the man who reviled all Immortals, especially the one he couldn't kill, Duncan MacLeod. "Remember, Hi... it off next time." Richie tried shutting off the monitor, his haste making him miss several times. His face flushed as he rammed his fist through the screen, driving it through the glass and wires and out the back. His face twisted in rage, turning red, looking demonic from the thoughts spinning in his head. The next Immortal to die would be the traitor. In the end, Richie would be the one.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Wendy Mitchum watched as Security finally finished disarming the bomb. The two men carried the last of the pieces out of the Command Center, leaving only a gaping hole where the maintenance panel had been. She sat back down, looking sympathetically at Freddie, shaking, a bundle of nerves. [He's never taken all the sabotage stuff well, then again, have any of us?] Her com panel chirped, originating from Richie's room. She opened channel two as she slid the earpiece back in. "Mitchum's mortuary, you stab 'em, we slab 'em. How may I help you, boss?"
Richie's voice sounded cold, heartless. In even tones he asked, "Where is Duncan?" No emotion, no nothing. Wendy dropped all frivolity, turning professional.
"He's with Jeremiah in the PIPPEN," she replied, naming the little two-man runabout.
"Where are they?" It was almost like Death had called her from Hell, scaring her a little. She glanced up, catching Freddie's gaze, holding up two fingers. Freddie nodded once, turning to his station.
"They're in Florida, Mr. MacLeod. Shall I contact them?"
"No," the voice rasped, Freddie slowly turning back in shock. He looked startled, silently mouthing the name 'Richie?' as he pointed to the headset. She nodded as the voice continued. "When they ask for uplift, inform Duncan he is not to set foot on this station. If he does, he will lose his head. Jeremiah can drop him off any place on the planet. We will ship his belongings wherever he wishes. Tell him... Tell him I know about Connor, and will do what he couldn't."
"Richie..." Freddie broke into the silence, but it was too late, the soft hum of the empty channel filling the headsets. "Damn!" he added, throwing his on the counter. Standing, he made a dash for the exit, stopping when Wendy called his name. He turned and shrugged. "Do it. And tell Jerry I want to see him before he see his father. I'll go see what I can do," he finished, quickly leaving. Wendy activated the automatic page in the PIPPEN, trying to decide if she should go through with it, or not.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
By the time Freddie reached the residential cylinder, Richie was gone from his cabin. The redhead was elsewhere, staring at another door, ashamed he had forgotten Gregor for so long. Opening it, he was surprised to see the Immortal in bed, covers up to his neck. Walking over, he was shocked when the man spoke to him. "Red?" Gregor asked shakily.
"I'm here, Augie," he said, quickly sitting on the bed beside Gregor. He noticed the other was sweating, beads of water on his face. "How do you feel, my friend?" Richie asked, grabbing the hand sticking out of the covers. A cold, clammy hand.
Gregor's voice was full of pain. "It hurts, Red. Everything hurts." The black haired Immortal gasped for air. "I was in an airlock... Is Jerry...?"
"Jeremiah's safe. So is everyone else. You did good, Augie," Richie said, smiling as he wiped off Gregor's face. "I'll go get Dr. Mitchum..." He started to get up, Gregor suddenly grasping the redhead with both hands, keeping him from leaving.
"Don't go. Don't ever..." Terror was in his face, his grip painful. Richie sat back down, more worried than ever. "I never meant to hurt you," the last knight gasped, shaking Richie's arm. Richie just smiled as he leaned over again.
"I know. And it all worked out. But you need help..."
"I can't stand the pain anymore, Red. It hurts too much. Tell Mac I tried, I really tried." Tears were coming now, Gregor's voice a shriek. "Make it stop, Richie. The p.. pain. Please..." Richie stood up, forcing the hands away, moving away as Lancelot started wailing in anguish. Richie tried covering his ears, to no avail. The pressure built as the wail increased in volume, getting louder and louder, like a siren that never stopped. In pain himself, Richie desperately looked around the room, searching for anything. Anything to stop the painful noise, no longer human. Finding the sword, the gleaming, shiny sword.
"Forgive me," Richie begged over the howl, turning and neatly decapitating the anguished Immortal. Like a balloon pooping, the room was spookier in the silence, the memory of the cry still lingering.
Freddie was just down the hall as the other wail started, a cry of rage and dejection. It was joined by the sound of an explosion, making Freddie break out into a run. Then the lights went out, the sound of a hull breech registering in his brain, the peculiar noise of air moving swiftly through a small hole. He was thrown into a wall as the internal gravity fluctuated, finally giving out. He floated, struggling to reach his pager, keying it on. "What's going on?"
Wendy's voice replied over shrieking alarms. "The electrical systems are dead. We're talking door nail. An overload. No gravity, no lights, backups... coming on line everywhere except for Cylinder Four. We're losing attitude control and moving out of position. Sensors indicated a hull breech in... section 20-A of Four before going down. Day at the beach. How about you?"
Freddie performed a few gymnastics to propel himself down the corridor as he replied. "I'm in Four. I found Richie. I *think* he just beheaded Greg Powers. Get repair teams going while I stuff Richie in the breech. And call Joe. Tell him to add rule number twenty-seven. No beheadings in space. On pain of electrocution. Wait... I've reached Greg's room. Catch you later, babe. Freddie out."
*Beep*
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Duncan rang the bell for the third time, standing in front of the door in the dead of night, the unlit sign above him reading 'DeSalvo's Martial Arts', freshly repainted. A light appeared behind the door, the soft sound of bare feet approaching. Then the door opened, a short, stocky man peeking around it. He groggily looked at Duncan, sizing him up, before sluggishly announcing, "It's three in the morning. What the hell do you want?"
Duncan smirked, appearing not the least bit upset. "I'm Duncan MacLeod, and last time I checked, I own the place. And pay you, I believe? May I come in?" It took a moment for the information to sink in, but Max Davis finally got the picture. Still half asleep, he opened the door wide, gesturing for Duncan to enter, then trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. The Highlander turned, watching the twenty year old shut the door. The youngest Davis boy was exactly like Jonathan had described him, a tank. Clad in only gray gym shorts, he was a full five inches shorter than Duncan, but probably weighed a good sixty pounds more, none of it wasted. His hair was a sandy blond, not as dark as Johnny's. {More like little Simon's was...} "I need a place to stay," the Immortal announced, Max leading him to the stairs.
After the two flights, the young man sleepily went to the wardrobe in the large upper room, pulling out blankets and a pillow. Much of the furniture was still the same, with psychedelic posters replacing the stuff Duncan had on the walls, all except Darius' robe. That still hung in the roof stairwell, sharing the space with a Soloflex machine. By the time he had made a circuit of the loft, Max was already asleep on the sofa, buried under the blankets. Duncan eyed the bed, wishing it was the old days, and it was Richie spending the night. Not a complete stranger. Exhausted, he managed to take off most of his clothes before collapsing on the sprawling bed, one though rolling rolling around his head.
{He knows....}
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
With a splat, Duncan landed on his back, feeling the plastic mat beneath him. Max hopped above him, warily circling. In this friendly little sparring, they had evened out, power and stamina going to the Davis boy, speed and stealth to the Immortal. Both had shown the other a trick or two, Duncan letting the energetic feeling keep other troubling emotions away. {For awhile.}
He was about to show the young upstart a thing he learned from Shou Lin priests, when his head exploded, the warning his kind gave driving like a knife into his consciousness. Looking expectantly, he waited for Richie to appear. Something, like a bad taste, made him reconsider. {It's not Richie. And there are two.} With a start, he turned to Max, waiting across the mat. Duncan quickly grabbed both pairs of shoes, handing them to the mortal as he pushed him toward the exit door. "Get out of here, now." Max looked like he was going to argue, so Duncan opened the door for him, throwing him through, shutting it behind him. He then grabbed his sword from the bench and calmly moved to the center of the room, waiting.
There first appeared a younger looking man, maybe twenty-seven. His hair was as dark as Duncan's, though not as long, shoulder length. He walked like a cat, sure of himself, the smugness reminding the Highlander of Richie. {No, more like...Arthur.} He opened both doors, unusual in these modern times, and walked several feet into the dojo. Behind him, another came, a woman. She looked a bit like his mysterious paramour, but much older. She smiled, a cruel, expectant kind, promising unsuspecting delights. Duncan involuntarily shivered. It was her. The witch. Morgana. All three stood frozen, calculating as two more appeared. The one in the trench coat was easily identifiable, the bastard Horton. The other, naked, chained, his face a bloody pulp, healing as they watched, was dragged by the damnable Hunter. Connor. A heavy collar, microcircuits visible, circled his neck. He was roughly thrown into the center of the room, landing in a heap. Duncan raised his katana, about to charge, when the side door opened, three hulking thugs manhandling a helpless Max into view. No one said a word as a thug placed a knife on the youngster's bare chest. Slowly, Duncan lowered his blade, the thug doing likewise.
Connor moaned, drawing his clansman's attention. Duncan rushed unhindered to the mass on the floor, cradling his mentor's head in his hands. Connor tried to speak, his words hoarse, unintelligible. Duncan leaned closer, desperate to hear.
"Why, Dun... How could..."
And even the energy Connor had managed to hoard faded, leaving a broken man wheezing for breath, a brittle shell entrapping such a wonderful spirit. Duncan cried, pressing closer to Connor, the pain enveloping him. With a sneer, Mordred LaFaye, Pendragonson, slipped a device into his hand, similar to a garage door opener. Pointing it at the two on the floor, he pressed the one button. A click, and Connor's collar began to whine, getting higher and strong. Instinctively, Duncan backed away, watching in terror as the collar exploded, neatly severing Connor's head from his twitching body. He screamed in hate, in anger, as the bolts of energy leapt for the closest victim, himself. The power threw him against the office wall, his body buffeted like a rag doll by the force. And then it was over, the Highlander dropping limply to the wood floor. He was barely conscious as two of the thugs came over, the third still restraining a terrified Maxwell. Duncan flinched from the thud as one of the men emptied a bag on the floor, the metallic clinking of chains landing in a pile. They viciously forced his arms behind him, crossing his wrists behind his back. One locked restraints on them as the other attached a wide, metal collar around his neck, a chain connecting the two, wrenching his hands high up his back. They kept him kneeling as he recovered, his first words unsteady as he looked at Maxwell, struggling helplessly.
"He's only a boy. It's me you want."
Mordred walked forward, kneeling himself, pulling Duncan's chin up. "It's Richard I want. And don't worry about the mortal. We plan to return him. After we entertain him..." Mordred stood and left, followed by his gleefully cackling mother. Horton walked closer, kicking Connor's lifeless body, adding a sneer for Duncan before helping to maneuver Max out, leaving the last two thugs to drag the recovering Immortal across the dojo to the door.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Outside, the group stopped, all turning to gaze on the old building. A few movements from Morgana's hands, and with a crash of thunder, an explosion shattered the windows, fire and smoke blasting out all the openings. Fiery remnants rained down as they forced the two struggling men into the transport, no one being particularly gentle or kind. With a hum, the machine rose, lazily turning and speeding off as it gained altitude, the rescue trucks pulling up to the building as the sirens got louder and louder.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHOICES
by Kevin H. Robnett
Part 5 ---------- There Can Be Only One.
"Begin diary entry. March 29, 2026, Richard MacLeod. Mr. Wolenczak is en route from Sanctuary to update us on the explosion findings. I've taken the liberty of insisting Jonathan Davis and his family join us here on Freedom for awhile. Angie refuses, and is upset I have five guards looking out for her. Dougal and Jeannie have made their own arrangements, including an extended visit by Gillian. In short, we are locked down tighter than a drum. If I had any guts, I would leave and remove the danger from everyone here, but... I'm a coward. I don't think I could face both Duncan and Mordred."
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The place was dark and damp. Hardly any light, other than a torch burning on the wall, illuminated the gruesome cell. The thump of a massive door shutting quietly disturbed the peace, sending the chained, naked Immortal shivering. He knew the respite from the pain was over, that his tormentor was coming again. He tried to shift the weight off his shoulders, wrenched up and back, as he hung from the ceiling by his hands, chained behind him. He could barely reach the slimy floor with his feet, unable to relieve the strain. Looking up as the cell door opened, the movement putting additional pressure on already agonized joints, he was almost surprised to see someone other than Horton. The young man with long, dark hair entered, examining his captive. The son of Pendragon circled, taunting the Highlander. Duncan gasped as Mordred completed the circuit, his head being pulled up by the hair.
Arthur's son took a moment, trying to draw whatever information he wanted straight from Duncan's soul. After an eternity, Mordred sneered, letting the Highlander's head fall limp. "HHOORRTTOONN!!" It wasn't long before the blond Hunter appeared, looking faintly nervous. He wrung his hands as Mordred pointed to the prisoner. "What have you learned from him?" The voice was powerful, evil, all that Immortals could be, warped out of recognition.
"He... He's very strong... that's it, strong... I need a little more time..." Horton stuttered. "He's about ready to...." Mordred growled as he grabbed Horton by a gold necklace. Duncan, through the haze of existing, noticed a symbol on it. The sign of the Egyptian god, RA. Horton stood on his toes, trying to breathe, as Mordred glared at him.
"You have found nothing!" Mordred yelled, throwing Horton to the ground. The Hunter stood, rubbing his throat. He flinched as Mordred spat, "You've failed again! We were wrong to think an idiot like you could be of any service..."
Horton grew confidant, standing, taking a defiant step toward Mordred. "You need me. Yes, your mother has need of me. I know things now... You can't just get rid of me."
Mordred whirled around, angry. "What good are you? I have everything I need right here." He reached out, again grabbing the necklace. "My mother made you, from that despicable shell of a body, rotting in the ground. The Black Knight, ha! You are NOTHING, mortal!" Horton struggled as Mordred pulled the necklace off his neck, holding the symbol in front of Horton's face. "Let's just say your contract has not been renewed." The Immortal grinned as he threw it behind him, the gold landing in a dirt-filled corner. Horton made a dash for it, his skin already turning to dust, his form collapsing. All that reached the corner was more dust, settling to the floor as Mordred laughed. He then turned his gaze as his prisoner. The one with information he wanted. He walked over, again lifting the Highlander's head by the hair. "Now, MacLeod. Where are the other crystals?"
"What?..." was all Duncan managed to get out, the exertion filling his lungs with agony.
"The crystals Gwen... Rebecca scattered. I have the one you carried. Luther was collecting them, and you hold his Quickening. So tell me, where did he hide them?" To make his point, Mordred wrenched Duncan's head higher, causing a gasp of pain.
"How... am I suppose... to know?" Duncan was having trouble breathing, the useless need for oxygen still causing anguish. All he felt was pain, all he thought was how to stop it.
"Ask him. Sometimes you Scots are so stupid." In disgust, Mordred let Duncan's head fall, the body shaking in pain as weight shifted on the distended shoulders.
Duncan tried to speak, his voice faltering. "Ask... him?"
Mordred watched from across the cell. "Yes. Oh don't tell me, MacLeod, my father never taught you that trick. My, my. You were a fool to think of him only as a student. He's a marvelous teacher, you know. Full of little secrets like that. Just as well." His anger reared once more as he marched over, grabbing the hair again. "You have that information inside you. It's just finding the right spur to get you to recall it. The *right* spur. I hope you like pain, MacLeod. I will find a way to make you remember. Eventually." With that, he stormed out of the cell, starting to shut the heavy wood door. He looked back on the broken body, adding an afterthought. "Mortals always stop just short of death, an ultimate line that all of them feel. They pull back, afraid to cross it. I'm not so understanding. I don't fear killing you. You'll die a thousand slow and painful deaths, awakening every morning to face another one. Think about that as well."
Then the footsteps slowly faded, the door shutting in the distance, leaving the Immortal alone again, in agony, praying futilely for an end.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
King by birth, thief by trade, Immortal by design. Richard Ryan MacLeod, the youngest Immortal left, stared at the sword on the desk. Katana, forged millennium ago out of love and respect. Handed down through the ages; Ramirez, Connor, and now, himself. It didn't seem fair that it was his to wield, a painful reminder that Excaliber was in other hands. A balanced exchange; his symbol for his son. But it galled that the two Immortals he always thought would win the Prize were now dead, one literally, and the other figuratively. The sword gleamed in the starlight, flicking across his tear-filled eyes. For a moment, it was almost like Connor was here,...
{ { { { { August, 1995 { { { { {
...walking down the steps, across the wood floor, standing behind Richie as he gazed out the panoramic windows, New York spread out before him. "Well, little thief, what do you think?" Connor's accented voice asked. It reminded him of first meeting Duncan and Tessa, and how he thought he was trapped in a horrendously dubbed film. He laughed at the thought, knowing at some point he would have to explain to his new boss.
"Just show me where the girls are, and I'll do just fine. I think this time the language barrier won't be such a problem." He spent the afternoon checking out the place, from the small and intimate shop on the first floor, to the wild and magical loft, all open and airy. {And the *view*. God, I'm gonna love this place!} Connor understood, laughing himself, tossing a set of keys down to the redhead.
"Good. Now, change. We have work to do," the older Immortal ordered. At Richie's puzzled exclamation, Connor pulled his katana from its sheath, doffing the coat, moving to the large area in front of the memorial room.
Richie soon jogged up in sweats. "Oh, man. Like, I don't have a sword anymore. And do I look like I need more training?" Connor turned around, holding what looked to be his sword in his arms. He walked up to Richie, stopping a foot away. Holding up the sword, letting Richie have a closer look. It was similar to Connor's katana, in shape and size. The hilt was different from both the MacLeods', but still a stylized dragon. Richie respectfully hefted it, gauging the weapon with his limited knowledge. "Not a bad piece of work."
Connor nodded, acknowledging the compliment. "It was duplicated from my sword by a... friend. I've kept it as a spare, but.... It can serve you better." Richie was sure there was more to it, but prying secrets from Immortals was worse than pulling teeth
"Mac said to become one with my sword. That it would be my only friend at times. I can picture myself with this. Thank you, Connor. Thanks a lot." Richie took a few practice swings, grinning wider each time. After the third, Connor stopped him.
"Never feel like you have no other friends but a cold length of steel. You have a friend in me. Duncan is a warrior, prone to be extreme. I, however, am a poet, and hope for brighter things. And you... you can choose from any path. Remember that." Connor was intense, almost scary in his insistence.
"I'll remember, Connor..."
} } } } } } } } } }
"...I'll always remember..."
A soft knock disturbed Richie, sitting alone in Duncan's cabin. It was strange - someone using the archaic form of requesting entrance, the mechanical ping a standard practice. The Immortal keyed the door, adding an "Enter!" as it whooshed open. Out of the hall glow stepped Freddie, standing in the doorway, letting in the blasted light. Richie only growled as the technician keyed a low illumination level, enough to make his way to the desk.
"I thought I'd find you here," the man said, sitting across the table. The tension in his body was evident to Richie, even under the rumpled maroon jumpsuit.
Richie turned and looked out the window. "You could have paged me..." he offered, not sure how to handle the mortal. A quick glance, and both realized the other knew everything, and accepted it. With a snap, the tension faded, and they again were what they always had been. Colleagues and just a little bit friends.
"I think you turned it off," the blond said, laughing at his first joke in a week. Richie smiled also, picturing the device where it lay, at the bottom of the aquarium in the recreation hall. "Lucas finished the DNA scan," Freddie continued. "We're in the Command Center, waiting on you." He stood, expecting Richie to join him.
"You already know, or you wouldn't be here. What did he find?" the Immortal asked, taking a moment to size up the person across the desk. {Now that I know, he does look a little like Pete.}
Freddie pulled the chair up to the desk, placing his elbows on the surface, resting his chin on his clasped hands. "Only trace was Connor's. No Duncan, no Max. But you expected that. Why am I not surprised?"
Richie gave a sarcastic grimace, ending in a helpless shrug. "Actually, speaking of surprises, I have one." He dug in his jumpsuit, pulling out a data disk, handing it across the desk to the blond. "I'm turning over Freedom to you." He pointed at the disk. "That holds the command codes and ciphers." Freddie opened his mouth to speak, too shocked for words. Richie pressed on, adding "Just so you have a vote, I'm transferring Duncan's stock to you. You're now a board member."
Freddie just stared at the plastic in his hand. "Gee, Richie... I don't... I don't know what to say."
Richie grinned, a pleasant change. "Tell me it's better than that pay raise you've been bugging me about."
"Oh, man. It is." Freddie gulped. He looked up, a little apprehensive. "Are you sure about this, about..." Richie just nodded. "Oh... wow."
"Just keep it under your hat, until... later. There's still a mess to wade through... Well, you know." They sat and talked for awhile, never mentioning what had been, instead focusing on the future. Each moment Richie felt better about his decision, knowing that his son would never enjoy the burden. The peace was shattered as the alarm blared out, Freddie's pager going off at the same time.
"Freddie," Wendy's voice announced. "Find Richie..."
"He's right here," countered the technician, digging in his pockets for the device.
"We have an unidentified object on a collision course. Imaging shows a probable missile. We are at Red... wait... it's decelerating. Confirmed. It is matching orbit and speed, two hundred feet off the port bow. Orders?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Richie and Freddie arrived at Bay 7-1 as Joe hobbled up from the other direction. Through the plexiglass window, they could see Jeremiah in the PIPPEN bringing the missile into the bay. Once pressurized, both Security and Lucas swept the rocket with sensors. Security declared it safe, although Lucas was unable to figure out what was in it. Richie cleared the room, opening the rocket himself. Everyone held their breath as the cargo plate swung free.
A rather large statue fell out, made entirely of metal. It was fat, and heavy, bigger than a man, looking like "a gigantic Aunt Jemima syrup bottle", as Joe cryptically put it. It had a large head, a plump body, and a very wide base. Once it was righted, Lucas pointed out a plastic plate on the front, reminiscent of an old palm reader. Richie, intrigued, tried his hand first, the effort being rewarded by the statue swinging apart. As the two front halves swung out, a body fell out onto the floor. Richie turned it over, shocked to find it was Max Davis, his semi-nude body covered in dots of dried blood. They looked up as Lucas gasped, pointing to the inside of the statue. Sharp stakes jutted out from the inside wall, hundreds of them, all pointing to the middle, reddish-brown at the tips. And there on the back, impaled, soaked with Max's dried blood, was a glove. A black leather gauntlet.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"I don't care," Richie yelled outside the ICU unit. "That rocket had to come from somewhere! Now FIND IT!" And they left him alone, sitting next to the door, holding vigil as the doctors tried to save the young man. Richie sat and prayed, wondering how many more would be hurt because of him. How many people would die because he wasn't as brave, or as smart, or as vicious as Arthur would have been. How many more would die because of his choice.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Begin diary entry, April 15, 2026, Richard MacLeod. Fighting is my life, my existence. I am *PING* Damn. My son is right on time. Why couldn't he be late for once? Eras...*PING* Let me grab my sword..."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The sound of metal striking metal echoed in the cargo bay, the exclusive training grounds of Immortals. One Immortal, now. Slowly the redhead weaved his way around the stacks of medical supplies, sparing with a black haired man, younger and older. Richie enjoyed the way the hilt of Connor's katana rested lightly in his hand, responsive to the barest hint of movement. A remarkable weapon, wielded by a remarkable... {NO! I will mourn later. I have a job to do.}
"If you... really... want... you can... ouch! have... your old..." Jeremiah struggled to say. Richie got a kick out of watching his son try to talk and parry at the same time. Using the distraction to disarm him, Richie sent his old sword flying across the crates, both fighters standing and watching it spin lazily in the air. It landed somewhere with a clattering of metal. They turned to each other.
"Uh... If I somehow don't survive, you're gonna need *all* the help you can get. Including the sword you've grown up with." The joke didn't come out a funny as Richie hoped, the raw truth exposed. Jeremiah looked guilty, trying to find something to do with his empty hands. Breaking the tension, Richie grabbed the mortal by the scruff of his neck, pulling his head close. "And it always helps to keep hold of your sword. Unless that's the stunning move Dun... you were telling me about. Now find that sword," he said, sending his son among the crates. "And watch your right foot," Richie yelled, "you're telegraphing!"
Again the two fought, weaving to and fro. The workout was exactly what the Immortal needed, a chance to work with a new sword, a chance to be with his son, and a chance to use the energy that was building. He had been surprised when his son had suggested it, the lingering thought that Dawson had arranged the whole thing. It was something Connor would have done... "*Ouch*" Jeremiah yelped as his shirt was sliced, a thin line of blood appearing on his stomach. Richie cursed himself for letting the anger distract him. Shaken, but assured it was only a minor flesh wound, they continued.
"So is he?" Jeremiah asked when he managed to trap his father's blade momentarily.
Richie kicked out, careful of the wound. "Is he what?"
Jeremiah dodged, reached out with a hand and forcing Richie's leg higher. "Arthur's son."
"Yes," Richie grunted, turning it into a backflip, disengaging from his son. They froze.
"How could that be? You said Immortals are sterile." The urge to fight was momentarily abated.
Richie grimaced. "They are. Merlin knew a... trick. He used it on Uther to conceive Arthur." He held out his hand as his son offered a water bottle. Gulping the liquid, he handed it back. "Morgana stole it, and used it to bear Arthur a son, Mordred."
"And they were Immortal, too? Arthur and Mordred, I mean." Jeremiah tossed the empty bottle next to their bags by the door.
"Yes." Richie circled, preparing to start again.
Jeremiah took the hint, bringing his sword up. "What happened to the secret?"
They touched blades, more of a handshake than an attack. "Merlin took it with him..."
Jeremiah blinked. "Do you think Joe knows?" he asked, cocking his head.
*CLANG*
They stood face to face, their swords together in front of them, looking eye to eye. Richie grinned, raising an eyebrow. "You feel like asking him?" With an elongated swish of metal sliding against metal, they stepped apart. Just as quickly, they were fighting again, the sweat beginning to show.
On they fought, neither really trying to get an upper hand. Jeremiah mischievously tried the trick Duncan had shown him. A feint, and Richie's sword was trapped, point to the ground. Jeremiah spun around, a neat slice toward the neck. Unconsciously, Richie stepped back, using the counter to Annie Devon's special move. The swords connected, Richie quickly disarming his son, Connor's katana buried a millimeter into Jeremiah's neck before Richie stopped it. The Immortal's eyes grew wide as a thin trail of blood dripped down the skin. "Mother of..." he cursed, turning away from the shock in his son's eyes. A son he almost killed.
"It's all right, Dad," Jeremiah said right behind his father as he walked to the wall, leaning against it, resting his head in his arm. "Just a scratch. I'm o.k.!" He felt his son shaking him, grabbing his shoulder, but all he could picture was the sight of Jeremiah's head being neatly severed from his body, falling to the cargo bay floor.
"Go to the medical unit and get it seen to," he managed to say, adding another "GO!" when his son didn't move. He stayed there until the sound of the door closing echoed through the room. The he collapsed to the floor, trembling. Scared of what he almost did. And what he wanted to do to others. Mordred... and Duncan.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Joe and Richie walked slowly down the corridor, each step taking them closer to the Command Center. The Watcher knew better than to press the Immortal about what was bothering him, instead working his way around the issue until it lay exposed, like a rock in the dirt. "Maxey's getting better. Dr. Mitchum is pleased with his response to the experimental healing gel." Richie only grunted in reply. Unfortunately, their walk ended before anything revealed itself, most of the command crew standing around a new piece of furniture, a table. It was large, planted right in the middle of the circular room. Stools slid into cutouts beneath it. Lucas waved his arms as he talked to Wendy across the table, Freddie and Guillermo listening from one end. As Richie and Joe approached the table, conversation ceased.
"You paged me, make it good," Richie stated as Joe hooked his cane on the table lip. Lucas nodded, poking the pressure sensitive table.
"We found it," he announced, grinning. The lights around the group faded as Jeremiah rushed up, breathing hard from the run. His neck was bandaged, and he looked a little upset, but nothing was said as he pushed his way between Wendy and Freddie. "May I present, New York City..." A picture formed on the table surface, a duplicate of the Earth from space. Quickly the image expanded, making one feel they were rushing for the planet. The detail was excellent as the Eastern seaboard materialized, the image growing until the remains of the metropolitan city grew distinct. As the terrain grew closer, the buildings and features took on a three dimensional aspect, almost leaping off the table. Microchips cut in, lasers ignited, and the skyline of New York rose from the table, a ghostly city sitting on the surface.
Amazed gasps came from all around, Richie catching Lucas' smile of triumph before Jeremiah reached over and tweaked the scientist's nose. Joe uttered, "Amazing," under his breath, as the blond manipulated the picture until Central Park was centered.
"We tried everything; radar, sonar, x-rays, you name it. But what gave it away was heat." The model grew reddish, a large glowing blob appearing next to the lake. "There is no conceivable reason for that much heat unless..." He let the moment lengthen before continuing. "Unless there's something there." The blob shifted, details appearing, solidifying in a shape at least one person recognized.
"Camelot." Richie said under his breath. The sound cut through the silence, washing across everyone.
Lucas looked around. "Don't ask me how, but it's there. Smack dab in the only place a mortal can't run over it."
"The lay lines..." Joe breathed beside Richie. Turning to face the Immortal, he explained. "The circle. He's living over one of the most powerful places on the planet."
Richie nodded once, catching Lucas' gaze. "Begin Operation Transfer," he said, the scientist losing all excitement. The blond stepped away from the table, moving to the empty engineering station behind him. Turning to Freddie, he added, "Plot me a course." Jeremiah perked up, realizing what his father was up to. He moved around the table, planting himself in front of Richie.
"You're not planning..." Jeremiah began, the silence confirmation enough. "Don't you dare," he said grabbing his father's jumpsuit. "Run away, let him wait. I'm not going to let you walk out of my life..." A hint of hysteria surfaced. "We've just gotten to know each other." He started shaking his father, his voice rising an octave. "You can't..."
Joe Dawson had wondered why Richie insisted he bring an emergency medical kit, but as he injected Jeremiah with a powerful sedative, he understood. Richie caught his son as he went limp, slowly lowering him to the floor. Lucas came back, shocked at the sight, stuttering, "It's be... begun. All stocks, money, and properties are being moved." He looked down, then up. "He's o.k., isn't he?"
Joe smiled, holding up the syringe. "He's fine. Take him to his cabin... He'll be out for awhile." Lucas nodded, carefully lifting the heavy load. The scientist struggled to the door as Richie looked around.
"Would everyone leave? Just for a bit?" They passed by him, each offering a kind word or smile. Soon he was alone, the lights keyed off, just the panoramic view of the stars. He sat at the medical station, the moon slowly rotating into view. He mused for a long time, trying to find the courage to finish the Game. And the strength to leave them all behind.
*BEEP* went the console as the man pressed a button.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"I thought you'd come by," Freddie said, leaning against the corridor wall a good hundred feet from Jeremiah's room. Richie stopped, smiling. The technician straightened, moving toward the Immortal. "May the light always guide your way. Good luck, my friend." He held out his hand.
Richie reached out, clasping it. The grip was firm, the contact warm, the feelings genuine. "I liked Pete. A lot. If things had been different..."
Freddie shrugged. "If things were different, I wouldn't be here. And I'm glad I was."
"Steady as she goes," Richie said, breaking the contact, moving on down the corridor. As he walked, he heard Freddie's footsteps fading into the distance. He arrived at his son's room, surprised that the door was unlocked, opening as he approached. Lucas was pacing, Jeremiah was laid out on the bunk. The blond scientist looked up as Richie cleared his throat.
"I'll be outside," was all Lucas said as he moved around the redhead, leaving. The Immortal watched his departure, finally turning again and looking at his son.
{He still looks so young and fragile,} he thought, sitting on the side of the bed, running his hand through his son's hair. {If things could have been different... I only wanted what was best for you, and you seem to have found it on your own. You've grown into a fine person. Marla and Steve would be proud.} It had been a long time since he had the pleasure of watching his son sleep. Grace had been with him, as they gazed at the sleeping boy for minutes, sometimes hours. {You look so perfect, so peaceful when you sleep. Jut like you did when I brought you home from the hospital. I *love* you, my son, my sweet, precious son. Never doubt that. You're the greatest treasure I have.} He leaned down, planting a kiss on the sleeper's forehead. {I must go, now. Sleep in peace, and dream good dreams, and someday... sometime, I hope we'll meet again.} He left while he still could, his resolve wavering. He turned at the door, one last look back. One last look.
Lucas was waiting for him outside, the anger dulled in the quiet corridor. As Richie walked by, he said, "You hate me, don't you."
The Immortal turned, not sure what to say. "Answer one of mine."
"Sure," Lucas replied, shrugging. There was nothing left to lose.
"Are you sleeping with my son?" Richie asked point blank.
That brought the anger to a boil. "That's none of your business!" Lucas spat. Richie shrugged, turning and walking up the corridor. "Wait..." Lucas called. The Immoral stopped for the young man to catch up, the anger fading. "No, we're not. All we want is to be friends. Close, but not in that way. Is it too much to ask?"
Richie smiled. "Not at all. Take care of him. And make sure he's happy. That both of you are happy."
Lucas smiled back, nodding. "I can do that..." Then Richie left, leaving the scientist alone. "It's still none of your business..." floated from behind him, his sights set on Bay 0-0, and a task.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Excaliber gleamed as Mordred raised it to the light. Satisfied, he returned to the whet stone, sharpening the blade. The work wasn't needed, just as Morgana didn't need to tell him his father approached. Something had already told him, something much more personal than the annoying buzz Duncan MacLeod gave off from the upper level. He calmly waited, sitting in the recreated throne, knowing each of them had things to do before this final fight. He was happy at the picture he portrayed, the confidant prince in his castle. A small part hoped his father would be proud of him, the other part laughing that Arthur cared for a mortal boy instead. One who would be appropriately dealt with after Arthur was dead. He had made a long list of people to be dealt with over the years, his appetite for power yearning for the Prize. He was a better king than Arthur ever was. His kingdom wouldn't crumble around him.
The door creaked open, the grating sound a pleasing noise to him. Richard MacLeod approached, one piece of his father's convoluted puzzle. "He's upstairs," the prince yelled, enjoying the echoing voice. He laughed, savoring the irony of forcing his father to kill his most recent mentor. Twisting the knife always felt so damn good.
"Why?" came the voice, the voice sounding so much like the man he hated. The man he despised. Yes, Richard was very much like his damnable father. He had nothing against the young Immortal born in the wrong body. Casualties of war and all that. In fact, he wondered if his father had been as handsome when he was younger.
"I want to defeat my father," he replied. "I was cheated of my victory until now. You need his Quickening to challenge me, and with that, Arthur is reborn." Reveling in the culmination of plans, he felt magnanimous. "Take your time, Richard. I know you'll have to adjust. I have another surprise to show you when you come down." The joy of planning Arthur's defeat, the delight in seeing him suffer, and suffer, it was music to his soul. His laughter rang to the vaulted ceiling. His father's steps faded as they climbed the stairs, Excaliber still glinting in the light, as he returned to sharpening the sword.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Duncan knelt on a pedestal, about waist high, Richie noticed as he entered the master bedroom. The Immortal was nude, his long black hair covering his face. He was scrunched up, knees forced in his chest, a metal collar fastened to the pedestal by only two lengths. As Richie approached, the arms were revealed, ending in two metal caps where hands use to be. The caps were linked together behind his back by another short chain, useless. Duncan's head jerked around, trying to find the Immortal in the room, frantic. Richie got an arm length away, carefully brushing the loose hair from the face, exposing the eyeless sockets of Duncan's unseeing face. The Highlander croaked, his voice gone.
"No more... no..."
Despair washed over Richie, sorrow at ever thinking this man could betray him, could think of wanting his head. He ran his hand over Duncan's scruffy, unshaved face, the Immortal cringing away, unable to move in the rigid imprisonment. "It's... Richie," he softly said, the sudden noise causing another shudder. It took a moment for the words to sink in, Duncan finally calming, trying to turn his horrible face to the noise.
"You've... come for my head, then." The aura of defeat was everywhere, the finality of a shattered man laid out before him.
"Mac, I can't..."
"You must." The voice was stronger, the tone of a teacher. The steel had only been bent, not broken.
"I promised myself I'd never hurt you..." The redhead was having trouble reconciling the wasted mass of flesh before him with the warrior he knew and loved.
"Richie..." The one word carried all the emotions Duncan had ever felt toward his student. "You need my power if you hope to defeat him."
"I can't kill you to save myself."
"What am I gonna do, save the day?" He gasped at the pain as he spoke, his agony not entirely normal. "What did Greg call us, 'Princes of the Universe'? We were. But you were a king."
Richie backed away. "I am not Arthur..."
"The mind may forget, but the body always remembers. You would use the Prize wisely, like you've done with Freedom, and everything else. You haven't forgotten what it is to be mortal."
"I'm not going to listen to..."
"You must..." A groan escaped his lips, the pain peaking again. "You have only two choices... live, or die. If you can't live for yourself, live for Jeremiah. Live for me and keep the memories of our friends alive forever. Die, and you doom your son to hell."
"Damn it, Mac. I *hate* it when you're right."
Duncan's voice grew softer, the exertion taking its toll. "Do it quickly. And... don't remember me like this."
Richie came close, wiping the tear that fell on Duncan's cheek. "I'll remember you like I always do. The first night I saw you. Strong, proud, fierce. The Highlander warrior you are. And always will be. I wanted to be just like you. You know that."
"I remember. Swinging my sword around the barge. You became more than I ever was... We did good, didn't we?"
"We did, Mac. We most certainly did."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Morgana appeared next to Joe Dawson on the observation level of the New Empire Tower. He turned to her, their clothes whipped by the wind. "This is not our fight," he said. The crone, sometimes old, sometimes young, agreed.
"Lead on, old man," she ordered, her wild hair dancing in the air. Dawson held out his free hand to her, turning into the wind. And then they were gone, New York again empty. Except for Immortals. And ghosts.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Richie slowly walked into the throne room, watching Mordred hunched over in a side alcove. He smiled when the other cursed, knowing the cause. "Damn. Why the hell doesn't it work? That bastard held out on me." Mordred was so intent, he didn't notice Richie's presence until the redhead cleared his throat. Mordred whirled, angry. "So... you're a fool after all."
"Not as much as you, it seems. It helps to have the keystone," Richie informed him, pulling a crystal from around his neck. "I've had this since... well, as long as I can remember." He smiled, a victory of sorts for Arthur's side. Mordred, however, looked like beheading was too good for the redhead. Richie shrugged, throwing the necklace across the room to him. "Go ahead, try it out." The glee in Mordred's face was indescribable, the Immortal plunging the last crystal into the mass. With a burst of light, energy sped along the walls, the stones themselves glowing in a smooth white radiance. The temperature rose to a comfortable level, the whole castle glistening with light.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Oh, shit!" Lucas exclaimed, covering his eyes as the translucent model of Central Park exploded with brilliance, the display momentarily shorting out, worried shouts echoing in the Command Center. When his sight returned, there, by the lake, an architectural wonder stood. Camelot, in all its majestic glory.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"It's a geothermal power converter," Richie explained before Mordred could bust a gut. {Although the thought really appeals to me.} "It *does* help an Immortal, providing heat and light, but, sorry, man, it don't do a thing for your backswing." In a rage, Mordred attacked, drawing Excaliber as he charged. Richie waited him out, parrying and side stepping at the same time. With the clash of swords, the battle was joined.
Richie had to admit, Mordred was good. Spectacular, in fact. They both traded blows, giving as good as they got. The area was open, perfect for fighting. Sparks flew each time the weapons came in contact with each other. Blood pounding, breaths ragged, the two fought.
Right, then left Mordred sliced, Richie parrying neatly. The redhead knocked the swords to the side, pivoting and raising an elbow, aiming for Mordred's face. The other ducked under, taking advantage of Richie's open front to ram a knee into his stomach. Richie went down, gasping. Mordred, holding Excaliber's hilt with both hands, rammed the metal into Richie's back, driving him to the floor. Richie rolled, barely missed by Mordred's downward swing. Excaliber rang on the stones.
Richie tried a combination, ending up in Mordred's face. The redhead swung his leg around, catching the back of Mordred's, unbalancing him, sending him sprawling backwards. The Immortal continued the fall, neatly tumbling over, ending on his hand and knees, sword up. Richie dodged as he approached, hitting it aside with his katana. Mordred extended his tumble, laying on his back, catching Richie in the stomach with his feet, lifting the redhead over him, sending him flying. Richie groaned as he landed, already clutching his punished gut. The two stood, the movement slower, but the battle was far from over.
"Give it up, father!" Mordred yelled, his hair loose in his face. "I'm BETTER!" Richie answered with a side swipe, sparks flying as Mordred blocked. The redhead found himself on the defensive more and more, anger fueling Mordred's stamina. A step near the throne caught him by surprise, tripping him. With a shout, Mordred stabbed, catching him neatly in the side, grazing the skin. Blood poured out, dripping to the floor, Mordred backing up with satisfaction. "First blood, Richard."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Watcher led the way, entering a rocky opening in the cliff, a familiar place to Morgana. "I though you would shun your prison, Teacher," she said, envisioning a repeat of their last visit to this place. The Watcher was silent as the continued on, the light fading as they turned a corner. Deeper into the bowels of the earth they went, Joe lighting the way with a magical flame. They entered the cavern, called 'Soul of the Earth' in ancient tongues, the mystical heart of the planet, where their powers were at a peak. Morgana was unsure until she saw the stone pillar in the center, the faint outlines of the wizard's body still evident in the rock. She turned, smiling at Dawson.
"Merlin was the only man who had the power to defeat me, and here he remains, where I left him, centuries ago. Who are you, mortal?" she asked, not even bothering to put defenses into place. Joe smiled, the sound of faint humming growing louder. It stopped as he breathed, answering her.
"That which you could not contain, my pupil."
She realized her mistake, looking right and left, frightened, as time slowed. Motes of glitter fell on her from above, the tinkling of crystal weaving in and out of Joe's wordless song. She had been so confidant they would fight to the death, his death, that all other outcomes escaped her. In moments, she was trapped like the man in stone, frozen for eternity. Joe collapsed as the flame faded, plunging the cavern into darkness, lying helpless on the floor, feeling the last of the power drain from his exhausted body, reinforcing the spell of imprisonment. "It is done..."
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Richie rotated his sword as the two circled, staring each other down. Mordred charged, an overhand chop, blocked by the katana. Mordred didn't stop charging, barreling over Richie until they both were on the floor. Rolling away, LaFaye punched at Richie's healing wound, opening it again. The redhead cried out in pain, rolling in the other direction, slowly standing. Attack, block, thrust, parry. Over and over, each trying to slip something past the other, a disarming move, a crippling slice. Mordred had Excaliber's length advantage, as well as longer reach. Richie had his wits and cunning.
"I must admit, Richard, the first time I saw you, I really thought you'd be a sucker. Short, stupid, immature. But watching you, learning about you, there was a strength, a... spark. A bit of Arthur in such a young body. I admire you a little."
Right, left, Excaliber kept getting closer and closer, Richie's parries weaker. A nick on his cheek brought a savage smile to Mordred's lips, the flash of terror in Richie's eyes a moment of pleasure. As the fight continued, more of Mordred's attacks got through, Richie unable to even land one. Blood fell from numerous cuts along Richie's arms, soaking his shirt. Sweat made the fabric cling to his body, grunts escaping each time he managed to block a swing. He was slowing down, more thrusts hitting the mark, more agony from uncountable places on him. Mordred seemed to enjoy hurting the redhead, avoiding killing blows to torment with cruel slices.
"If things had been different, I think we would have been good friends, Richard."
At some point, the black haired Immortal stopped using Excaliber, instead hitting and kicking the senseless Richie, katana useless at his side. A powerful kick to the head, and the redhead hit the floor, reduced to crawling as Mordred continued to pummel him. A small part of Richie kept hold of the sword, dragging it along as he tried to escape the punishment. Each gasp drew a laugh from Mordred's lips. Finally Richie stopped, too tired to crawl any farther. He groveled there, on hands and knees, katana lying on the stone. Whimpering. Hearing Mordred walk up behind him.
"If my father wasn't an issue, I would kill you standing. You fought well, even though you lost. But in you my father lives, and for that, I'll kill you like the dog he was. Rot in hell, Arthur Pendragon."
Mordred screamed, announcing the beheading stroke. Richie blocked it, holding the katana down his back, hilt by his right ear, deflecting the stroke. Moving the sword parallel across his back, ducking under his own arms, the momentum slid Excaliber to Mordred's weak side. Continuing the motion, he swung the katana in front of him, horizontal, pivoting his body, adding power to the attack. He rotated on his knees, facing Mordred, as the blade continued its smooth arc, effortless sliced through the neck, neatly severing the unprotected head. A look of shock was frozen on the Immortal's face as it flew across the room, the body falling limply to the floor.
He knelt there, spent, not seeing the small forks of lightning playing over Mordred's body. The katana fell to the stone floor, unnoticed. The wind picked up in the cavernous throne room, Richie's muscles involuntarily contracting, throwing his arms wide. As the first burst of pain coursed along his body, he howled, the sound inhuman. Energy picked him up like a rag doll, buffeting him around the room. Lighting coursed around him, forming ghostly visions. Demons wailed as the world shook, unearthly terrors battering his soul. His body trembled in agony, blood vessels bursting along his skin. The crystals in the alcove shattered, send shards into his body, unfelt in the torment, ripping his clothes to shreds. It overwhelmed him, his mind unable to find sanctuary in unconsciousness. After forever, it ended, the long fall adding a final stab of agony. Then all was dark and quite, except for the moaning and sobbing of a young man, begging for the one thing denied him for eternity. Peace.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Details of Project Transfer are as follows," Jeremiah said, looking around the table in the Command Center. "Jonathan Davis. You get Greg Power's shares, and a ticket to Mars for you and your family." The gentleman next to Wendy agreed, the plans for the eventual colony already laid. "Aunt Angie's turning her stock over to Max, and from what I hear, he can't wait to start on the deep space probe." The young man turned to Lucas.
"Already got three keels started at the yard. PROMETHEUS II, the Jupiter probe, and Max's LAZARUS LONG," the scientist announced. "But remember, they're only guaranteed *inside* the solar system."
Jeremiah chuckled, looking over his list again. "I understand Freddie already has Duncan's portfolio *and* the keys to Freedom, so..."
"Only if that's o.k. with you, Jer," the technician broke in. He looked concerned, leaning on the table.
"It's fine," Jeremiah replied. "I'm glad, because..." He looked guiltily at Lucas. "I'm taking over the Jupiter project."
Lucas just glanced at Wendy. "You got Amanda's stock, didn't you?" She nodded. "Care to take over Sanctuary?" She nodded again. "Good. Connor left me his shares, and I vote I go to Jupiter also. All in favor?" Freddie, Jonathan and Wendy raised their hands with Lucas as Jeremiah started to protest.
"Now.." he began, shutting up as Lucas frowned. "Well, swindled by my own Board of Directors."
Freddie leaned closer, finger raised. "All you got was Richie's stocks. The chairmanship didn't come with it. I vote we..."
*BEEP* went the communications station.
Joe's voice sounded tired as it was piped in. "I need a lift. I'm in... Macon's Tavern."
Freddie laughed. "Where's that?" he asked.
"Corner of Fifth and Eldridge," Joe replied.
Jeremiah looked around the room. "What *city*, Joe?"
A pause. The Watcher continued hesitantly. "I... uh, don't know?"
Lucas moved to a terminal, furiously typing. Wendy threaded her arm around Jonathan's, leading him to the exit. Jeremiah sighed, raising his eyes heavenward as he spoke. "Lucky's tracing the call, and Wendy and Jon will be there in the PIPPEN. Freedom out." Thus ended the first and shortest board meeting on the new directors of Camelot Industries.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The sunset was spectacular. Gold, red, orange, purple, all mixed together in the Northwest sky. Below, a thin trail of smoke emerged from the chimney of the cabin as Richie watched the sun disappear. He lay back on the grass, Duncan's sightless face nestled in his lap, his hand feeding grapes to the Highlander's mouth as they talked. About everything. Darkness settled, Dougal brought supper and lit a fire before returning to the cabin. They ran out of things to say before they realized it, both knowing it was time, but neither wanting to speak the word. 'Goodbye'.
"Was it worth it, Richie?"
"What, Mac, living? Being an Immortal?"
"The pain, the loss..."
"The love, the joy..."
"The death..."
"The life..."
"You don't understand."
"I understand more than you know."
"I've lived four and a half centuries. What have I got to show for it?"
"You've got a friend who loves you very much. You have thousands of people who are alive, and happy, because of you."
"That's it?"
"What more is there? Wealth? Fame? Honor?"
"Children? Someone to carry your name, your history?"
"And how many people carry you in their hearts, even today? How many children hear stories about Duncan MacLeod and how he helped someone they loved? How many have thanked God for you in four hundred years?"
"And how many have died because of me?"
"Death is a part of life, my friend. Even for Immortals."
"Their death was the price of my life. It was too high."
"Most paid willingly. Even gladly. Who was not better for knowing you?"
"You make me sound like a saint."
"I too have warmed my soul by the fire named Duncan. You give so much, asking for nothing in return. That makes us want to give even more. Couldn't you see that?"
"I guess not. Or never understood why. Can you answer that, Richie? Why?"
"That which does not kill us makes us better. We are all that's left. We are the best."
"Playing god, are we?"
"And if I were?"
"Do what you will. I'm too tired to fight anymore."
"Are you too tired to live anymore?"
"Yes. God, yes."
"There is a place, Mac. All bright and sunny. Everyone is there; Augie, Fitz, Annie. They love, they laugh, they live. No one fights, no one dies. Even the evil ones want a rest from the Game. They're waiting for you, Mac."
"You make it sound like heaven. Or Camelot."
"It's... home. It's our home."
"Take me."
"I can only send you. I must stay behind."
"But you'll come, won't you? Sometime?"
"If I can."
"Help me stand, Richie. I want to go standing... And I'm glad it's you."
They stood, the redhead helping Duncan to his feet. Richie looked at his friend in the firelight, healed as much as possible, cleaned up. But it was still a shadow of the past. He readied himself, gathering courage. Trying to work himself into it. He raised and lowered Connor's katana several times before turning around, disgusted at his weakness.
"I can't..." he whispered, closing his eyes to the sight. All he saw was a person he didn't want to die, someone he wanted to spend eternity with. He wailed to the dark, "I'm sorry, I just can't do it..."
{I can.}
The voice shocked him, unheard for so many years. Stunned, scared, Richie couldn't stop Mako from taking control, seizing the muscles, controlling the body. Turning him around, katana swinging. Richie watched in horror, helpless, as he smoothly beheaded the man in front of him. He couldn't even scream. Mute, he stood, watching the body collapse, waited as the energy showed itself. Unlike others, the fog and power coalesced, rising up in a column from the Highlander's body. Slowly it took shape, forming a phantasm of Duncan, holding arms wide, as if wanting to embrace the victor. Mako released Richie, the young Immortal running into the apparition's clutches, the energy blinding, the power consuming. And the universe exploded.
{ { { { { } } } } }
A hand clasped Richie's, pulling him out of the fog. Once on solid ground, he observed his rescuer. Tall, dark haired, the man sported a goatee, as well as a solid set of muscles, bursting from the sweats he was wearing. The man smiled, continuing to grasp Richie's hand. "You have made it."
Richie looked confused, trying to place the man. "Have we met before?" he hesitantly asked. That caused the man to smile wider, adding his other hand to the handshake.
"But of course. I am Phillipe," the stranger announced, a hint of a French accent slipping through. He seemed taken aback at Richie's continued look of confusion. "Phillipe Devereux...? How quickly they forget. I taught you your first kata? In the desert?"
Richie looked more confused, pulling his hand away. "But... you're in my head," he said.
"And so are you." The man gestured around, Richie noticing for the first time he was standing in a town square, a crowd of people surrounding him. Turning around, he was surprised as a woman, young and pretty, jumped in his arms, lips firmly on his. Her body was warm against his, her only covering a simple shift of white cloth. When she came up for air, she climbed off, standing no taller than Richie's chin. He noticed white flowers weaved into her hair, smiling fresh.
"Es?" the redhead ventured. Another kiss confirmed it. People were all around him, congratulating him, slapping his shoulders, grabbing his arms. He thought he caught a glimpse of black leather, and Gregor's head, as Phillipe warned them away, giving Richie some much needed space. He was about to hunt for Gregor as a train whistle cut through the air, all the people turning and facing the station as an old time train pulled up.
The engine gave a wheeze, sending steam billowing as it ground to a halt at the station. Trailing behind the wood bin was two passenger cars, with a red caboose bringing up the rear. Dark shapes moved inside, most heading toward the front as the locomotive stopped. The small bell clanged behind the engine stack; a larger, booming sound echoing a reply from a church steeple barely visible over the closer buildings.
From the station came a middle aged man, fiery red hair burning in the sunshine. Wearing shiny armor, he had no difficulty running to the statue in the center of the square, climbing up the pedestal until he stood next to the horse and rider. Richie could barely make out his words, something to do with having come again. Most of the crowd ignored the fellow, turning back to the station as more people came out. They came in twos, threes, finally blooming to ten or so at a time. Many were warmly greeted by the crowd milling in the square. Others hurried away, like wounded animals. They glared at the group around the statue, faces etched in hate. Richie took the time to find Gregor in the crowd, catching up to him as a woman, also a redhead, arrived from the other direction.
"I think we need to go get him down," she was saying to Gregor, indicating the man still yelling from the statue. Gregor turned and smiled at Richie, helplessly shrugging as he left with the woman. Richie almost followed, but someone had placed their hands in front of his eyes, standing behind him.
"Do I get a clue?" Richie asked, feeling the man's hands, supple and dexterous. A laugh was his first clue, a deep baritone, no accent. "Are you... bigger than a bread box?"
"No, but I did spend thirty years in one..." Richie whirled, face to face with Michael Moore, round spectacles and bowler. The redhead flinched, pulling away until Michael grabbed his arm. "It's all right, Richie. Quentin's not a part of me any more." The doctor threw his hat in the air, surprised as it landed on the statue's head.
"Well, that's a relief," Richie replied, calming down. "Getting pummeled isn't my favorite activity." He turned his head, feeling another hand on his shoulder, realizing the buzz he had lived with for decades was gone. There was no warning as he stood in the largest gathering of Immortals. A voice spoke, the accent something he had lived with even less time, but infinitely more welcome.
"Then what was, little thief?" Connor MacLeod asked, his smile beaming brightly. Richie suddenly hugged him, almost in tears. "Now, Richie," the Highlander said as the redhead finally pulled away, "I wasn't gone *that* long..."
Richie punched him in the ribs, still not releasing his other hand from around Connor. "That's not funny, not at all." He sniffled as the taller man laughed, holding his hand out to Michael, introducing himself. Wiping his tears Richie took a gander at the kilt Connor was wearing. "Oh, God, 'loud MacLeod'. Turn it..." Before he could finish, another body pounced on Richie's other side, entwining himself.
"Now that Arthur's been stuffed in the broom closet, so to speak, maybe we can get back..." The photographer was interrupted as the redhead he was with earlier shoved into the huddle, connecting herself with Gregor and Michael. The knight cleared his throat behind a leather gloved fist. "May I introduce Rebecca Dupre, 'Gwen' to her friends... and lovers." The lady graciously nodded, her tresses shimmering in the sun, highlighted by the green gown she wore. "Gwen, this is Richie, Connor, and Michael..."
He was once more interrupted as a dark haired woman shoved her way between Connor and Michael. "You wouldn't believe how friggen hard it is to find you all." Amanda flashed a smile around the circle, frowning at Rebecca's disapproving face. "Oh, pooh. We're all family here..."
"What's this about family?" Duncan asked, barreling between Connor and Richie. The younger Highlander looked as healthy as the night Richie met him.
"You look... a lot better, Mac, I mean..." Richie said, as Fitz slid in by Michael and Amanda. Duncan just rolled his eyes.
"Good skin, you know. It..." he began.
"...RUNS IN THE FAMILY!" everyone yelled. The group was reduced to laughter as Grace slid her way in between Duncan and Richie. The noise around the circle quieted, Richie noticing Phillipe on the statue, motioning for silence.
The Frenchman smiled as everyone turned and faced him. "I know this is exciting for all of us..." Murmured words of agreement wove through the crowd. "But Mamie says to tell you the food is ready in the Town Hall, and if you let *any* of it get cold, well... she *was* the only one of us to use a meat cleaver as her weapon of choice. So why don't you find a new arrival, and show them where we party at."
The noise from the crowd grew to a deafening level as everyone started talking at once. Richie watched Gregor and Rebecca move off arm in arm, gossiping animatedly to each other. Fitz offered both arms gallantly to the two other women, both graciously accepting. Richie turned to Duncan, noticing he and Michael were lost in quiet conversation, things their abrupt parting had left unsaid. In moments, the square was deserted, except for a lone person resting against the statue's pedestal. As Richie drew closer, the long scar on the man's cheek loomed.
"Well, boy," the lawman drawled, "I didn't think you had it in you. I was... surprised."
Richie leaned back against the pedestal next to Mako. "Thanks. Where the hell have you been hiding?"
The balding man laughed, his gravelly voice as familiar to Richie as his own. "Here and there. Nice place you got."
"So, here we are. When does Miss America come out in a bikini and hand me my prize?" Richie noticed the clouds didn't move, even though a stiff breeze was blowing, ruffling the flag atop the building across the street. "At this point, I'd settle for Ursa in a bath robe."
Mako pointed, his arm crossing Richie's view. "I think that man there can help you." Richie turned his head, spotting the figure standing next to him...
{ } { } { } { } { } { } { } { } { }
...on the plain of white. No horizon, no shapes, just the two of them. The gentleman had his gray hair pulled back, reveling the hawklike face. Pompously dressed, immaculately tailored, he wore enough jewelry to dower the Queen of England. The man bowed, scraping the surface they stood on with his hand, a court bow like none other. "I am Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, at your service, otherwise known..."
"...as the Green Knight. I already know this story," Richie added, crossing his arms in exasperation. "Tell me something new."
"I was going to mention being Chief Metallurgist, but you want something new." The Egyptian collected Richie with his arm, walking the redhead across the featureless space. "I am a Guide. Specifically, your Guide."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Richie asked, surprised as the other stopped. A voice sounded behind him, making his spin.
"It means, young lad, that Ramirez will help you as you go on." For a second, Richie thought the newcomer was Joe, but this man had no injury. He looked ageless, and something sparkled in his eyes. A brief flash from what was left of Arthur whisked by, a name.
"Merlin," Richie announced. The man bowed also, grinning. "And what are you doing here? I seem to recall that you aren't an Immortal."
"I am the Judge, Master Richard. I see to it that you are declared the legitimate winner." The mortal wizard approached, forming the third point of their triangle. "I know what you're about to ask," he said, holding up a hand as Richie opened his mouth. "No, I did not 'rig' it so that you would be the last. In truth, this Game was one I did *not* play in. Just observed."
*Click* went Richie's brain. "Like the Watchers."
Merlin grinned. "My descendent did quite a job, didn't he?"
With the sound of a rushing wind, a rectangle of light appeared, almost a doorway in this continual nothing they existed in. From the light came a voice, booming louder than Richie could have imagined. "IS THIS THE CANDIDATE?"
Merlin and Ramirez moved to flank Richie. "It is," answered the wizard.
"HE HAS PASSED THE TEST OF COMBAT?"
Merlin nodded once. "He has. I affirm the victory as Judge of the contest."
"HE HAS BEEN PROVIDED A GUIDE?"
Ramirez in turn nodded, "He has."
"IS THE CANDIDATE READY FOR THE TEST OF CREATIVITY?"
Richie turned to Ramirez. "What's that?"
Ramirez took a moment, looking deep within the young Immortal. "Your reward, the Prize, is to pass beyond. The next step is to use that which you have collected, all the knowledge, power, and understanding you have received." Ramirez looked behind. "All that they are, and were, are yours. Now it is time to apply it. Another test."
"What if I fail?" Richie asked.
Merlin turned the redhead around. "No less than what you have already. The Prize is a chance, a chance only you may take."
Richie looked behind. "What of them?"
The other two turned to look back as well, the faint outlines of a town square visible in the haze. "They rest," Ramirez answered. "Do not worry, lad. They will always be a part of you. And at some future point, they will be there to help you."
Richie faced front, absently straightening the black leather jacket he suddenly wore. "I'm ready."
"THEN PASS THROUGH," the voice intoned. And Richie, followed by Judge and Guide, stepped through the doorway, as everything exploded into light...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Comments, Please! to...
Hobert@aol.com
Special thanks to Marla, Stephan, Bob, Rikie, Claire(!), MaryAnn, especially everyone who encouraged me. I didn't quite know what was happening when I started in May (certainly ending up HERE was a surprise) but it's been a blast. Thank you for your patience, I hope you feel it was worth it. Oh, and one last thing...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
EPILOGUE ----------
It was dark, and empty. Nothing existed except a rotted ball of dust. No sound, no laughter, no tears, no joy, no pain. The mass of dust sat, and waited, time having no meaning in this never changing place. Silence lacked meaning, here where sound never was. Where nothing ever was.
A door opened, if you could call it that. Like a person entering the closet, light blazed forth, illuminating the dark. With a rush, sound, love, youth, red, life, pain, anger all exploded, filling that which had not been. The dust was displaced by the sudden presence, moving outward in all directions from the light.
"BEGIN" came a voice, the nothingness trembling at the power of the word. And as the void grew smaller, as the light ignited, as everything suddenly *was*, a soft sound grew, following the dust ever outward. A wordless song, humming, until words began in this place of beginnings.
"Hush little baby, don't say a word..."
Story Notes:
This story is the conclusion of events begun in CHANGES and CIRCLES, previously posted to HLFIC. It is a Highlander/Camelot crossover, with SeaQuest DSV and other tidbits thrown in.
*WARNING* This story contains graphic violence, sex, torture, frontal nudity, and really bad language (people even curse, too!). Get your kids to translate for you if need be. And, by the way, it is dark, very dark, in space...
*WARNING* This story contains graphic violence, sex, torture, frontal nudity, and really bad language (people even curse, too!). Get your kids to translate for you if need be. And, by the way, it is dark, very dark, in space...
The End.
Kevin is the author of 33 other stories.
This story is part of the series, The Possibilities Trilogy. The previous story in the series is Circles.
This story is part of the series, The Possibilities Trilogy. The previous story in the series is Circles.
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