Date: Tue, 13 Sep 1994 08:53:19 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 3 (19-23) "Yes." Simply agree. Add no new information. Let her do the talking here. And plan how to get out...now.... "Perhaps I can help." "Why?" He waited. Defending. Fencing. She did not reply. Instead, she opened another door, stepped in to a room, the lights coming on automatically as she did so, warming from a soft glow to a bright steady illumination. Jonathan stood on the threshold. It was a library. A study. A trophy room...The walls were lined with books, old leather bound volumes, with faded gold gilt, raised embossed titles. A desk, tables, glass cases, with sepia tinged photographs....statues, artifacts....and a computer, the screen humming softly to itself, a random pattern of colored dots roiling across its surface. Jonathan's fingers twitched. He had been out of touch, out of the information loop too long. He had been taught, by the Dragons, by the Agency, by bitter personal experience, that the lifeblood of an agent is information. He needed information, needed to know if the search was on for him again, or if he'd succeeded in destroying the Agency...destroying their records of MacLeod, of the boy... "Perhaps, Jonathan Raven, if you trusted me more, you would find what you are seeking." He flinched, inside. "I have learned to place my trust with care." He stood, awkwardly. Unsure of her intentions, still. She rose, paced across the floor towards him, brushed past him and turned, at the doorway. "You can use the computer. There is a modem. I will be upstairs....come see me when you are ready to talk. Or leave. As you will. " She was gone. He went to the keyboard, sat, fingers poised over the keys. He *had* to know what was going on. He would just have to take that risk. At least he could be oblique. He booted her modem, typed in his primary codes, bounced out and in from a second phone line in Austria he'd set up as a cutoff backup, and accessed his dead files, ones that would be wiped as soon as official notice of his death went out on the net. Pulled all the mail in, and dumped himself out of the system. It would take a while to read through it... and to send out the new inquiries he needed answered, would take more time. And more again, to wait for the answers to show up... It was probably buried under tons of rubble..along with his swords. And the bodies.... He refused to regret his actions. Refused to consider, to listen to the tiny questioning voice inside, that asked if there had been another way....There was no other path. No other choice. Not for him. Not for his honor. Not for his revenge. He lost track of time....only noticed that the light had changed...saw that dawn was graying the walls, brightening the windows. He rose and stretched, pulling his muscles loose from the tight knots they'd worked themselves into.... He was dead. Officially. That at least was clear. It was time to call back his data dumps...no reason to use up all that information....some would still be valuable, in other, future circumstances....and to change his identity, change his name and appearance. He looked at himself, in the tall mirror flanking the doorway. Looked critically at the piebald skin, new pink and pale mixed with old tanned and lined, looked at his rabbit like features, eyelashes just stubs, eyebrows faintly tracing in like a 3 day beard......It had seemed longer...as if time itself had stretched out and carried him away...He pulled his thoughts back to the present, to the image in the mirror...His hair was burned off for the most part, again a dark stubble showing where the roots were growing in. He would shave his head, shave the rest of the stubble down to nothing, and go as a monk. Uniforms are always best. Krishna would not mind lending him his disciples' saffron robes for the brief flight across the world. No one ever looked beyond the robes, beyond the shell. No one ever looked at the man, inside. Sometimes the more visible one was, the more invisible. All he needed now was cash. Liquidity. Once he'd thought money would protect him, give him barriers against the past, against the loneliness, the pain... he knew better, now. Knew it was only a tool, a cold, empty tool, and like all tools, was to be used for other purposes, not gained as an end in itself. Provided nothing, in itself. Its purpose, its value, came from the context of its use. Right now, it would be the tool to his revenge, give him the leverage and information he needed, to find and destroy the Black Dragons forever. He had forever, after all, to do it. Or close enough. His account still waited, still existed, at the Washington branch bank he'd hidden his last, secret funds in. Blood money, to use to let more blood. How fitting. All he had to do was get there, access it. Prove to the bank that he had the right to withdraw it, without proving to them that he was still, in fact, alive. Now that might be a little tricky. He considered. Possibly a second access authorization, inserted into the computer's memory, back-dated a few weeks...He knew the theory, but didn't have the technical skills to pull it off. He flipped through his mental list of hackers, cryptographers, programmers. Who would do this, sight unseen, for a nameless, voiceless code account? Humberto..he was a possibility. His ego was large enough that the simple challenge might be enough.... He sat at the keyboard again, setting up an anonymous send, to be routed across his unregistered mail box, and responded to on a public bbs....Humberto loved playing spy....Jonathan smiled. This would be another notch on his belt. Something he could discreetly brag about in his posts...but discreetly....that would have to be understood. He slipped out of the room, found the stairs and paused at their foot. Leaving was not yet an option. He had too many queries out, needed too much information back, to disappear just yet. Needed the access to funds, to finance a disappearance. He had no identity papers, no credit cards, no wallet. Money was essential at this point, to craft his new existence. No matter how brief it was... He walked quietly up the carpeted steps. Enjoyed the plush feel of the rug, on his bare feet. Felt fatigue, tension, tightening his shoulders. Saw the dogs, waiting for him. No one would enter unannounced. She would never be surprised, in her sleep, unawares. Not with her two faithful guardians, sitting like small sphynxes. Watching...They stared silently at him as he walked past, stepped into the open door of a room down the hall, saw a bed, with plump white pillows, a patchwork quilt, in soft, muted colors, inviting him to lie down, to relax for a moment..... ..He was falling....burning....the flames all around, felt his face melt, his eyes...saw burning bodies, corpses, walking towards him..on fire...their hands reaching towards him, the fingers....burning...he struggled, tried to stop them, to beat them out, with his hands...they could not move...he could not move.....struggled to awareness, threw off the quilt and sat up, panting, his heart racing.....feeling again the tactile memory across his body, his skin, of the searing pain that he thought he'd forgotten, thought he'd buried... feeling all the while that he was being watched, judged, assessed and found wanting..by another presence that was hovering, always in the background, of his mind. His body was dripping with sweat, the sheets were soaked....he shivered, and looked up. Shonte stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame, watching him. Jonathan felt as if his nerves were exposed, raw to the slightest touch of air, the quickest glance... He glared at her, threw off the sheets and stood, defiantly, naked. Let her see the scabs across his ribs from the metal jawed hoist, see the piebald crazy quilt pattern across his body of new and old skin. Let her see him for what he was and where he'd been. He stalked to the chair where he'd put the bloody, slashed lab smock. It was gone. A white terry cloth robe lay in its place. He shrugged it on, belted the robe and turned, feeling the pressure of her eyes on him all the while. "Burning....that's the worst." Her voice was somber. Sympathetic. As if she'd felt the searing crisping horror, seen her own flesh melt off her body, too. He felt his angry barriers come down, a bit. It wasn't too farfetched an idea. She was old. Very old. Older than MacLeod, even...he wasn't sure....just sure that she had a strength, an inner centeredness..that he had only sensed, but felt drawn to, like a child seeking guidance, reassurance, direction in the dark. She could show him.....so much....if she only would... if he only would trust her to....there, that was the crux of the problem.....trust. He no longer felt he could trust anyone...everything he had believed, had believed in, had turned false in his hand...the Agency...Vulcan....Hikari.... Aki....Even MacLeod had ulterior motives for teaching him, for staying with him...he recognized that...recognized that if the two of them ever met again there might be a violent, final parting of the student, and the teacher....So why should this enigmatic, mocking Immortal be any different? True, she *might* have killed him, there in the parking lot, and didn't. He knew skill when he saw it...and her moves had been honed by centuries of practice. She was good, very good. Maybe his match. Maybe even better. But that didn't settle the issue of this troubling urge he felt, this different *flavor* in the aura that surrounded and defined her, so different from MacLeod's, from Richie's. It was pulling at him, pulling him unwilling, but fascinated, towards her. Battling his common sense, his caution. Impelling him closer... He found himself walking forwards, staring into her dark, lustrous eyes. Looking into them, looking for something....She watched him, silently. A tiny smile quirked the corner of her lips. He noticed she was wearing a loose silken robe, a brilliant, glowing gold, that brought out golden highlights in her hair, her skin, her eyes. He raised his hand, saw it move almost without his conscious volition. Touched her face...her lips..with the tips of his fingers. Shuddered at the visions, the rush of images, of lovers entwined in ecstasy, across centuries of passion, the scenes tumbling through his mind...the feelings, the textures, the emotions..rousing his own passion, setting his heart on fire....and then the visions were gone. He only saw her, her face, her eyes...smelled her scent, cinnamon and cloves...felt her touch, on his lips, on his body, felt the robe slide from his shoulders, felt the rough slick silk, then her skin, her hot, firm flesh, mold against his.... -- - - - - He felt warm. Relaxed. Secure. Safe....held in the embrace of a woman's arms, a lover's arms...Some of the tension, the wound up, constant driving urgency to go, to finish...had eased. He had time, he thought, to plan. To rest. To play...and to love....But what role did *love* play in this equation? He turned his head on the pillow and stared at Shonte's face, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted in sleep...awed by the sharp clean lines, the almost inhuman beauty of her visage, like an Egyptian mask, carved and polished from gleaming ebony instead of gold. Her limbs, her breasts, gleamed with the same dark smooth polish....He felt a stirring, a rising fever of reawakened desire, in his loins, in his heart. He touched her, his hand brushing soft against her hair, smoothing back the tiny, woven braids that framed her face in intricate knots. He saw her eyes flicker open and meet his, her liquid gaze catching and holding his soul fast, trapped like a captured butterfly in a child's hands...his spirit beating useless at the fingers, at the bars...he could not pull his eyes away, could not pull his thoughts away. He felt her arms around him, *sensed* her mind, enwrapping his, *saw* her memories, *shared* her past, mingling with his...becoming his, sweeping him along in a grand and terrifying vision..*felt* her reaching inside his mind, reaching inside his heart....touching his passions, his loves, his hates...touching the dark burning fire in the heart of his soul.....too much, too fast, too overwhelming...he shut his eyes, but could not close his mind....fought to retain his identity, his sanity....pushed her away, in a last paroxysm of self defense, his muscles rigid, quivering...closed up in himself, curled into a fetal ball... "Jonathan." She stopped. Drew back, away from him. Left him alone. Left him in peace. Left the room, her steps almost inaudible, a soft scuff along the carpet, the sigh of the door opening, closing. His sense of her presence remained, but softer, muted by space. By merciful distance. Only the faint, dim traces of her memories remained, like glimpses of a dream, distorted, fading fast in the daylight. But the fear..the fear did not fade. He could not, would not let anyone inside himself in that way. Could not let anyone touch the core of his soul, of his identity. Could not bear to look closely at it, himself. Could not bring himself to comfort that boy, that child who had never cried, never permitted himself to grieve, for his parents' deaths. Had turned his grief into rage, instead. That child who was in him. The child who was him. The key...the heart of his soul. And of his rage, of the burning hate and hurt that had driven Jonathan on, had fired his imagination and led him on and down the inevitable path to revenge, to murder...the child whose rage had been appeased, been banked and stilled...for a while...overcome and contained by his adult understandings, his perceptions that revenge had been achieved, and then distracted with the search for his son... But the rage, the hurt, the fatal obsession, remained, in his heart, and and flared up,in the wake of his own death, the loss of his son, the *idea* of his son's existence..had rekindled the banked but still glowing coals, into a searing, burning rage as powerful, as overwhelming and all consuming as before....Andy's death had only added fuel to the flames...stoked his fury even higher....and now.... He could not bear to look to closely at it....could not...would not.....confront, or comfort, that boy....himself.... He could not even bear to think about it....He would not.... He sat up, stretched out his arms, his legs...laughed, a bit self consciously, at what a fool he'd been. So upset...over what? Over nothing.... Took refuge in the rituals of the day. Moved through his exercise kata. Open hands, this time. Twice. Thrice. Buried his unease in the motion, the fast smooth flow of automatic turns and kicks, thrusts and counterthrusts. Showered. Then smoothed down his remaining unease in a long blank time of meditation...sitting next to the open balcony doors, legs crossed in lotus position, hands curled, finger and thumb making the circle, the open circles of life....feeling the soft morning light on his eyelids, on his face....thinking of nothing, feeling his breath move in, move out..listening to his heart beat and to the sounds of the birds and the wind in the leaves... Seeking, and finding oblivion from his memories. Temporarily. * * * * * The cabbie snarled under his breath, muttering imprecations in gutteral country flavored language about foreigners who wanted to go somewhere and didn't know where...and where they could go, instead. Duncan smiled, listening. Hid his smile, so as not to embarrass the driver with the knowledge that *this* particular foreigner knew and understood every word that he was saying. Wished he had checked a street map, before setting out, to see if the temple even still existed, if the street was still the same...Wondered how he'd feel to see a glass and steel office building sitting there instead. The cabbie swerved, cutting in and out among other slower traffic, now that they were in the heart of the city, showing off his dedication and determination to his passenger, even if the destination was not to be found, he would still deserve a good tip. Duncan understood. Thought back. Tried to cross reference the grid of streets he remembered, with the new gleaming confusion of lights, of traffic, of high rises and flashing neon. Suddenly he recognized a shape, a configuration, an intersection of angles..... =========================================================================