Date: Thu, 19 Jan 1995 02:46:21 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Ch 3. p 165-171 While I hardly think my work is worthy of carrying a dedication, I would like to state here my respect for the courage and dignity of the people of Japan and my shared grief and sorrow at the tragic loss of life as a result of the earthquake in Kobe, Osaka, Kyoto and environs. * * * * * A sharp rap on the hotel room door nudged Duncan back to the present. He checked out the clock on the nightstand. A quarter to two. He'd been sitting, thinking, grieving, trying to plan his next moves...running through dozens of scenarios for tomorrow... for more than two hours. No Immortal waited outside, that much he knew. He glanced cautiously through the peephole, stifled a curse, and then opened the door to one of his two Shikoto bodyguards. He looked down the hall, and saw the second standing guard in front of the elevator. Duncan had been sure neither of the guards, nor the motorcycle boys, the bosozoku, had seen him leave the hotel. But here they were, looking hurried, and frightened. Not a typical expression, not for these men. He stepped back to let the man in to the room, and folded his arms, letting his own annoyance, and anger, show. "Why did you follow me? I was promised privacy." He wondered if they had been able to track his call to Joe. The guard silently held out a pager, twin to the one Duncan had been given by Kenrei, just hours ago. A yellow light blinked rapidly on its surface, its speed increasing as the guard brought it closer to Duncan's pocket, where his own pager rested. Duncan realized with a start that the pager in his own pocket had also been vibrating quietly. For how long, he frankly did not know. He pulled it out, and pressed the button on the side. The vibration stopped. In the oversized liquid crystal display where he expected to see a phone number, a face formed, blurrily, then sharpened in focus. It was Kenrei. She stared at him, her eyes tracking the motion of his face as he held the tiny pager further away, almost ready to throw it across the floor as an expression of in his frustration. He had never seen anything like this before. Despite his anger, he was fascinated. It was years, decades beyond even the prototypes he was aware of. This was priceless technology, in the Shikoto's hands. "MacLeod." Her voice was tinny, but clear. Her tone formal, her expression brooked no delay. He inclined his head, swallowing a nascent humorless chuckle that threatened to climb his throat and erupt into a full belly laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Bowing to a tiny face in a tiny cube in a tiny box in his hand. In the middle of the night, in a land he once though he understood. But no more. No more. Technology changed so fast. He had learned computers, learned faxes and car phones, picked up all the tools of the times and mastered them, as he had to, to survive. But what of the tools that evolved faster than he could learn of their existence? What of the tools of the future? He felt old. Old, and obsolete, cradling this tiny crystal image of Kenrei in his palm. "Lady Kenrei." He accorded her the honorific, hoping it would ease, would smooth over some of the inevitable friction he foresaw looming in their path. "You did not answer my page. I was forced to send my men to find you. I *do* apologize for this intrusion on your personal space, and on the time I had thought I could allot you." She stopped, pressed her lips firmly together, and lowered her eyes in all the bow he would get from her tonight. Still, he appreciated the explanation, and the apology. It eased the rankling anger in his breast, soothed for a moment the fear that he may have betrayed a mortal friend to a mortal enemy. "I accept your apology, if it also includes the promise that you did *not* trace my calls from here." He knew that the calls would be on record, and would eventually be traced. Perhaps he was only buying Joe a few hours or even minutes of anonymity, but every second, every moment, would count. "You know I cannot prevent others from using this information. I will not use it myself however. That is all I can say." Kenrei shrugged her shoulders, the graceful movement indicating the limits of her concern, and power. It was the best he could have hoped for, he knew. Yet the bitterness, the disappointment in her, in his faith and trust in her word, were there. He swallowed his anger as best he could. He still needed the Shikoto. And they, evidently, still needed him. "Thank you. Please tell me why you contacted me. It is urgent?" He could be gracious and give her the opening , now. "Yes. Very urgent." Kenrei turned her head to the side of the screen for a moment and spoke, her voice muffled, not picked up clearly on the tiny transmitter's mike. She turned back, speaking to him once more. "A helicopter is on its way. It will be on the roof of your hotel in two minutes. You must leave for Kyoto at once. I will explain everything later. The schedule has been changed at the other end. You must be at the meeting by 5 a.m. Go now. We will talk soon." She nodded firmly, then cut off the connection, and the tiny screen faded to an innocuous gray watch, showing blinking numbers again , as the digital seconds ticked by. "Sir?" The guard was standing with the door open, gesturing for him to leave. "Give me a second , please." Duncan turned his back on the man, hiding the phone as he dialed Joe's number once more. Willing the Watcher to answer on the first ring. He did. "MacLeod?" The familiar tones gave Duncan a momentary lift, reminded him of another life, other friends, back home. A home he hoped he would see again. A home that would never be the same, without Richie. "My call was traced. You're in danger. Lose the number. Disappear. Now." There was a sharp catch of breath at the other end. "Good luck, Mac. God speed." Joe's final benediction. The phone clicked gently into the cradle from the far side of the world, and Duncan was alone once more. Alone with his enemies, and his so elusive allies. Who might be one and the same. Alone, caught in a guessing game with clues he did not fully understand. He put the phone down at his end as well, then stood, to finish out his part in this charade. Duncan sighed, picked up his coat, and slipped it over his shoulders, as he preceded the man down the hall to where the second guard had evidently commandeered one of the elevators, holding it open with his heel. He stepped inside, the two bodyguards following after. The elevator doors closed smoothly and it accelerated up, towards the 45th floor, and the penthouse suite. The roof was accessed by a ladder. A flimsy, metal ladder, bolted to the side wall making up the penthouse garden. Duncan hauled himself over the edge to the final rooftop, pushing his hands into the sharp white gravel that covered the sticky black tar. Faintly, on the night air, he could hear the thumpa-thumpa-thump of a helicopter's blades chopping through the sky. Coming closer. Coming for him. There was hardly room for the two bodyguards and himself on the narrow top ledge. Duncan wondered how the helicopter pilot intended to land. Then wondered where he'd ever gotten the idea the pilot was planning to land, as he saw the rope ladder tossed down from the still approaching machine. He hated heights. Hated flimsy ladders. There had been a fall from a rickety hayloft, when just a young child....Odd, how these memories of youth would crop up in the most unexpected, awkward way..... That was over 300 years ago, he lectured himself sternly, as the wind from the rotors blew dust and debris across the roof, whipping his hair into his eyes. The ladder dangled just out of reach, and he stretched, on tip toe, to grasp the bottom rung. The dryness in his throat coming from the dust....and the wind....that was it.... He pulled himself up, using his shoulders and arms, his legs scrabbling uselessly for a toehold. Finally, he got a foot onto a rung, and took some of the strain off his arms. He was the first one on board. And the only one, he realized, as the goggled and helmeted pilot pulled quickly away, leaving his two guards standing and staring solemnly up at the departing aircraft.. It must have been, as there were only two seats in the chopper and the pilot occupied one of them. Gratefully, Duncan eased into the other, fastening the rather flimsy seatbelt and persuading his rebellious stomach to relax. Well, he'd probably survive whatever catastrophe could possibly befall the machine, but it didn't mean he'd enjoy it. The noise of the rotors made it impossible to talk. The pilot turned the machine, tilted it forward and threw the engine into what Duncan could only imagine was top speed, by the way the rotors started whining and the whole frame began shimmying in the rushing wind. Duncan had no idea how fast they were going, or how high they were, from looking out the window. Soft silver clouds swam past them, obscuring the ground, below, reflecting the light from the waning crescent moon. He craned his neck, trying to read the instruments, trying to make sense of what he saw. They were going 500 kilometers an hour....fast enough, he supposed, to make the rendezvous. Fast enough to shake the bolts loose and pull the whole machine right out of the sky, as well. The machine shuddered and bucked as the first updrafts from the foothills of the Kanto Sanchi range buffeted it. Everything was invisible, down below, the deceptive clouds hiding the sharp jagged peaks that clawed up at them from the rocky ground. Duncan cursed his overactive imagination, but he knew they were flying directly through the highest mountains on this island. Directly past Fuji-san. The shortest route to Kyoto would take them past the huge volcano, then led right over the Akaishi-Sanmyaku, and the Kiso ranges. Murami had taught him Japan's geography, those centuries before, lessons Duncan still remembered clearly, today, hearing the man's voice, seeing again the sketches of mountains and plains he drew in the sandy courtyard. "All warriors must know the paths of retreat, and escape." The man had elicited a nod from Duncan, at that. A warrior of a Scottish clan knew the value of the hills, too. Seeing his agreement, Murami had emphasized the point. "Remember this, MacLeod. The mountains are the ultimate defenders of the vanquished, the protectors of the dispossessed." Which meant that the clan had been driven to the hills, more than once, to survive, and would run again, if forced. It was the way of survivors. Use whatever means necessary. Just survive. Duncan stared down at them, straining to see, as if to pierce the night with his eyes. The pilot made an adjustment to the controls, then turned his attention away from the front of the whirlybird, looking at Duncan instead. The figure...man....pointed to a brown leather case at Duncan's feet. Gestured that he was to pick it up and open it. Duncan did, with alacrity, figuring the more quickly he complied with the pilot's request, the sooner the man could turn his attention back to his real job, keeping them in the air. The Immortal was briefly surprised at the weight of the case. He laid it across his lap, and popped the snaps open. It was stacked with money. High denomination American bills, with the original bank slips still holding them in their packets. Surmises tumbled across his brain, each more unlikely than the last. He simply didn't know enough about the internal dynamics of the clans. He was glad that the aircraft, while noisy,was relatively airtight. There was a tape recorder in the case, and a pair of head phones. The pilot pointed to them, indicating that he was to put them on. Duncan did, not expecting to be able to hear a thing. He started the tape, and was amazed at the clarity of Kenrei's voice speaking to him. Another new technology that the clan had stolen or bought straight from a developmental laboratory. The kind of cutting edge change that took forever to make it out of the jealously guarded borders of the country. He stopped speculating on the possible technological edge of the Shikoto clan over others..heck, the others may have bought or stolen their own secrets, too....and concentrated for the moment on the briefing he was getting. Learning how and why Kenrei hoped this meeting would begin to ease the war between the two clans. And what she expected his role to be. He could handle it. He'd played envoy before, over the centuries. Immortality gave one a certain detached perspective on some human quarrels. And gave him a strong impetus to jump in and get involved directly, in others. Of course, this time he had his own agenda, as well. That might complicate things a bit. But he felt confident he could handle that. After all, the Black Dragons had no idea he was an Immortal. If worst came to worst, they would only try to kill him. Something he could at best avoid, and at the very least, survive. The tape finished, a good 45 minutes of compact, concisely phrased information. Kenrei must have prepared it in advance, just in case something went wrong with her original plans. It was clear from what she'd said that she had at one point intended to come to Kyoto with him. Risking her very life, just to be near , but hidden, while the negotiations went on. It was just as well she was not here. It would be far safer for her in Tokyo. Duncan turned and contemplated the silent, grim faced pilot beside him. Most of his features were hidden by the helmet and goggles, but Duncan could see that the man was concentrating on his work, now. Another trusted member of the Shikotos, no doubt. Duncan envied them their certitude, their sense of place, of belonging. That, alone, was enough to give meaning to most men's lives. To inspire them to lay those lives down, if necessary, as well. And it was something he would never have, never again, and yet would always yearn to recapture. The clouds were thin and scattered here, and Duncan glimpsed huddled clusters of lights passing by below. Towns. Villages, nestled in the mountain passes as they flew over the central range of Japan. Extinct volcanoes, mixed with the massive upthrust rocks of the continental plates that met and ground themselves to dust and molten magma under the floating land. The Japanese balanced their civilization on a precarious edge, shaky ground that rumbled and periodically destroyed the pretensions of the tiny humans clinging to its bosom, reminded them that the earth gave, and could take away. Life. Land. Everything man had so painstakingly erected. Yet they stayed. Survived. Prospered. And claimed the land as their own. Until forced by the violent heaving earth to flee. Only to return and build again. That was the pride, and the power of man. The power to endure, to persevere. To go on, to a sometimes only dimly glimpsed future goal. Duncan looked down at the flickering, fragile lights below. Each light representing hope. Representing a single human family, clustered around the fire, once warmed by burning wood, now by coal or nuclear fission. Clustered around the lights of family, of clan, of civilization. Clustered around life. And it was to protect those fragile dreams, to allow those mortal men, women, children, to live out their lives in their own ways, to make their own choices to struggle, to survive, to succeed, or to fail...to protect their freedom, and their existence....that Duncan had dedicated his life to, once more. By coming back to the Game, he came back to the choices of standing for good, or for evil. And evil, for him, in his mind for any Immortal, was the taking of, or tampering with, innocent mortal lives. Snow still silvered the topmost ridges of the highest peaks, and Duncan could almost trace the path, the twisted, torturous path of those ancient faults, sliding and grinding together to create this very land. Ahead, the bright glow of Nagoya warmed the cold, empty dark, and Duncan knew they were near. They flew past the glowing city, leaving its suburbs behind as well, and climbed into the empty foothills once again. Now only the Suzuka range still separated them from the broad flat basin that held Kyoto, the crowning treasure of Japan's history and past, nestled in its green, jewel-like setting. Duncan had never been here, but Murami's description had extolled the virtues of the city, and colored his perceptions with a warmth and romance he expected to shed quickly. Still, he savored the anticipation, the excitement that stirred in his blood as the helicopter swept down from the foothills in the first faint gray light of dawn, swept across Yokaichi and Moriyama, swept across the long narrow neck of the huge lake, Biwa-ko, that filled most of the basin, and approached Kyoto-shi, at last. Approached the city of legend, steeped in history, in blood, in piety, in betrayal, in intrigue. They circled over the city, Duncan looking down at a half remembered, half familiar landscape. He tried to note the major landmarks, since he might need to scramble out of here alone, in a hurry. The helicopter slowed, hovered and settled finally on a flat grassy meadow in an urban park, right in the middle of the city. A crumbling shrine stood at the edge of the grass, near a small reflecting pond. The shrine's watery reflection smeared and broken by the chop of the helicopter's blades. The pilot gave him a thumbs up signal, and Duncan shed his seatbelt and jumped to the ground. It felt good to be on solid earth once more. He held his arms up and the pilot leaned out and handed him the case. The man flashed a smile at him, and pointed, gesturing sharply towards the half ruined shrine. Duncan recognized that smile. He stood, rooted to the ground. Frozen in shock. Was he here on his own? Did Kenrei know he was the pilot? Was this part of her plan? Or was this some labyrinthian twist in the struggle for power and control of the clan that Duncan had only glimpsed a superficial hint of, back in Tokyo? The helicopter lifted back off the ground, Hideyoshi holding it expertly, hovering just inches off the grass, with one hand on the controls while he pointed with his other at the shrine again, circled his gloved fist and held up his index finger. One finger. He jerked his thumb at the ground, pointed his one finger up again, his eyes glaring into Duncan's. Duncan returned the gesture. Nodded, to show he understood. The chopper moved rapidly and smoothly up into the brightening sky, as a half dozen dark suited men emerged from the shadowy recesses of the shrine and closed in on Duncan. The closest of the men spoke, levelling an Uzi at Duncan's stomach. "You are the messenger?" He had a rough Osaka accent, and there were no honorifics in the address, it was superior, to inferior subordinate. Duncan drew himself up to his full height and stared down his nose at the man, returning rudeness for rudeness. "I am here to see your *masters*, if that is what you mean." Kenrei had been explicit on this point. Accept no insult from the underlings, or from the leaders, for that matter. This entire exercize would be a test, of Duncan's will, of his nerve, of his courage, in representing the clan. She had explained that they, the Shikoto, would all be judged by the calibre of their messenger. And that she knew she could trust Duncan to stand fast. As any member of the clan would. That had warmed him, her easy assumption and acceptance. As it had the first time he'd met her. As it would, always. She knew, he admitted to himself, exactly how to push his psychological buttons. As if she had seen into his heart, seen his need for acceptance, his hunger to belong, and offered to meet that need, in her own way. He must be doubly cautious, to accomplish both his tasks here today. And triply so,with Hideyoshi hovering somewhere, just out of sight, his too keen ambition a warning beacon burning bright in Duncan's still sketchy grasp of the clan's real goals here. But that was nothing new for him either. He'd lived the triple masked and constantly shifting life of an Immortal for centuries. Surely he could play this brief but complex role, as well. "Come with us. Please." A second man had spoken. The words were grudging, but the polite honor was there. Ignoring the three Uzis now pointing at different parts of his anatomy, Duncan inclined his head gravely to this man, and followed, or was led, at a half trot, around the crumbling outer walls of the ancient shrine. Down a mossy gravel path, and up an inclined ramp and into the open back of a large black produce truck that had parked right up against the brush sheltered path, before it gave onto the city's public streets. It's engine purring softly in the quiet morning air. Four of the men, the three with Uzis and the one who had spoken last, whom Duncan know recognized as the leader of this little group, accompanied him into the truck. The other two shoved the ramp into the underbelly of the truck, secured it on its metal clamps, and closed the swinging rear doors, latching them with a hollow, echoing clang. =========================================================================