Date: Fri, 16 Dec 1994 07:15:04 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha ch 3.p93-100 c 1994 N.L. Cleveland (comments to NancySSCH@aol.com) Warehouses and factories crowded one another in the land hungry city, as the cab drifted deeper into the drab industrial zone, leaving behind the glitter and bustle of Tokyo's stylish downtown streets. Duncan was outwardly relaxed, but inside he was hyperaware of each passing moment as the cab brought him nearer to his meeting with the descendants of Murami's clan. He peered out the windows at the avenues, memorizing their location as they moved from the heavy central urban traffic into the bare, almost deserted manufacturing district. Not where Duncan would have expected to be taken, but then, he had no real grasp of what the clan had evolved into over the past two centuries. He watched while the driver picked up a cellular phone from its hiding place beneath the front seat, pushed a single digit memory code, listened for the connection and then murmured quietly into the mouthpiece. Two words, both too soft for Duncan to hear. The man powered off and tucked the phone back under his seat. A second cab had fallen in behind them. It might have been following for a while, but Duncan only noticed it as its headlights drew closer, the glow illuminating the immaculate interior of the cab, ghosting pale shades of the vinyl seat's rich burgundy colors from the gray shadows. Duncan caught the drivers eye and raised his eyebrows in inquiry. The driver shrugged his shoulders and abruptly took a sharp right, without signaling, running through a red light at the empty intersection. The second car followed. The driver reached down under the seat again and pulled out the phone once more. This time, he spoke an entire sentence, the words blurring together so quickly that Duncan only caught one word. .....Not a phrase he was familiar with. Not a word that had been current in his ancient Japan. Reinforcements? He certainly hoped so. The driver pitched his voice louder this time, as he placed the phone on the seat beside him, still on and ready for use. "My apologies, sir. The ride may be a little rough." Duncan felt the lights from the closely following car boring into him like twin lasers. He stared back, unable to make out any details of the persons inside. Then a tiny red target sighting dot danced across the edge of his vision and he ducked, as a sudden impact hit the cab. I t shuddered, and the back window starred, but did not break. The cab was swerving back and forth across the road now as the driver tried to make them a more elusive target. A second cab had joined the first, the two cars jockeying for position behind them, trying to ram their bumper, while shots from smaller caliber weapons pinged and ripped across the vehicles reinforced metal hide. Duncan battled the rising sensation of unreality that bemused him. Perhaps the Shikoto clan was in no position to offer him any help, right now. Perhaps they were in need of allies, themselves. Duncan glanced up, then back. The driver's face was calm, despite the sheen of sweat that stood out across his face. Duncan watched, a very interested spectator, as the first pursuer pulled close, and locked bumpers with the cab, while the second edged his car forward, paralleling them on the broad empty street. He could see, now, the ugly snout of the heavy rifle that had almost shattered the window before. It was coming to bear on the window, again. Pointing right at him. The engines of the cabs were roaring with the strain as the drivers battled to control their cars. The roar was getting louder. Too loud to be just coming from the cars. A dark, slender shape darted across his vision, spewing tiny noisy dots of yellow flame, and the sputtering racket of a motorcycle's tinny roar cut across the straining growl of the car's engines. For a moment Duncan had the wild thought that Richie had somehow materialized here, with some harebrained solo rescue scheme. Then the cars were surrounded by dozens of motorcyclists, the black metal machines and their masked, leather clad riders weaving and dancing around them like schooling fish. Piranhas. In a killing frenzy. Flashing their guns like teeth. When they were done, the windows of the two hostile cabs were gaping empty shells, the edges bearing jagged witness, splintered to tiny glass slivers by the rain of bullets that had poured through them. The engines had died in them both. Only the one rammed into Duncan's cab still rumbled, as the driver backed up then accelerated hard to loosen the other car's bumper from its metal embrace. The driver continued on his way, not sparing a glance for the huddle of men and machines that converged in a lumpy mass behind them in the street. An escort of the motorcycles flanked them now, more dark clad outriders moving far ahead and behind. Duncan even glimpsed a pair riding down a side street, paralleling their course. Duncan watched the scene in the street as they drew away, the remaining riders swarming over the two silent wrecks of the cabs, until another turn put it out of sight. So these were the bosozuku. Motorcycle gangs. Richie would feel right at home here. Duncan would be interested in seeing what the young Immortal would make of modern Japanese society. In the states, the motorcycle culture's organized gangs had their own structure, independent of any other criminal organization. Here, Duncan suspected, these riders were a part of a rigidly established hierarchy, the young foot soldiers, so to speak, of the clan. He leaned forward again, to ask the driver how long it would be until they reached their destination. But he never got a chance to ask the question. His mouth half opened, the words forming on his lips, he smelled and tasted a sweet, sickening scent as tiny jets spewed a gray gas into his face from a nozzle hidden in the back of the driver's seat. He felt his eyes rolling up in his head and his limbs dropping heavily to his side as he slipped down across the slick vinyl seats, his last dizzy glimpse of the driver before darkness took him, of the man holding a small mask over his nose and lips, and driving on. His last, almost incoherent thought, as consciousness slipped away... It could have been anytime, hours, even days later, when Duncan at last awoke. He had no way to gauge how strong the effect of the gas had been on him. If it had been meant to kill, he probably would have awakened sooner than if it were simply intended to disable. He'd learned long ago that he was as susceptible as any mortal man to being knocked unconscious, either by drink, or in a brawl. And staying that way as long as his mortal companions, most times. The Immortal healing factor, somehow, did not kick in. Or did so slowly, so slowly as to almost make no difference. Maybe it was because the brain was affected, instead of the body. And of course, Immortals still needed to sleep, so his body could have simply drifted into a natural sleep after the gas was no longer in his lungs, or bloodstream. His head was clear. Only a lingering trace of muzziness remained. And the sweet clinging scent of the chemical, whatever it was, on his clothes and hair. He lay with his eyes closed, trying to sense if he was being watched. He seemed to be on a mattress, a hard cotton futon, he suspected. No restraints bound his arms or legs.That at least was a good start. He opened his eyes, blinked in the sudden light, then sat up and looked around. The walls were an indefinable soft pastel shade. There were no windows. And two doors. Both closed. A bedroom. Simple. Spare. Utilitarian. And very Japanese. Thin woven hemp tatami mats lined the floor. Instinctively he counted. A ten mat room. Large, he suspected, for a bedroom. An indication of wealth, for the owner. The rest of the room reinforced that impression. A hand painted silk floor screen sat in one corner, the pale gold wood edges framing a scene showing a pair of cranes wading in a shallow, lily strewn pond. Even from here, he could tell the brush work was exquisite. A dark mahogany chest sat against the wall, the polished finish flowing in a pleasing, harmonious design. Duncan had always appreciated finely crafted things, those designed with care and to exacting standards of both utility and aesthetic taste. He sensed a kindred soul here. Or souls. He still wore the clothes he had been traveling in, although his shoes had been removed as he slept. And so had his trench coat, which lay in a neatly folded pile at the foot of his bed. His sheathed sword rested on a burnished ebony stand, edge up, precisely aligned with the angle of the far wall. His one piece of nylon luggage sat next to his coat. Another good point. He noticed that a thick white towel and soft white cotton kimono almost beckoned him from across the room, laid out invitingly on top of the chest. He rose and stepped across the floor, the textured mats digging pleasantly into the soles of his stocking feet. He tried the smaller of the two doors, suspecting it must lead to the bathroom. It did. Curious, he tried the second door. It opened as well, leading to the hallway of what looked like a residence. A mansion, by current Japanese standards, if Duncan correctly remembered a recent Time Magazine article he'd read. Luxurious, by anyone's judgment. He could see the play of water and hear a fountain's liquid burble in the center of a large open room a few dozen feet away, down the wide, brightly lit hallway. Soft daylight filtered into the hall from a series of skylights set in the ceiling. Ancient painted fans and a delicate, intricately embroidered kimono, lined the walls, each in individual raised glass cases, with temperature and humidity controls humming, like an exhibit of antiquities at a particularly expensive gallery. Or a museum. There was no one about, but Duncan knew he must be watched. He eased the door closed and stepped back into the bathroom. A shower seemed like the best possible alternative, at the moment. He'd been traveling now for over 24 hours, just on the plane, plus whatever time he'd spent here, and he felt grubby and grimy and slightly wrinkled at all his edges. Not the best frame of mind to meet the modern Shikotos in. Not if they were anything like their leader in the past. He needed to be fresh, and sharp, for this upcoming...confrontation? Whatever it was, it would certainly be a duel of wits. He could not afford to jeopardize his future to the whims of mortals who would not understand and who probably also felt no obligation to follow the rules of the Gathering. And who might, possibly, also know how he and other Immortals could be killed. Yet he wanted their help, and if they remembered a debt of family honor to a Duncan MacLeod, perhaps he could collect now. He peeled off his sticky, limp clothes, and stepped into the shower. The hot steaming water beat across his skin, washing away the grime. His concerns about the future eased a bit, as he lathered himself with the jasmine scented soap. He closed his eyes and relaxed, feeling the water's warmth reach inside his back and shoulder muscles and start to ease the tension. The noise of the water surrounded him, creating a cocoon of mindless sensation, a splashing, liquid refuge from the burdens and responsibilities he would have to take up, in a moment. A new toothbrush lay on the edge of the soap dish, and he pulled it loose from its wrapping and swabbed at his teeth, letting the warm water from the shower wash through his open mouth and fountain back out. Pretending for an instant he was a gargoyle spouting rainwater from the eaves of the Notre Dame, he pulled his face through a series of wild grimaces. He'd seen enough gargoyles to last even an Immortal's lifetime, hiding with a young Marquis and his 10 year old sister in the rafters of that ancient church for a week, watching the pouring rain, the only thing that kept the city from going up in flames, while the howling mobs down below rioted for bread and attacked all the nobles and foreigners they could lay hands on, in one of Paris's perennial food riots. Not a pleasant memory, that. Pursing his lips, he jetted a thin stream of the tepid , tasteless water from his mouth against the tiled wall, wondering if he still had the range to piss out a candle at 3 feet. Aye, he'd been in some memorable contests of physical skill, in his youth. The kinds of silly contests men have always had with one another, over the centuries. He looked down at his streaming wet, glistening body, watching the water run in tiny rivulets across his taut stomach muscles, funneling down his legs, and grinned in fond recollection. Almost regretfully, he turned down the water, and stepped into the steam filled room. He felt a shock as he realized his clothes were gone. Blinded and deafened by the water's noisy carvot, he had not even noticed that someone had stolen into the bathroom while he'd been in the shower. He must have been more tired than he realized. Or the intruder had been very skilled. It was worth remembering, but hardly a matter for great concern, just now. He toweled himself off, opening the door to let some of the steam escape into the larger room, then shrugged into the kimono, belting it as he stepped into the bedroom. A pair of fresh white socks, the toes indented for wearing the traditional Japanese sandal, lay on the neatly folded futon. The bedding had also been changed. Duncan noted the sword was still as it had been, lying untouched on its stand. On impulse, Duncan slid open the top drawer of the mahogany chest. The beautifully balanced wood moved without a sound, or a catch. His entire collection of forged passports and his wallet, documents and other identification were all neatly spread across the drawer's indented tray. He slid the drawer shut and opened the one beneath it. His eyes widened a bit in brief amazement, then narrowed in surmise. A compact laptop computer lay there. A Powerbook, even, like the one he'd lost. But a more advanced model than his own. A prototype, with the Power PC chip, according to its logo. None of those were due out until sometime next year. He glanced at the next item. A hand held cellular phone. Battery chargers and extra batteries nestled next to both. Thoughtfully, he shut this drawer and pulled open the bottom, final one. He wasn't sure what to make of this. A set of shiruken, the deadly throwing stars of the ninja, rested on a black velvet cloth, their lethal razor sharp edges glittering like tiny swords. And a small, wicked looking semi-automatic pistol lay next to them, its black matte plastic grip almost invisible against the dark cloth. A thick bundled stack of crisp 1 million yen notes, a one way Japan Airlines ticket, folded so that he could see it was made out for travel to any destination in the world, the date open ended, and a wooden box of bullets, were the other items in the drawer. He hesitated a long moment, then slid shut this drawer as well. His heart, lightened for a brief moment by his playful game in the shower, weighed heavily on him again. He was being offered a choice, a test. And the nature of the test revealed as much to him about the ones running it, as they hoped to learn about him. More, in fact. They were willing, eager, even, to bribe him, to leave them alone. He had them rattled, already. But he also believed that their offer implied that they accepted a debt of honor, one they were willing to repay. Why else would they have sought him out, brought him here to offer him this choice? It seemed likely that he could ask for their assistance in any action they could take, up to and including murder. As long as it did not endanger the clan. He realized the clan leader must have returned, after they parted 200 years ago. He must have regained control of his citadel, and must have attributed far more credit to the departed Immortal for saving his life, and far more power, to Duncan as an individual, than he actually possessed, as a man, or an Immortal. He knew that repaying family obligation was an honored tradition, especially among the outlaw clans. It was their way of showing that they respected and excelled at obeying the most important tenets of society, those of honor and obligation and trust. Even as they broke its laws on property ownership and murder. And Murami, frankly, had been an outlaw among outlaws, his views so diverse from those of the emperor and the other leaders around him, not only in providing Duncan with shelter, but in possessing foreign books, in daring to learn other languages to read them, and in teaching their ideas to his followers... all forbidden activities, all punishable by death....and as a result his clan was particularly tight and closely knit, forced to rely on itself because of its isolation from the mainstream of society and custom. That what was had made the betrayal and attack on the clan leader so poignant, and yet so understandable, to Duncan, and to Murami. Those who chose to be different ran the risks of being cast out as pariahs, by their own followers, by those who wished to rejoin traditional, even traditional outlaw, society. So had the clan followed in those traditions too? Did they still break with custom and society, to follow their own path? Duncan would find out, soon enough. The thirsty cotton robe had soaked the last moisture from his skin. He surveyed the room. There were no other clothes in evidence. Surely he was not expected to meet his hosts like this? As if responding to his very thoughts, a soft knock sounded on the door leading to the hallway. "Come in." Duncan used the formal Japanese tense, not knowing the rank of the person who would enter, not wanting to give unintended offense, right off. A young boy, maybe 10 years old, peeked around the edge of the door, then smiled at Duncan with the sunny vivdness of youth. He stepped into the room, dressed in simple western Euroopean style, and white stocking feet, carrying a folded pile of clothes. He grinned, like a child with a secret he was bursting to share, bowed low and handed the pile to Duncan, who returned his bow and smile, then asked the boy, "What is your name?" using the inflection of an adult, to a younger relative. The child only bobbed his head again and stepped away, back to the door, where he hovered, unwilling to leave. Still grinning, as he watched Duncan examine the clothes. This was the secret, the surprise, Duncan surmised. They were not his old clothes, but something new. Fresh from the tailor, it seemed. He held up the soft thick sandwashed black silk shirt against his frame, nodded his approval at the boy and waved him out of the room as he started to change. The child seemed to want to stay and see how well everything fit, but enough was enough. Duncan at least wanted to dress in privacy. He inspected the clothes as he put them on. Hand sewn to fit him. Perfectly. And the style was interesting. An amalgram of east and west. Loose, flowing shirt and pants, with a tailored jacket that seemed to imply a hint of a man's kimono robe, combined with a dash of button down Bond Street propriety. And comfortable =========================================================================