Date: Fri, 3 Nov 1995 13:33:58 EST Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Adam, Part 7 Adam, Part 7 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu "My lord? My lord, are you all right?" Methos opened his eyes to see the earl's butler bending over him. "Thank God. My lord, what happened? There was such a dreadful noise -- lights and thunder. We thought the library had taken fire!" Methos pushed himself to his hands and knees and glanced around at the remains of the room, which had clearly suffered a massive quickening. The weapons and paintings had fallen from their hooks, the display cases were shattered, and most of the furniture was in splinters. Scorched holes in the walls and plaster moulding shaken from the ceiling attested to the magnitude of the event. Methos blinked. He would not have thought an Immortal in his first year could produce such a powerful effect. For that matter, he didn't recall beheading the earl. The last he could remember, he had been losing rather badly . . . His eyes fell upon the body lying amid the wreckage. The face seemed slightly wrong -- backwards from the one he was accustomed to seeing in mirrors -- but it was unmistakable. And the body -- the hands, and the sword they still clutched, were undeniably his own. He raised his hands before his eyes, staring at the unfamiliar long, delicate fingers. He patted at his face. There was that high-bridged nose, but now it was attached to his own face. The floor, he realized now, was much too far away. He was looking _down_ at the butler's face. "My lord?" said the butler uncertainly. "Are you well?" Methos looked at the dead body again, kneeling to brush it with his new fingertips. It was still and lifeless, the body he had worn for millennia, yet somehow it was no longer his. He was nearly three hundred times the age of the boy who had cut off his head -- apparently there had been no contest. He felt no struggle for supremacy within his mind now; it was all settled. This body now belonged to Methos. "My lord?" the butler repeated. "I -- I must have been stunned, er, Frankwell. This fellow tried to kill me. I don't quite recall what happened after that." "Perhaps some blockage in the chimney," one of the footmen suggested. "More likely that heathen savage tried to start a fire, to conceal his misdeeds," the butler snarled. "Thank Heaven you're a better man than he was, my lord!" "Yes," Methos said slowly. "Yes, of course. See that -- see that he gets an honorable burial. I need to get some rest." He accepted the footman's arm as support through the rubble. ======================== "What did you do then?" Duncan asked. "I adopted Adam Pierson's life. And his name. I tried to be a good lord for a few years, I effected a rapprochement with his uncle, then eventually I staged my own death and left England. It was my most effective disappearance ever. I had nearly half a dozen Immortals pursuing me off and on at the time, and they were all thrown off the trail. Shortly after that I discovered the Watchers and began thinking of how to use their network to maintain my advantage. I managed to stay out of the Game for two centuries that way." "But you tried to get _me_ to take your head!" Duncan protested. "Didn't you think the same thing might happen to me? Or -- were you just using me to escape from Kalas?" Adam's lips pressed together. "Turning into an exact double of Duncan Macleod would not have been the best way to lose Kalas' interest. No, I thought, since you're older, you would remain yourself, and integrate my quickening." "But you weren't sure?" Adam rolled his eyes. "What was I supposed to do, go around asking Immortals of different ages to cut my head off, just to see how far the effect carries? There isn't any room for trial and error in the Game. I'm not going to risk my existence on experiments." "No. No, I can see that." "Do you believe me now?" "I --" Duncan hesitated. "Well. I guess there's my answer. What's the problem?" Duncan stood up uncomfortably and carried their empty cups to the kitchen counter. "I'd like to believe you. My instinct says I should. But . . . what proof do I have that you're not simply Adam Pierson, two hundred years old, who took the head of an ancient Immortal in the first year of his Immortality and made good use of the quickening?" "Anyone who met me both before and after my encounter with young Adam Pierson could recognize that I'm the same man -- the same personality, mannerisms, everything that really matters." "But I never met you before, you know that!" Adam looked impatient. "Think, Macleod. How many Immortals' quickenings do you carry? Ask Cassandra!" Duncan blinked as an unfamiliar memory leaped to mind. ========================= Cassandra urged the cluster of children along the narrow passageway of the train. "Keep moving, children," she said urgently. "No, not that compartment. Perhaps in the next car --" She broke off as she felt a powerful buzz. Her eyes turned at once to one little girl, aged six, who was clutching the hem of her coat. She looked back, wondering if they should head the other way, but the ticket officer was just entering the car behind them. She bit her lip and led the children onward. A compartment opened ahead of them and a head stuck out. Cassandra squinted. She had never seen his face before, but something about the man seemed familiar. His eyes narrowed with amusement when he caught sight of her. "In here," he said quickly, seeing her anxiety. "There's plenty of room." He was the only one in the compartment, but he had lots of luggage. Cassandra watched in delight as they found hiding places for two of the children under the seats, tucked another on the luggage rack behind a soft bag, and persuaded the smallest to curl up inside a fat wicker basket. The six-year-old girl sat beside Cassandra on the seat. "They're Jews, aren't they?" the other Immortal asked, adjusting a fold of blanket that concealed one of the youngsters. "Yes, most of them," Cassandra gasped. "They're all orphans." The man met her gaze knowingly. The one little girl who wasn't Jewish was destined to become an Immortal. Without a word, they agreed with each other that they must keep the child from meeting her first death at such an early age. "I'm Adam Pierson," he told the little girl gravely. "Greta Bachmann," she piped, looking up at him with round eyes. "Why are you helping us?" "Just repaying a favor," he returned, with a wink. Cassandra looked at him consideringly, then switched into ancient Greek. "Methos, did you let some young fool take your head?" He gaped. "You recognize me?" "Of course. A quickening like yours is unmistakable. It hardly matters what face you're wearing. But you should have known better -- you can never be sure what the outcome of such an struggle might be. What if the boy had a stronger will than you expected?" "It wasn't my plan, I assure you." "You didn't see it coming?" Methos shrugged. "It's only natural to make a mistake every few thousand years, Cassandra." "Why are you talking like that?" Greta asked. "I can't understand you." "You'll understand when it's time, dear," said Cassandra, patting her hand. "Here he comes," Methos said as the ticket officer approached down the passageway. "Get your ticket ready, Greta," Cassandra told the girl quickly. "Now, everyone must be very quiet for the next few minutes. Then we'll be safe." She took a deep breath and prepared to use all her powers of persuasion on the conductor as the door of their compartment clicked open. ========================= Joe crutched slowly into the bar. "Thanks for picking me up from the hospital, Nicky," he said over his shoulder. Nick followed him through the door. "No problem, Uncle Joe. I'm just glad you're okay. We were pretty worried after you disappeared last night." Joe chuckled as he settled into a chair. "I'll bet. What did you do?" "Mike told everybody one of the band members was sick, and the rest of the performance was cancelled. He got most of the customers out of the bar, then we all went out trying to find any sign of you. There was nothing but your cane dropped in the office and a big bloodstain in one of the alleys." "Not mine," Joe said shortly. It must have been Macleod's. He glanced away unhappily. "What happened?" Nick asked. Joe sighed. "It was Guise, just like you thought." He gave his nephew a wry glance. "It's a good thing you warned me about him. There's no way I would have worn a bulletproof vest during a performance if you hadn't. It saved my life." Nick's mouth tried to smile, but his eyes were worried. "Is Alan still going to be after you?" Joe shook his head. "I doubt it. Grab me that paper, will you?" He pointed to the pile of mail at the end of the bar. Nick retrieved the newspaper and handed it to his uncle. Joe flipped through the pages until he found the item he was looking for. _Fatal Boat Explosion_, the headline read. "No survivors, they say," Joe commented, turning the paper so Nick could read it. "Guess it's a good thing I fell off the boat before it blew up." Nick skimmed the article. "No survivors?" he repeated. "So Macleod wasn't there, was he?" "Yeah, he was." Joe waved wearily at the paper. "That explosion was set off by a quickening." Nick's eyes widened. "They killed him? But . . . Wait, there shouldn't have been a quickening unless -- " "One of Alan's band was actually an Immortal," Joe confirmed. "I knew about him. I thought he was a friend." Joe closed his eyes in pain. "He used me to get at Macleod. And then he killed him." =========================================================================