Date: Wed, 17 Aug 1994 08:48:00 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "(Nancy Cleveland)" Subject: Aloha Chapter 2 (p 37-42) Duncan smiled wolfishly, showing all his teeth. "As much as I can get. What are you willing to offer me, now?" "Your life. How much is that worth to you?" The woman's eyes rested on him, measuring his value. Her look implied he was coming up short. He paused, deliberately. No reason to let them think he was intimidated. "My life is worthless to you. You lose your quarry, you gain nothing. Why bother to threaten me? Why not look to our mutual benefit, instead? I find Raven, you pay me for my time and effort. The longer you wait, the more time we waste." "Tell me where he is going." She leaned forward, willing to give him a chance, her eyes ironic, amused. "Give me an advance, 10%, and I will." Duncan smiled, calm. "I do know." The woman turned, suddenly impatient with the game of cat and mouse. "Take him with us. We're leaving. Raven is heading for the Director. We need to get there first. Pack up. Let's go." Duncan stood, to protest, when the man behind him moved up close. The cold metal circle of the gun barrel at his temple was too familiar. He stood, still, as the handcuffs were slipped over his wrists, and another man relieved him of the computer. "Pick up any luggage he has, and meet us at the plane." The woman glanced at him irritation crossing her face. "If you have anything useful to add, say it now. I'm losing interest fast. What do you know that is so important?" Duncan shook his head, mute. The woman sighed, then spoke to another man, to her left. Duncan strained to hear, but could only catch a senseless murmur of sound. She opened a second door at the rear of the room and stood aside as the two men escorted Duncan out. Two others waited outside in the hall, and preceded them down the corridor. He could hear her footsteps following behind him, the heels tapping on linoleum, then ringing on metal as they strode down a ramp and up a flight of stairs. At least two other men were behind her, judging from the echoes. Duncan listened, trying to count the steps, then glanced quickly behind. There were four more, not two. Then they were entering the passenger section of a small plane. He wondered if Ritchie had gotten his message. If he'd even returned, played the tape on his answering machine. If he were here, looking for him. It seemed too much to ask, that he could find them, find the plane. Other agents were already there, bustling around the cramped cabin space, setting up computers and sorting files and data. Some were talking on headphones to the others still searching the airport, calling them in, calling them off. At least two more were on digital phones, talking to Washington, and to France, by the bits of conversation Duncan could hear as he was shoved on by. His two escorts seated Duncan in the rear, uncuffing one wrist and sliding the empty cuff though a metal bracket protruding from the wall over his seat, then recuffing his other wrist. It was a stretch, but he could still sit. The inner voices were coming back, fighting to be heard, to dominate, once again. No one was watching him anymore, the agents were moving around the cabin, getting ready for takeoff. He heard the engines whine and the plane shuddered and bumped as it moved across the runway. He risked closing his eyes for a second, willing the voices to subside. The roar of the plane as it left the ground, the rumbling thrum of the engines rattled his teeth, vibrated to the bone.... * * * * * ....the rumbling throb of the drums rolled across the tropical night, the sound deepening, vibrating in Duncan's gut, in his heart, in his head, as the drummers crested in their ritual frenzy, paused, then began the long, low rolling thunder again, pounding on the hollowed logs, the hollowed coconuts, building speed, pounding harder, faster, as the men of the village danced in mock combat with the spirits of the darkness. The dancers fought the endless battle with death, fought to snatch back life, to hold the flickering flames, the torches whirling in their hands, fought to keep the fires alive and burning brightly. Life, triumphant. Light, triumphant over dark. The dance was the affirmation, the celebration, the fierce exultation of victory, of life, of the tribe, the people, going on, forever. The marriage dance. Duncan sat with Koanchati, holding tight to her hand, his blood pounding in his ears, stirring in his loins, as he watched the dancers whirl and leap, heard their cries and fierce shouts. The women stamped and shuffled in a circle around the men, echoing their cries with higher, birdlike shrieks and wails. The chief and the elder counselors sat behind them, clapping or shouting in turn to encourage the dancers, to recognize their skill and power. Some of the men carried burning torches, while others held sticks, decorated with fruits, flowers, feathers or leaves, which they twirled around their heads or leapt over and under in the wild abandon of the dance. Duncan saw Manuiala enter the circling ring of dancers, two flaming torches in his hands. Manu stared at him, his lip curled in disdain, his eyes fixed on Duncan's as he moved among the other dancers. The challenge was unmistakable. Duncan rose, shaking off Ko's attempt to hold him back, and stepped into the circle, stepped into the dance. Manu flashed a triumphant grin at his sister, then turned towards Duncan, holding his twin torches on either side, like the reaching arms of a praying mantis stalking its prey. The other dancers stepped wide, giving ground to the two men, who seemed oblivious to everyone but one another. Manu feinted at Duncan with the torches, still moving in a semblance of the dance. Duncan ducked and dodged away, thrown out of step and out of the whirling circle, finding himself instead at the center of the circling dancers, sharing the empty space with Manu, fighting for his life. The other men looked away, blank faced and uninvolved, dancing around and around the two combatants, creating a ring of glistening, moving flesh that effectively imprisoned Duncan, forced him to fight, or to die. Manu slashed at him with the burning torches, thrusting them at his face, at his eyes. Duncan blocked the torches, feeling the searing pain of the burns that welted his arms, blistered across his chest. He blinked, his eyes tearing, blinded by the light, stinging from the heat that had singed his eyebrows, reddened his forehead and cheeks. Duncan fell to his knees, reached down and grabbed two handsful of sand and threw them directly at the shadowy form of Manu's half seen, grinning face. One of the torches dropped to the sand as Manu clutched at his eyes, rubbing at the sand to loosen it, to see. Duncan, tears still streaming down his cheeks, scrabbled for the unlit end and grabbed it, still sputtering with a greasy smoky flame. Duncan slashed at Manu in turn. His wild swing struck home. Manu screamed, his hair on fire, beating wildly at his head with his oil covered, flaming hands. Duncan dropped his torch and moved forward, horrified, trying to reach Manu, to extinguish the searing, licking flames that haloed his head. Strong arms grabbed him, held him back, fists pounding at him as the villagers joined the fight. Duncan struggled to be free, to help, shouting hoarsely to the men to let him go. Manu staggered in the sand, agony twisting his body as he burned, his head, his face a flaming torch, in front of Duncan helpless gaze. Ko suddenly appeared, on the other side of the crowd, disheveled and wild eyed, having fought her way into the circle. She stood, mute with shock, staring at the twitching body, ruined face, of the man who had been her brother. Duncan struggled free of the restraining hands, and knelt at Manu's side. He reached down to turn over the curled body, the still breathing corpse, feeling the shudders racking Manu's frame as he slipped into shock from the pain. He reached down, and felt a heavy hand grab his shoulder, pulling him away..... * * * * * An iron-hard grip on his shoulder, from behind, two hands holding his head trapped between them, and a sudden almost simultaneous sting on the side of his neck jerked him back to full awareness. The plane jolted slightly, the engine thrumming steadily as they climbed. The woman again. She stepped into his line of sight, backing away, out of reach. She was smiling, pleased, holding a small disposable hypodermic syringe in her hand. Another man stepped forward, stood at her shoulder, peering down at Duncan with an expression o f professional interest. "Mister...ah...Cartwright?" The man spoke in a crisp educated voice, articulating each syllable of his words. He had a small tape recorder in his hand, and activated it as Duncan watched. After he'd spent time reliving his past, Duncan normally was refreshed, centered in himself, reaffirmed in his existence, his being. The inner voices would subside, for a while. And he'd felt that control, that rightness, for a moment. But now....something else was happening. Something different. Duncan felt a sweet lassitude creeping across his consciousness, a relaxed contentment, a loosening of his muscles, and of his mind's control. It felt good, so good, just to relax and go with the flow. He felt his head droop, his neck and shoulders ease from the tense, defensive tightness of his reflexive response to the threat...... For a moment, he tensed again, swinging his head up, staring wildly around the cabin, at the hovering man and woman, understanding in that instant the meaning behind the smiles on their faces, understanding just what they had done, and what was coming. "No. You don't know...." < It's no use, it's too late. > Duncan could feel his control slipping away, could feel his identity drowning in a syrupy tide of mindless good will, could sense, there, the gleeful anticipation of the Immortal minds he'd carried and contained, for so long. He felt a wave of despair, a moment's burst of horror, then he could only watch, feeling the muscles of his face relax into a foolish grin, his consciousness floating above the churning sea, unable to exercise any volition or control, as all the painfully constructed dams, the complex psychological barriers, the careful work of centuries that he'd set up to hold these evil, or confused, or innocent souls, in check, melted, flowed together in a crazy stream of babbling voices and eager minds, and were totally overrun. His consciousness, his sense of who and what he was, contracted on itself, his vision fading as he felt his eyes widen and stare, unfocused, at the now only dimly glimpsed cabin. His vision was fading, darkening. His grasp of his very senses of taste, of touch, of sight and sound, was loosening, slipping away along with his consciousness and volition. He could no longer separate the noises from within, and without. A meaningless cacophony of sound washed over him, pieces of what he vaguely remembered were words, but could attach no sense, no meaning to, battered at the wispy clouds that remained of his self. He felt that insubstantial cloud of self thinning, spreading, blowing away, torn and tattered by the fierce gusts of emotion, of what might once be called love, hate, lust, desire, that rolled through him in now half remembered, and now nameless, tormenting waves. What where these feelings, these things that shook his soul, that seared and hurt so? He could no longer separate his own thoughts, his own emotions, from those of the others..inside. What was inside? What was out? He had no reference points, anymore, no anchor of self to view the world from. It was all, everywhere, everything. Simultaneous. All. And nothing. The last wisp of cloud thin consciousness fled, flayed and spread upon the surging wind that roared through the universe. The roar of voices, babbling senselessly, meaningless noises and lurching feelings, things that hurt without purpose, or cause, spread throughout eternity, enveloping time, space, infinity. It went on forever. Then it stopped. Changed, more like. Changed? A point of reference. Before, and after. A rock to build a new reality on. To see everything, and be blind. To hear everything, and be deaf. To sense everything, and feel nothing. To be everyone, and no one. No one at all. To not even exist. But the reference point. The before, the after. It exists. I exist. I. I am. Who? I. It is enough to know I am. Who? Who? There are others? Others...many others. Gone now. All silent. Terror. I am alone. Alone. Never been alone. So alone.... But *I* am. *I* am, *I* have been, and *I* will be. Past, present, future. *I* and others. Inside. Outside. Others inside and outside? All gone. No others, no more. Too confusing. Too hard. Ignore that. Focus on the *I*. The *I* is all. All that matters. *I* am. *I* exist. Who am *I*....? Does it matter? No. Not right now. Existence matters. Identity can wait. Discover the boundaries, the definitions, then identity will come, too. Where am *I*? Sensation. Skin. Warmth. Inside...a body. A man's body. I must be a man. Not necessarily. Why not? Memories....fuzzy....faded memories.....flirting....lifting a long crinkled petticoat... washing lavender scented hair...giggling and whispering...laughter....a hand cradling a breast...changing a diaper on a baby.....fading, fading away.... =========================================================================