Date: Sun, 4 Sep 1994 16:18:00 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Chapter 2 (p 121-126) As always, comments are welcome (nancyssch@aol.com) c 1994 N.L. Cleveland "Get it over with. Protect yourself. Your secrets. It doesn't make much diference to me, now, does it." Alexi's voice was scornful, proud. Duncan had been a warrior, a soldier in many armies, had killed mortals and Immortals alike, on battlefields and in private combat, for centuries, across the world. But he had turned away from that, had turned away from the mindless bloody fights, turned to Darius, to find meaning, purpose....And now, to execute someone, in cold blood. To execute a mortal, someone he could simply ignore....if it wasn't for the game.... Alexi sat, ready for death. His eyes stared straight into Duncan's, unblinking. "Come on man, let's get out of here." Richie, impatient. Duncan turned to the youth, letting himself be distracted, knowing he was leaving himself open, knowing on a subconscious level that he was trying to get off the hook, wriggle out of taking direct responsibility for this mortal's death. From the corners of his eyes he saw the simultaneous motion, Alexi gathering himself, tensing, Richie tracking him with his gun, ready to fire. Pity for the driven, urgent desperation of this man, the furious struggle mortals put up for their short, brief spans of life...pity and compassion.... Duncan turned, continued turning, transformed his motion into a thrusting kick, catching the man on the chest as Alexi rose to his feet, shoving him back, interposing his body between Richie and his target. Glorying in his newly recovered skills, enjoying the feeling of control, of precise mastery of his body, balance, muscles, Duncan continued his spin, reaching out, grabbing the gun from Richie's hands as the youth looked at him in surprise, turning, spinning, using the extra momentum to bring his arms around, faking a strike with his right hand that Alexi blocked and bringing his left, with the pistol held like a club, into a crashing side blow against the man's temple. The man dropped. Dazed. Not dead. "Get me the cord from that lamp, and the phone." Duncan crouched over Alexi, ripping a strip of cloth from the man's shirt to make a crude gag. Richie handed him the electric cord, the wires dangling, shiny metal exposed and bare where he'd yanked it from the base of the lamp. Duncan wrapped the black cord around the man' wrists, then reached for the phone cord waiting in Richie's hands. He tied the man's feet together, tied his legs and arms in a linked, secure webbing, winding the excess phone cord around and around to hold them fast. He had no illusions that this would hold the man long. At the latest, the housekeeping staff would be in the next morning to change the bedding. Alexi would probably be out and after them far sooner. He would deal with that eventuality when it came. And somehow....he felt a tie, an affinity with this man, with this driven, desperate warrior. Duncan had recognized the man's level of skill, had seen his control, flashes of his techniques and training..... It was a paradox, but one Duncan did not have time to explore, at the moment. He trusted his instincts, instead. Trusted the feeling he had that what he was doing was right. Necessary. He touched the man's neck, just to be sure. The pulse was strong, steady, the breathing even. < He would be fine.> He handed the gun back to Richie, who took it, sliding it into his jacket pocket, raising an eyebrow in silent inquiry. "Later." Duncan shook his head, glancing at the still form of Alexi, on the floor. " Let's go. " He held the door open for Richie, wondering how often patrons of this establishment heard gunshots, that no one had responded, no one had come to inquire at the noise. The hall was empty, no telling what business or pleasure was being conducted behind the blank, identical closed doors. He carefully placed the "Sleeping, Do Not Disturb" sign on the handle, straightening it, remembering the last hotel he'd been in, the last such sign he'd seen hanging on a door. Remembering Yomo, the flash of light in her eyes as she stood, naked, splendid in her youth, her beauty, the blade of her sword quivering at his neck. Remembered her smile, her scent. Her blank dead face, in Raven's kitchen. He doubted he would ever know. Felt a pang of sorrow, of pity again, for the mortals all around him, engaged in their endless struggles for life, for death. He hurried down the hall, Richie holding open the elevator door, waiting for him. No one else was inside. They had a moment alone, of privacy. The first they'd had together since that morning, in the house. "Well?" "It was Raven. He told me where to come." Richie looked faintly embarassed, not offering Duncan any more details of his encounter. "Where is he now?" Richie looked up, at the ceiling, clearly not happy with his answer, with his information. Not wanting to be the one to share the bad news. "Back where I found you. He got me out. Out of the house, then out of the other place, after they grabbed me." "You're ok? " Duncan reached for him, concerned. He hadn't realized Richie had been caught, had assumed, hoped, that the youth had just escaped. Richie stepped back, clearly no more eager to be touched, than to talk. "I'm fine. But he stayed. Wouldn't come. Told me to tell you he's sorry...that he doesn't need a teacher anymore." "Damn. How long ago was this?" "15, maybe 20 minutes. It's pretty close." The youth finally looked at him. Took a breath. Decided. "Mac, I don't think this guy wants to live. He seemed like he was in another world, the whole time we were together. I mean he's scary...." Richie's voice trailed off. "And if he did, you know, take somebody's head...I dunno what he'd be like. He's pretty lethal already. He's killed a lot of people. And there's something more." Richie hesitated again, a frown wrinking his brow. "Some of the memories I've got, from some of the Immortals Mako killed, before....inside me....some of the nasty ones....its like they're trying to link up with this Raven guy, somehow. I don't know exacly what's going on...its just a sense I have, a feeling....." The elevator stopped, the doors sliding open. "How did you get here?" Duncan didn't like anything he'd heard. Didn't like it at all. He *had * to find Raven. Find out if he'd made a terrible mistake, letting him live. Helping him survive, to become an Immortal. Find out if he had to correct that mistake. Find out if he even could. And the other complication. To face the possibilities of the white room again.... "My bike is outside." Richie led the way, Duncan following. It was a galling though, but one he had to consider, had to face, honestly. Sometimes new Immortals went insane, just at the thought of being Immortal. Duncan had seen it happen, before. Had tried to save one lost, damaged Immortal soul from the clutches of insanity, from the murderous delusions and bloody deeds that the man had been driven to commit. Had failed. Had had to kill the man, instead, to keep him from going on an eternal rampage, from endlessly murdering innocent or ignorant mortal men, mortal women. Had been forced to absorb his quickening, to fight again inside himself the terror, the rage and pain and insanity that had driven this tortured being. It was not a pleasant memory. Inside him, something stirred. Something familiar. Something he hated. Feared. Pitied. Contained and controlled, for now. The ghost of the man's insanity still lay in wait, coiled like a snake among the other minds, other memories, ready to rise up, to strike, to seize control, to slide gibbering though his mind and consciousness. It would always be there, like all the others he had absorbed, all the other lives and memories and souls. Sometimes it was almost too much. The double sided gift, the power and knowledge of Immortality, twinned with all the rest, the evil, the hate.... It had been a relief, he now realized, to not have those memories, for the brief time he had forgotten. It was as if his mind, to protect itself, had simply shut down, shut off, that part of him, of it. But he was who he was, what he was. He could not simply take a vacation from himself. From his obligations. From his role in the game. Not without paying a heavy price. Losing his identity. His skill. His knowledge. If another Immortal, a foe, not a friend, had come upon him while his memory was gone...He would probably be dead, now. He knew it. Realized that he was as dependent on his absorbed skills, absorbed pasts, as he was on his learned and honed abilities. The good, as well as the bad. All his. All him. The motor bike stood in an alley, off the side of the hotel. Richie had parked it behind a garbage dumpster, out of sight of the street. Duncan looked closer. It was the same one. The one he'd ridden into the river. Richie's eyes were full of questions, but he didn't ask them, only stood, waiting for Duncan to state thier next move. Duncan considered. They needed a low profile, to approach the building Raven was in. The bike was definitely not going to provide that, especailly the *same* bike. Perhaps as a back up, to leave, afterwards, but not to approach. They needed a car. And had very little time to get one. Moments counted. He could almost feel the rage driving Raven, remembered it from their brief contacts, before. He turned to Richie. "See anything fast, inconspicuous, on the street outside? We leave the bike nearby. Go in with a car." The youth nodded, smiled broadly, reached into the bike's saddle bag, pulled out a long slender piece of metal, turned and sauntered out of the alley, whistling tunelessly between his teeth. Duncan mounted the bike, throttled it up, and drove slowly out of the other end of the alley. Paused. Waited. Moments later Richie cruised by in a shiny new black Lincoln Towncar, the smoked windows rolled down so Duncan could see him, a satisfied smirk on his face, in profile. Duncan merged with traffic, and followed. The Towncar pulled into a residential side street, right near a highway access sign, pausing while Duncan parked the bike. He walked over, listening with half an ear to the distant sound of a helicopter, chopping its way closer, through the sky. He thrust away the flicker of concern. He slid into the passenger seat. Now Duncan could hear distant sirens, their shrill high screams coming from several directions, the nearest blaring down the street they'd just left. Richie accelerated smoothly, then paused the car at the intersection, as three fire trucks raced by. Continued on, towards where they'd been headed. The other sirens were growing louder, now. Flashing lights crossed the next intersection. A police car, this time. Tires squealing as it ran through a red light, paralleling the path of the trucks. Richie looked at Duncan, shrugged. "That's where we're going. We might be too late." The sirens almost drowned his voice. More were evident now, as if the entire city had turned into a vast beehive, all its droning, screaming worker bees rushing to defend the hive. Rushing here, rushing past. To where Duncan would just as soon not ever follow. But he must. "Go ahead. Get as close as you can. Maybe its just a coincidence." Duncan clung to that shred of hope, hopelessly. Richie cut aross the road, pulling over every few moments for another screaming siren, another flashing light. Ambulances, more fire engines, a Red Cross Rescue Unit. A mobile television camera van. Another. The smell. Acrid. Burning. As they pulled out from the tree-lined streets, Duncan looked up, able to see the sky for the first time, able to see a pall of black smoke that hung before them, like a huge dark pillar, a spawn of the underworld, clawing its way towards the heavens. He felt hope die, in his heart. * * * * * Jonathan strode to the door, slid the electronic access card he'd lifted from one of the dead men through the metal lock, and heard the bolts spring open, the steel plated door swinging inward, easily, at his touch. Nothing too obvious, where the normal public could wander, could innocently see. It was once he got furthur inside, that the real defenses would begin. Where every step he took inside, would mean he'd have to fight twice as hard to get back out, once they knew he was there. Behind him, the door slipped back into its frame, the heavy bolts sliding back into place with an ominous, final click. There. A barrier already, closed behind him. Holding him in. He doubted he would be coming out. At least not in this life time. The access control desk was empty, abandoned. The television monitors flickered, switching automatically from camera to camera, unwatched. The guard was among the slain, outside. Raven remembered his face, remembered his bad jokes, the few times he'd seen him, early in his career with the Agency, while he still came to the offices, still was in training. After that, he'd been out, on his own , in deep cover, far away from any contact, any identifiable link with them, with the government. Jonathan moved to the control desk, searched in the lower drawers for a screwdriver, for a repair kit. He found the tools, grabbed the largest screwdriver and pried up the light metal access cover plate, paused at the spaghetti strings of wires laid out in a multi colored confusion before him, then ripped them all out, chopping at them with the blade of the screwdriver, feeling the crackling jolt of electricity buzzing up his fingers, up his arm....He fell away, collapsed against the guard's chair, panting, his heart racing, his fingers numb and tingling. The screwdriver had a tiny brown scorch mark at its tip. The cameras were all dead. Blank screens, not even electronic snow. He ripped the metal plate off the second tier of controls, this time for the alarm system. Snatched at the wires, ignoring the burning sparks, the stinging surges of electricity, pulling them out, yanking them entirely from the console and throwing them across the desk. The phones were tied in here, too. He pulled off the final cover, slashed again with the screwdriver at the wires revealed there, and then ducked beneath the sides of the circular enclosure, as running feet echoed, pounding down the corridor towards him. Jonathan looked under the desks, through the six inch gap at the base of the circular pod. Saw six feet, heading towards him. Squinted, pulled out his pistols and fired. Hit moving ankles. Heard screams, shouts of surprise, of confusion.Saw three bodies crumple into his line of vison. Popped up over the edge of the desk and fired down into the still moving, writhing tangle of limbs, torsos. Watched them jerk. Quiet. Go still. None were famliar. Too new, he supposed. New recruits. Bright eager young men. Dying for something they still believed in. In a way, he envied them, envied their ability to believe. He believed in nothing, now. Nothing except the transitory pleasure of revenge. He turned back to the console and fired into it as well, shorting out the main electrical switcher that ran through that desk. The overhead lights went out, in the corridor. The pale blue emergency lights kicked in. =========================================================================