Date: Fri, 9 Sep 1994 00:01:57 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 3 (p1-6) Aloha (Chapter 3) c 1994 N.L. Cleveland The 747 climbed off the runway. Duncan sat, his face pressed to the round plastic window, watching the smoke still spiraling into the clear Washington sky. The building was gone, just a smouldering heap of rubble, ringed with flashing lights, emergency vehicles, crowds...was all that remained. Duncan could still see it, a scorched black hole in the green patchwork of the city. A cairn, a monument ....to death, to his own failure to guide, to prevent this tragedy. The sensless waste. He watched the smoke shrinking beneath him, disappearing, as the plane circled, then headed west, to the coast. To the Pacific. To Tokyo. If Raven was still there...still alive...he might never come out. Might be entombed, forever, under tons of concrete, twisted steel, slagged molten glass and plastic...Duncan felt a cold shiver crawl up his back, picturing the horror of endless life... buried in the dark...for eternity. He thrust the vision aside. Richie was there, keeping watch. Returning the car. Closing down the accounts. Liquidating all the tangible assets that couldn't be transferred out of the country. Richie would let him know if Raven appeared, if his aura could be felt, under the ruins. Duncan would know, soon enough. And if Raven was out, was gone..if he was already on his way to Japan, to Kyoto..Duncan would meet him there, as well...to have the final reckoning. To call him to account for his bloody deeds, his wanton slaughter. How many had died in that building? The numbers were still being tallied.....too many. Far too many..... Duncan turned his mind, his thoughts, to his destination, and to his past. Considered the intertwining threads that beckoned and repelled him, lured him on, and made him want to run, to turn and flee back the way he had come, instead of returning to the Land of the Rising Sun. There were old ghosts there, waiting. Ghosts he had never laid properly to rest. That was why he had not returned, for so long. This country, these people, had meant the world to him, once. And had shattered his world, as well. "Would you care for some tea, sir?" The stewardess interrupted his contemplation. He smiled at her, nodded his thanks. Listened to the whisper of her silk kimono. Heard its promise. Admired her golden skin, delicate features, enjoyed the subtle jasmine scent that wafted from her hair, mixed with the warm smell of the tea. He sipped the tea, tasted, remembered.... "We call this the tea ceremony. You have nothing like this in your land?" His host, the affable merchant Makoto Hideo, smiled politely and beckoned his serving girl into the room with a twitch of a single finger. The girl... Duncan noted...bowed and shuffled forward on her knees, carrying the elegant serving tray, the delicate porcelain pot, the tiny cups, hardly daring to look up, her shoulders hunched together as if she expected to be beaten... Duncan still couldn't get used to the way no one here would ever look him in the face, the men, and especially the women, staring determinedly at the ground, offering him the greatest of respect, he now understood, but never making eye contact, never giving him a glimpse of their expression, of their true feelings. It seemed sometimes as if he floated, never quite touching the ground, never quite touching the hearts, understanding the minds of these people. It was disconcerting. But he was learning. Learning the language. Learning the customs. Learning about trade, about markets, and about weapons and their arts of war. He felt the sword, the katana, at his side..the word was still strange, the sword, its balance, strange as well...but his old sword had broken, in that last mad rush to the merchant's walled compound, that last desperate stand against the bandits who had attacked thier small trade caravan, and Duncan had done his duty, performed the acts he was being paid for, here, had saved Hideo's life, rescued his goods, and lost his old Scots claymore. This was its temporary replacement. Duncan wasn't sure how long he would be here, in this strange floating world...how long he could stand the deference, the puzzingly enigmatic politeness and carefully polished manners that hid all kinds of calculations, all kinds of plots...but while he stayed, he needed a weapon, and this was all they had, here. All they made, in this isolated and proud nation. He'd shown his old broken sword to the local smith, but the man had just laughed. Politely, of course, and protested that his poor smithy, his inadequate skills would not allow him, could never duplicate such an exotic foreign weapon. So here he was, with Hideo's borrowed katana. Sipping tea....and wondering how to leave....how to avoid offending the touchy honor of his host...his employer.... "Sir?" The stewardess, again. With dinner, this time...sushi, mishu gomeii, soup, a clear broth with small square chunks of tofu floating at the bottom, and a lemon scented, hot white towel, steam rising gently from its folds. He rubbed his face with the towel, relaxing for a moment in the scent, in the warmth...putting aside for a few minutes all his concerns, his worry for the future and what it would hold. Savored the moment. Existed in the now. * * * * * The weight shifted. Lifted away, a bit. Let him breathe. But not move. He remembered heat. Incredible heat. And pain. All around him. On him. In him. Gone, now. Likeit had happened to someone else. Someone in the distant past. He felt motion, vibration, coming from far away....far above... in the matrix of rubble, of unseen shattered lumps of concrete, of seared wood, of slagged metal and melted plastic, that enfolded his body in its uncaring embrace. He redefined his boundaries. *Felt* along his nerves, his skin. Tried to determine where his body ended, where the outside pressed in. He waited, in the dark. Felt cold. Felt wet. Puzzled out the strange sensations. *Felt* his body, regenerating. Felt the old, dead surface, his burned, crisped skin, sloughing off like old clothes that no longer fit. Felt his burned, seared eyes, hollow empty pits, regrow, fill out. Felt the orbs, whole and solid and moist again, moving sightlessly under new eyelids. Felt moisture, sweet pain, rise in his tear ducts, trickle down the sides of those eyelids, across his ravaged face. Felt his nose, the new skin and cartilage pushing, stretching, growing. *Smelled.* Gagged on the smell. Waited for his senses to numb again. To deaden the nauseating scent, the clinging, invading, demanding odor of the burned, rotting human flesh...his own....others.... that lay all around him. Unseen. *Felt* his ears, his lips, his skin, itching, growing, healing. *Felt* his fingers, felt the slagged, seared stubs, stretching, growing. *Felt* the tiny new bones, pushing delicately against the fresh new skin, stretching it, nudging it back into shape. *Felt* muscles, nerves, arteries, veins, crawling up the new digits, reanimating them, feeding them. Felt his fingers, felt with the senstive ridges on their tips, curled them, touched the edge of the *outside.* Redefined his boundaries, again. Thirsted. Cried. Slept. *Felt* water, running across his face, dribbling down from above. Opened his mouth. Drank it, greedily. Spat out the shreds of plastic, the bitter ashes, grit, it carried with it. Drank again. Ignored the taste. Ignored what it had touched, what it could have touched, before. Concentrated on the moisture. *Felt* whole, again. Felt alone. Felt fear. *Sensed* the touch, so brief, so insubstantial, of an Immortal. A stranger. Somewhere above. Cried out. *Sensed* the other go. Leaving him alone, in the dark. Waited. Thought. Remembered. Held those thoughts. Concentrated on them. Felt the love. The grief. The hate. Planned his revenge. Endlessly. Noise. Louder. Vibration...shifting the mass that pressed against him. Dust settled, trickled onto his face, into his nostrils, his ears. Time meant nothing. The sound went on. Stopped. Began again. Grew closer. Louder. Stopped. Began. Grew into a grating, crashing roar. Chunks of debris shifted, fell, pattered against his skin. He felt the vibration in his bones, in his gut, in his brain... Light. Blinding. White. Searing his eyes. He cowered. Felt the rock and debris around him move, felt his stomach twist, as a great metal scoop lifted his body, his patch of shattered building, high, up, dangling, twisting. The debris shifted with him, the metal jaws closing, crushing him in thier teeth. He felt the cold metal cutting into his diaphram, shattering ribs, crushing his breath from his body, crushing the spark of life he'd nurtured, kept alive. He felt himself dying. Fought. Clung to life. Lost his grip, lost himself. He screamed.... soundlessly... The *sense* awakened him. Hovering, just at the edge of his awareness, as he swam up from the black void. Murmurs of voices. Cold metal. He lay on a metal slab. Nude. Sensed the chilly air currents moving around him. Felt the hair on his arms rise, felt goosebumps. Smelled formaldehyde. Antiseptic. The heavy sweet scent of blood. Of rot. Smelled death. "...amazingly well preserved. Almost as if he just died." The voice moved closer. Two sets of footsteps, approached. He lay still, breathing shallowly, practicing the calming thoughts, the centering of mind, the stilling of body...let his muscles lie, slack. A door, swinging open. Another voice, from furthur away. "Here's another one for you, doc." The footsteps moved away. Out the door. He head it swing shut, the hinges squeaking. Left him alone. For the moment. He opened his eyes, blinking tears against the glaring white light, the bright operating theater illuminated starkly, all cold metal, sterile white tile, sharp instruments laid out, ready, on the table...the autopsy room.... Around him, plastic bags, piled, oddly shaped lumps within, giving them a grotesque look. He tried to imagine what part of a body each could contain. The smell of putrid flesh, the rank scent of the grave, hovered in the room. He swung his feet off the slab, rose, his bare feet making no sound as he padded across the cold linoleum floor, searching, intent on finding a way out. The smell was stronger, near each bag. He tried the door. He could hear the voices, barely, through the chill gray metal. Looked for another exit. An alternative. Glimpsed himself in the glass cabinet...saw a ghost reflected back, a pale, hairless ghost, with shadowed eyes. Empty eyes. Eyes like the pits of hell. Grabbed a long white laboratory smock, hanging from the row of hooks near the door, slipped on a pair of flimsy green paper booties, a green paper mask. A surgeon's sterile cap. Disguised himself, blended in. Pocketed a long bladed scalpel. Just in case. Touched the cold metal handle of the door. Listened again. The voices were gone, now. Opened the door, senses pitched at their highest alert...heard nothing. Saw nothing. Slipped out, down the long empty hallway, towards the plate glass door that beckoned him, at its end. The whisper, the light subtle brush of another Immortal's aura, danced at the edgeof his awareness, taunting, elusive. Threatening. He stepped past the entry station, turning his head away, moving with studied grace in a perfect imitation of ease, of casual saunter. His bare legs felt the cool air, as he approached the door. He willed the guard to keep writing, to keep talking to the patient, or doctor, who chatted with her, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. He felt incurious eyes pass over him, without noticing, wihout seeing beyond the white smock, the green flimsy paper disquise. He was out. Standing in the dark, again. Facing an almost empty parking lot. In the heart of the city. Traffic was loud on the street behind him. He moved furthur into the dark, the concealing, cloaking dark. Away from the streetlights. Moved in among the silent cars. Feeling the pull, the insistent nagging buzz of the Immortal, the stranger....coming closer. He fingered the scalpel in his smock pocket. Held it easily in his grasp, ready to pull it out, to slash, to throw, at a moment's thought. He breathed, deeply. Smelled the fresh green scent of late spring. Early summer. Breathed out the cloying smell of the morgue. Lifted his heels, rocked lightly on the balls of his feet. He was ready. He searched the shadows for a sign, for movement. The buzz was closer now, pressing insistently in his head. He stepped around a van, its bulking shape hiding him from the street, from curious eyes. A flash of motion. Light played across skin. Glossy. Dark. A curved sword gleamed like pale fire, a scythe in the moonlight. He stood, his knees bent, the scalpel in one hand, the other open in a half circle, ready to strike, to kill. "I am Shonti. Of the Yoruba. Who the hell are you?" She stepped forward. Looked him in the eye. Eye to eye. As tall as he was. Taller, maybe. Held her sword before her, the blade showing tiny pits, scars, as the light caught its edge. =========================================================================