Date: Tue, 13 Dec 1994 07:00:34 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Ch3.(p88-92) c 1994 N.L. Cleveland The ride to the coast was uneventful. No more soldiers or assassins came to ambush them, no one followed them, or at least not too obviously, although they doubled back on their trail twice to check for pursuers. Duncan relaxed enough to share a few tidbits of information about Immortals, at the clan leader's gentle prodding. What he still felt uncomfortable discussing, such as beheadings and the Quickening, he skipped over, and Murami politely steered the conversation elsewhere. Duncan had shown this man more of his life than he had revealed to anyone, except maybe a few scattered Immortals he could call friends. He wondered if perhaps he should trust people, mortals, more often. Perhaps he would try, in the future. Duncan never found out what happened to the clan leader, afterwards. His last glimpse of the man was of a shadowed figure, standing in the night on the dock as Duncan rode away, the only passenger on a fisherman's boat, another of Murami's legion of cousins. The well paid captain was heading for China with his illicit human cargo, instead of the fishing banks. Murami had told him much of the internal politics of the clan, and of the shifting alliances in the kingdom, during that last ride together. As if he were giving back to Duncan in equal measure all the intelligence he'd picked from his brain about the west. But he had said nothing of his plans for his return to his clan, and Duncan wondered if the man had ever even gone back, or if he had simply followed his wandering spirit and traveled the roads of Nippon, instead. He'd hinted at such a possibility, in their conversations. Whatever had happened, Duncan was reasonably sure the man had prospered. He was too sharp, too skilled and too wise in the ways of humankind and of the world, to have simply disappeared. Or been killed. Or at least such was what Duncan hoped. But mortals were....mortal. As he'd seen and learned, time and time again. They died. Suddenly. For no reason at all. Like Tessa..... He wished to think that such had not been the fate of Murami Shikoto. He turned his mind back to the present. To the cab driver, sitting in front of him, waiting for his answer. His name. The Shikoto clan, at least, still survived. That much was clear, from the cab driver's words. But what import did they have? Should he risk his so far immaculate cover...well maybe not so immaculate as that, since they seemed to have latched on to him pretty quick at the airport.... and let this messenger know that a Duncan MacLeod had returned to the land of the rising sun? He could always find another hotel, use another passport, switch cabs, and disappear again, if he had to. And any other name that he gave would be meaningless, in this context. If, somehow, Murami had survived, and had been keeping track of Duncan's movements across the world, and through the centuries, if he had passed on the secret of the existence of a race of Immortals, and the name and story of one particular Immortal, to his descendants....if, by a long, improbable string of coincidence this was all true...and from his knowledge of the Watchers, Duncan knew it could very well be true... then perhaps the clan could help him, now. Help him to find the Black Dragons. His memories from the defeated Immortal who had been a Dragon were out of date by decades. Much could have changed in that clan, by now. And his own memories of Japan were virtually useless. He had seen and experienced a brief glimpse of its history, understood a part of its xenophobia, but he had no real sense of the current climate, the current customs in the country. No contacts, here. The clan could help him to find Raven, if he still lived. So that Duncan could begin to sort out the tangled web of hatred and revenge that had twisted the sanity of the new Immortal past the breaking point. Help him save him, or defeat him, if it came to that. And perhaps not. Perhaps this driver represented nothing but a family of petty criminals, the degenerate descendants of a once proud clan, reduced to thieving for survival. Perhaps this was simply a kidnapping, for ransom. The clan had not been above that, in the past, or any other means of gathering a fast yen. Life without risk was dull. And Duncan abhorred dullness. He smothered a smile that threatened to creep across his lips. The driver would be sure to misinterpret it. He leaned forward. "I am Duncan MacLeod." The shoulders of the driver stiffened. " Of the clan MacLeod. " The man was turning to him, amazement written on his face. And deference, as he dropped his eyes from Duncan's. Duncan settled back into the seat again, a tingle of excitement running through him. He would love to find out just how Murami's people had picked him up so fast at the airport. It would be interesting to find out. He spoke one final time, trying not to mangle the words as the ridiculousness of the cliche threatened him with laughter, despite the utter seriousness of the situation. " I would pay my respects to the descendants of Murami. Take me to your leader." * * * * * Jonathan Raven slid into his first class seat on the bullet train to Kyoto, and slipped off his sunglasses. No one had followed him from the airport, or from the States, for that matter. At least no one he could detect. That didn't mean that no one knew he was here. Or that he wouldn't be recognized at any point, by members of the Black Dragons. By the remaining employees of the Agency. Or by another Immortal. The first two, he could deal with...maybe not easily, but he could deal with it. His new found immortality gave him all the edge he needed, there. But for the latter, he was not so sure. He wondered if he could find a way to crack the Watchers security net and access their database. It certainly could come in handy, he realized now. He should have thought of that earlier when he was setting out his challenge for the hacker, Jose. It had been enough for him to concentrate on breaking into the Agency's data files, then, and to try and retrieve his hidden funds. He hadn't yet incorporated his new identity, his new existence, fully into his world view. He still felt like...well...himself. And he was still concerned primarily with his own, human goals, goals forged in his soul long before the Immortal Duncan MacLeod had come to him with the disturbing, still almost unreal information that he had the potential to live forever. His last contact with another Immortal had been at the remote parking lot of the airport, as he had left Richie still locked in the trunk of Shonte's Mercedes, the youth pounding determinedly at the inner lock with the hilt of his sword. He'd felt the Immortal's telltale buzz fading as he'd walked toward the shuttle bus to the terminal, crossing his fingers that no one would hear the youth and let him out before Jonathan was safely away. Jonathan was sure he'd gotten out of the trunk, by now. But in walking away from Richie, he'd also walked away from dealing with his own Immortality. It was a weakness, he now realized, for him to not have integrated a full understanding of the implications of his new status into his agenda more carefully. A weakness that could leave him vulnerable to unexpected surprises, and to unanticipated challenges that could delay or derail his plans for vengeance on the Black Dragon clan. He sat back in the window seat, watching the hurrying passengers running to board the train. It was almost time to leave. He glanced at his watch and frowned. It showed the time on the east coast of the United States. He was indeed getting sloppy. Although he could easily translate local time from what the dial showed, he would, on a normal mission, have reset the watch automatically, before he even landed in a new country, to put his mind into the proper framework, and to begin to blend with the rhythms and patterns of the land. He had been too abstracted, on the plane. Too busy trying to correlate all the new information about the Dragons and their current activities that he had picked up from Jose's data dump. It had been waiting for him, as he'd instructed, at the customer service desk in the suburban Washington airport. And he'd been reading it, non-stop, all the way over on the flight. But that was no excuse. Simple mistakes piled up and often avalanched, leading to the sudden end of a covert operation. And the operative. He had been one of the best because he paid attention to those details. But now, the details seemed to be slipping away from him. He knew why. It was because he was too caught up in the personal aspect of this whole situation. His life, his beliefs, his goals and purpose for his existence, all the choices he'd made over the past 20 years...had led him here. And he was forced to examine those choices and ask himself, once again, if they had been the right ones to make. Not what he should be thinking about, when going into the final confrontation with his lifelong enemies. And perhaps it had also been too long, too long since he'd been on a mission? Perhaps he was losing his touch? Death certainly was not frightening him. Even eternal death, the kind mortals faced, all the time. He only feared death's coming before he discovered what he needed to know. After that, after he knew where Aki was, what role, if any, she was playing in all this... He still wasn't sure that the Director hadn't just planted the uncertainty about Aki in his mind as a final nasty psychological blow, vicious disinformation from the brink of the grave. That was the man's specialty after all. And he'd never told Jonathan a simple truth, always had shaded and layered the meanings of any information he'd given him. But Jonathan would find out, would discover what if any of the man's last, enigmatic words had been truth, what had been lies. And after he discovered Aki's fate, he would finally obliterated the clan that had killed his parents, had destroyed his family, and his life. And then he could die. But not until then. He realized that that very lack of fear was a danger. That fatalistic drive, that carelessness of his own fate, and life. He realized it objectively, but he couldn't stir more than a distant flicker of concern, inside. He simply didn't care. He'd seen and felt too much loss, had caused too many deaths, to value his own life above those of others at this time. Yet he moved on, like a puppet on a string, moved inexorably towards his final fate. His final reckoning with the Dragons, and his human past. Towards his revenge. Knowing that he would only find death, and bring more death, wherever he went. It was almost amusing. He had the potential for eternal life. He accepted MacLeod's word on this. He had no reason not to. Yet his own life until now was a long paen to death. As if there were some truth to the idea of a karmic force, as if there had to be balance in the universe. His potential for hundreds of years of life, traded against hundreds of lives cut short. Had other Immortals come to that conclusion already? Had delusions of destiny and godhood driven them to sacrifice mortals and Immortals alike on the altar of their eternal survival? Did it make any difference, in the end? Did it even matter? He turned his mind away from the idle contemplation of fate and destiny. He had work to do, plans to make. Let the gods take care of the future, if they would, themselves. And the Immortals, let them play their Game. He didn't want to get caught up in their contest, not now, not ever. He pushed down a surge of loneliness at the thought. Loneliness that mingled with a sense of incompletion yearning to be filled, a gnawing hunger that lingered inside his soul, that he still remembered, still felt, from his brush with Shonte's quickening. She was gone, now. Her mind and soul captive, lost inside her own body, held in the iron grip of that strange, overpowering Immortal. He would mourn her later, if there was a later for him. As he would mourn Andy. It seemed getting close to him was becoming a fatal choice, for mortals. No, that was wrong. He had not been the cause of either of their deaths. It was just coincidence. The Agency had come for Vulcan, not for him, at Andy's apartment. And the Immortal had chosen Shonte as his opponent. But still, he had not been able to save them, either. Just as he had not been able to save Jari, or Hikari. None of them had deserved to die. Not even the boy who had thought he was Jonathan's son. He had just been a tool. A child twisted and turned to murder, before he'd ever had a chance to grow and choose his own life, for himself. And it stung. The responsibility. His failure to prevent these tragedies. As he had failed to prevent the deaths of his parents, long ago. He clenched his fists, breathing through his nose, forcing himself to be calm, to center and focus on the future, not the past. All his skills, all his lethal training, had been for naught. He had still been helpless to avert the deaths of the people he loved. But now, he would go to the cause, to the root and source of all this pain and death, and he would destroy it. As he had destroyed the Agency. He would tear out the heart of the Black Dragons. And he would go alone. Seeking absolution in victory, or final peace in defeat. He heard the rustle of conversation as the ticket taker came slowly down the aisle behind him. He stood casually, pulling his one piece of rugged nylon hand luggage off the over head storage compartment. He stepped ahead of the man, and moved into the next car, then into the restroom. He timed his motion so that no one saw him enter it. That was the key. One man goes in, another comes out. He quickly pulled off the jacket, the boots, the hat, and stuffed them into the bag, replacing them with a long dark trench coat, dark leather Reeboks, and a dark baseball style cap with Japanese letters sewn across its front. The name of the Tokyo baseball team, he remembered. At least in Japan there was still baseball, while the American players and owners sulked out a protracted strike. Perhaps he'd catch a game, after his grim tasks were finally done. He felt his face relaxing, the harsh lines bracketing his mouth easing into a smile of reminiscence. He'd loved baseball, as a child in Japan. His father had kindled and shared his enthusiasm, taking Jonathan to his first game, and to many more, after that. And the Japanese players were as good as those in the States. Or at least they had been to his youthful eyes. He'd collected all the players cards...like so many kids his age. He hadn't thought of that in years. Coming back to Japan was bringing back more than his language skills. The entire land was booby trapped with memories. Memories of a time in his life before the Dragons, as well as of his fanatical crusade against them. He'd put them aside, abruptly, as he had put aside all the trappings of his youth, after his parents deaths. He'd probably given them away. Odd, that he couldn't remember. The bag was bulging a bit now, but since the windows were sealed and the transit points between the cars sealed as well, he couldn't simply dump them off the train as he'd prefer. At any rate, he had changed his profile as much as possible, while still leaving himself dressed for immediate action if he was attacked at the Kyoto station. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Hardly recognizable, at least to a fast survey in a crowd, as the same man. He'd change his looks and clothing again in Kyoto, after he left the station. He stepped out of the washroom and moved to the front of the car, fingering the second ticket he'd purchased. Had actually had a helpful and bilingual Japanese woman purchase for him, as a favor to the bumbling American wandering lost in the terminal who couldn't speak the local language well. The ticket he'd bought for himself was for the first stop out of Tokyo. This second one was for the full trip to Kyoto. And his new seat was here. Unfortunately there was also another occupant in the row. An anonymous Japanese salaryman, dressed in a dark suit, a matching briefcase on the floor at his feet, face hidden behind the Tokyo newspaper. Jonathan stifled a surge of irritation. He would have preferred to be alone, as he had been on the flight to Tokyo. He still had some reading to do, a few last pages of data that he had not yet had a chance to review. The rest were charred shreds, smoldering in a rubbish bin outside the Tokyo airport. Well, this was the first test. Was his identity compromised? Was this man here by chance, or to keep watch on him? And if so, for whom? He could feel the rusty gears clicking back into operation in his head. His mind rumbling through the standard moves to feel out a possible contact or turn a tail into a source of information about who sent him out. He peered back at the seats behind them. About half were double filled, about half had single passengers. Nothing unusual in the shared seat, nothing out of the ordinary for this weekday afternoon. It could just be chance, then. Could be. That, he told himself firmly, was just another sign of how badly his skills had deteriorated. Paranoia was clearly setting in, and he'd have to watch out for over caution as well as lack of caution in himself. That seesawing imbalance of perception was the most obvious trait of an amateur. There was no reason to suspect anyone who was seated next to him. Far more likely a shadow would be at the end of the car, far enough away to see without being seen, or identified. Like that woman in the last seat who stared intently out the window, her features half obscured by wraparound sunglasses, her pale gray raincoat designed for disappearing into a crowd in perfect anonymity. He realized he could ascribe suspicious behavior to everyone in the car, if he worked hard enough. Everyone on the train, for that matter. But that would be a waste of time and energy, would leave him vulnerable and frazzled and off balance against the real threat, when it did eventually emerge. The threat he was hurtling towards at over 100 miles an hour right now. It was time, instead, to sit and watch and wait to see if anyone came to him. Time to play the spider in its web, here. Before he stepped into the real web, in Kyoto. He swung his bag into the overhead rack again, and sat down on the seat, trying not to brush against the paper his seat mate was reading. "Pardon me." He excused himself automatically with the customary politeness. The man grunted inaudibly in return Jonathan's eyes strayed in idle curiosity across the headlines visible from his side. He hadn't had time to pick up a paper yet, himself. Nothing dramatic, here. Trade talks with the Americans going badly again. Calls in parliament for re-arming the country and calls against it as well. His attention sharpened as an article caught his eye. A score of reputed gangsters had been found dead in several of the major cities? A major war going on between the Yakuza clans? Possibly over drugs and the struggle to control the heroin trade? This was interesting. And a possible avenue of approach, to the Dragons. He'd have to find out more, when he got to his destination. He stared hard at the innocuous shoulders of the man next to him, still all that he could see from behind the barricade of the newspaper. Jonathan pulled out the last few pages of printouts, and started reading the tightly spaced text, his lips moving silently in his eidetic storage mode as he committed the pertinent data to memory. The man beside him turned the page, the flimsy sheets rustling loudly in the quiet compartment, and continued reading his paper. The train moved on, carrying Jonathan ever closer to the stronghold of the Dragons. =========================================================================