Date: Wed, 17 Aug 1994 08:44:24 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "(Nancy Cleveland)" Subject: Aloha Chapter 2 (p 7-12) < I wonder how many the Agency knows about?> He put them in adjacent seats, in the rear of tourist class. No one else was on that row and it was unlikely anyone would want to be. No one would hear them when they talked, the rumbling engines would cover their conversation. MacLeod frowned. "I think we've got company." A police car was on their tail, and it followed them off the main boulevard as MacLeod signaled and turned at an intersection. Jonathan closed the laptop and unplugged the modem, then slipped them both into their case and under the seat. "Some of them have computers on board to run stolen cars through the hot sheet." Jonathan wondered aloud, " Has there been enough time for this car to be on the sheet? Of maybe they just noticed the broken tail light?" "I'm going to pull into this driveway and pretend we're home. Maybe they'll drop us now." MacLeod signaled again and pulled off the street. The patrol car hesitated, sitting at the base of the drive in the silent street. MacLeod turned off the lights and got out, stretching, then walked casually up the drive towards the house. Jonathan stepped out and followed him, willing himself to not look back. He could hear the police car's engine idling as the officers sat and watched them. MacLeod stood at the front door, his hand on the knob. He turned back to Jonathan, as if waiting for him to join him before going in, fumbling in his pocket as if for a key. Jonathan walked towards him. In another three seconds the charade would be over. If the police didn't leave, he'd have to make a decision. To go quietly, or to fight. To disable them, possibly kill them, to escape. Not that there was ever really any choice. He wondered idly if MacLeod had a record. The man had turned away from him towards the door again, his body hiding the lock, and suddenly it clicked and swung open. MacLeod turned to him once more, the door open behind him, a slight grin on his face. Jonathan heard the police car pulling slowly away, the sound of its engine fading as it went down the street. He put his foot on the porch, and stopped. MacLeod pulled the door gently closed, and stepped off the porch to meet Jonathan. "Good thing they're sound sleepers." He grinned more broadly, and gave Jonathan a wink. Jonathan let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and smiled back. Watching closely, he saw MacLeod return the small pick to an inner pocket. It was standard fare for undercover work, but MacLeod had never mentioned any such training in his past. Not that he should. Who had he worked for? A freelancer? Jonathan kept his questions to himself. Time enough to find out, later. "Right. Nice move." Jonathan assayed a thin smile. MacLeod led the way back to the Jeep. " Maybe we should just stay here for a while, until it's light out, at least." "Sunrise is at 5:20. We'll have to get to the airport in the dark." Jonathan wasn't looking forward to meeting any more police, but the broken taillight would draw them in like moths to a flame. "I'll show you another old trick then. Do you have any duct tape?" Jonathan pointed to a small gray steel tool kit in the rear. "Let's find an all night mini-grocer. Where's the nearest one?" " Back along Aluhe and then right at Wanwanee. There's a Seven-Eleven, I think." MacLeod drove silently, glancing regularly back to see if they'd picked up any more tails. No one showed any interest in the Jeep, and the rain had deepened, the warm wet downpour chasing casual traffic off the streets. At the store, MacLeod dashed in and came back with two gallons of juice, an umbrella, a large manila envelope and a red bandana. MacLeod handed Jonathan a gallon jug. "You've probably never been more thirsty in your life, eh? I'm surprised you didn't mention it." MacLeod took a chug from the second jug, then wiped his lips and grinned companionably at Jonathan. "Its mostly the blood loss, you know. And it takes a lot of energy to come back, too. I feel it, even when its a fast, sudden death." "I can handle it." Jonathan's voice was cold. He didn't like the way this man seemed to be able to read him, to see inside his mind. It was disconcerting. He wondered just which Black Dragon's memories MacLeod had access to. And did that mean he knew how to fight like him, too? Did more than memories come with this Quickening thing? Did skill and body knowledge, the tactile feel and instinctive moves honed over years, generations of practice...did that come as well? Was MacLeod now able to tap into all the abilities of the Black Dragons? Into Kassmir's skill, as well? That would make him a dangerous man, in a fight. Very dangerous. It was something to keep in mind. MacLeod knelt and taped the bandana across the broken frame. Jonathan held the umbrella over him, as he worked, sipping at the juice when he could. It was gone before he knew it, and the sharp biting edge of the thirst was dulled, but its echo still lingered. He'd ignored the ferocious thirst, as he'd been taught to ignore many transient pains of the body, ignored the thirst that had dogged him since he'd...revived. What was the word...came back? Reanimated? He didn't feel comfortable with any of those words, or even the concept. < But here I am. Alive. > He watched MacLeod, wondering how he'd dealt with his first return form the dead. Wondering if it still surprised him, when he came back. Occasionally, MacLeod would stop, his body freezing for a second in mid-motion, then resuming the task at hand as if there had been no interruption. Jonathan watched, and noted it, and wondered why. The job was done. They both stepped back to examine the makeshift light. < It would do.> Jonathan glanced at his watch. 3:30. Time to head to the airport. In this weather, it might take longer. And they didn't want to miss this flight. No telling who would be waiting there. If anyone. He wondered if he'd ever be able to relax again. He'd thought once that by leaving the Agency, he'd have a chance to live something like a normal life. That myth had been shattered a long time ago. < Once you kill, you spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, waiting for someone to came after you.> He'd made that choice. Only now was he discovering how permanent it had been. Judging by what MacLeod had told him, things were no better for Immortals. Perpetual life, in exchange for perpetual flight and battles to the death. Jonathan drove now, automatically, moving the Jeep in and out among the scattered traffic, watching the pale glow of false dawn edge up along the eastern sky. MacLeod sat next to him, outwardly relaxed, his eyes closed, leaning back against the seat. There was that sense of tension still in the air. Jonathan glanced at MacLeod's hands, resting, apparently casually, in his lap. The knuckles went white, all the tendons standing out in each hand as MacLeod clenched his fists, then relaxed them again as if nothing had happened. Jonathan felt like he was sitting next to a seething volcano. He could almost see sparks coming from MacLeod's body. Was it his imagination? < Do Immortals ever relax?> Jonathan wondered what it was like, having the memories of every Immortal you'd ever killed. How would it feel, to confront the life and passions and mind of someone who had tried to kill you, forever. He shivered, a chill running down his back. < Better than being dead, I suppose.> Gray light was creeping across the landscape, washing out the the red and blue lights of the airport runways ahead of them. Jonathan parked the Jeep in the short term lot and left the keys in the ignition. It would be gone by 6, he figured, and untraceable by noon, chopped up into parts and resold, the registration numbers filed off. It would be more completely hidden this way than if he'd driven it off a cliff at Kilawee. Too many skin divers looking for buried treasure to dump anything in the ocean, these days. He lifted his Laptop and pulled the strap across his shoulder. MacLeod opened his eyes, sat up, looked around, then reached down to pick up his nylon bag. "I think we should separate, then meet again on the plane." MacLeod climbed out of the car, and stood, waiting for Jonathan's response. Jonathan agreed. " Two persons together are more memorable than one. It's a TWA flight. #622. Give me 15 minutes to check in, then follow." MacLeod nodded, satisfied they both understood. He hesitated, then spoke. "Raven, there's one problem. Usually I carry my weapon with me onto the plane. I travel as an antique dealer and I have a special permit. I'm not using that now as Cartwright, and you have nothing either. I'll have to check the swords through as luggage." He paused, looking at Jonathan intently." They'll never make it past the metal detectors. And without a sword, you and I are both at risk. An Immortal who wants to kill you has no reason to wait for you to find your luggage." Jonathan smiled. "I've been taking care of myself for years, with and without weapons. I'm not too worried." MacLeod put a hand on his shoulder. Jonathan flinched as the blue light sparked between them, then stepped away. He wasn't ready for the rush of memories again. "Remember, some of these Immortals have been around for centuries." MacLeod's lips twisted in grim humor. " They have far more experience than you. I'm still not sure exactly how you managed to kill Kassmir, but don't count on it being as easy again. Be careful. You still have much to learn." Jonathan moved towards the terminal, an impatient frown on his face. "I can take care of myself, MacLeod. Thanks for your concern. I'll see you at the gate." * * * * * * Duncan watched Raven walk across the half empty parking lot, the brightly lit terminal outlining his form, a tall slender shadow against the gleaming chrome and glass. He was concerned for the man, clearly he hadn't fully adjusted to the idea of being immortal. < I'm not sure anyone does, really.> He also wasn't entirely sure he trusted Raven not to go on some wild vengeance trip. There was more than a streak of violence in him. It simmered and boiled just beneath the surface, the tightly contained rage that Duncan had managed to tame in himself, at long last. He understood far better than he wanted to some of the feelings that drove Raven. But he had to know. He had to see how he handled himself. Duncan could not condone or stand by while an Immortal killed mortals. He hoped it would not come to a battle between them. He would prefer to teach Raven what he needed to know, then move on. * Why not kill him now? He's dangerous. Too dangerous. He trusts you now. He's unsure. But if you wait, you might never get a chance again. He may come for you, instead. Remember, you only defeated me when I was already wounded, spent and tired. He took me when I was fresh. A trained assassin. What possible allegiance could he give you? And he's only in his 30's. He hasn't even begun to learn. Think about it, MacLeod.* Duncan impatiently shoved away the seductive thread that Kassmir had been weaving. He was tired. To die, twice, in less than 12 hours, was incredibly draining. Each time he came back, he had to fight again to reestablish control of his mind and his emotions. Each time, the inner voices would rise up like a ravening pack of wolves, trying to pull him down onto their level, into a battle for survival and dominance. He had never died so soon after a Quickening, either. And Kassmir was a strong personality. Very old. Very evil. Experienced. And still very much a danger, himself. It had taken all of Duncan's will and sense of self to regain control, this last time. He'd been driving the Jeep with only half of his attention, locked deeply in battle inside, all the while. He'd had much to say to Raven, but it would have to wait, until Duncan was entirely sure that all the words coming from his lips were his own, that all the guidance he passed on was from himself, not another. His head still hurt. But not from the bullet. The wound had almost entirely healed by now. It was more an ache of frustration and bottled rage from Kassmir and all his impatient allies. The kind of ache that could never *heal.* Duncan stepped away from the Jeep, and chose a bench in one of the nearby bus kiosks to wait on. A wino glared blearily at him from the next bench. Duncan stared back, assessed him as no threat, then turned his back and looked east, where the skyline was brightening with a pale blush of pink along the palm scattered horizon. < It has been too long since I've seen the dawn come up with a lover at my side.> It was time to find a woman. Time to find love again. He remembered Tessa, laughing with him over champagne, watching the play of light at the Pont Neuf after they'd spent the night exploring the city on foot, drinking a toast to each other at every little cafe they'd found open. The memory was bittersweet, the pain was fading, but still lingered, the more he remembered, the more it returned. With a sigh, he turned his thoughts back to the present. Hawaii was out, but there were still dozens of tropical nations where he could play for a while. Perhaps Samoa, or the Easter Islands. < I'll ask Raven to check on the flight schedules for me when we get on the plane. After San Francisco, we can part ways. I just need a few more days with him.> Then back to the tropics. Odd, how he kept remembering Koanchati. He closed his eyes, listening to the rasping snore of the drunk, and thought back. * * * * * Manuiala lay snoring in the center of the path, a bottle of rum clutched in his hand. Duncan stood looking at him, wondering what Manu would do when the last bottle was gone. He'd used his position as son of the chief to collect every bottle that the ship had traded with his people, and if there hadn't been so few, he probably would have been on the way to drinking himself to death. Duncan had seen it before, on the other islands, and it had sickened him, watching the captain get the chiefs of each town drunk, then trading the rum for women and children. Captives. Slaves. Duncan had no idea when he'd signed on that the ship was a slave trader, he'd been too eager to leave the continent to ask many questions, fleeing the nations where the price on his head as a rebel had meant something, made him a hunted man. He had jumped at a chance to get away. Traveling to the South Seas had sounded romantic, but the reality of dry biscuits, stale water and salted pork was anything but. His shipmates were a louse covered illiterate lot, except for the Captain and First Mate, who were united in their disdain for him as a useless piece of baggage. Duncan's role as supercargo was superfluous, to them, but he knew someone who knew the owner and everyone was stuck with the unsatisfactory arrangement. He had been to sea before, and had prided himself on his strong stomach, but that was before he spent a week in a Pacific gale. Even immortals can get seasick, he'd discovered, and more than once had felt bad enough to consider the attractions of death as an alternative to vomiting a stomach that had nothing left in it. But that eventually had passed, and then the real horror of the trip had begun. He had thought, when he first signed on, that the ship was trading trinkets and rum for spices. He wasn't that familiar with the economics of the international shipping lanes, having spent spent far too much of his time recently slogging through mud with the Scottish rebels in yet another hopeless bid for independence from the English. He didn't realize that human cargo was far more valuable than spices, these days. And his sponsor had simply assumed he'd known. He'd been told to keep an eye on the ships stores, to count the inventory regularly and make sure all the goods reached their destination intact. No one had bothered to tell him what that cargo would be. Although he didn' t know it (or her) at the time, Koanchati's island had been the third the ship had stopped at, each one giving up a tribute of beautiful young women, strong men and boys, destined for the slave markets of the Americas and a life of misery and early death. Duncan was shocked, after the Captain led back his trading party from the first island visit and he finally realized what was happening, then he was disgusted and angered, but was helpless to interfere. He'd objected to the Captain and been threatened with being chained with the captives himself. =========================================================================