Date:         Sat, 16 Jul 1994 08:50:53 EDT
Reply-To:     Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         "(Nancy Cleveland)" <NancySSCH@AOL.COM>
Subject:      Aloha II (part 3)

Jonathan accessed one of his Internet accounts and started several database
searches. He was looking for information on the Agency, any hint of changes
in the structure, or the focus of its work. <Is the Director still in charge?
I need to find out, now. >  He left coded E-mail  for some of his regular
sources,  a cryptographer at the Pentagon, an analyst at DOD and a liaison
officer at State. He queried a contact at the Surete for any trace of the
Swiss bank raid. He'd downloaded a batch of mail when he'd signed on, and he
took a few moments to review it, looking for any responses to his first
urgent messages earlier this morning.

He was still staring at the screen when he felt the buzz. MacLeod slid into
the seat next to him. Jonathan could hear MacLeod's breath coming unevenly,
as if he'd just been running. There was a faint whiff of cordite. Someone had
fired a gun very close to the Immortal, very recently. He looked up. MacLeod
seemed a little ruffled, some faint disarray of clothing, of hair, of psyche.
<What happened? Did someone follow us?>

"I wondered if you'd decided not to come?" Jonathan asked the question
lightly, but the look he gave MacLeod had layers of meaning behind it.

"I ran into some trouble. We can talk about it later."  MacLeod looked past
Jonathan, out the window of the plane, watching some red flashing lights go
past. <An ambulance?  Just how much trouble did he run into? And is it still
following him? Following me?>

The seat belt lights came on. The engines growled, setting up low constant
vibration in the rear of the plane where they sat.  The plane began the long
taxi across the runway. The stewardess pointed out the emergency exits. With
a long rising roar, and a bump, they were off the ground. The steady rumbling
hum of the engines effectively shielded their conversation from even the
steward sitting in the cat seat next to the kitchenette, just a few feet
away.

The man had his hands clasped in what looked like prayer, his lips moving,
and his eyes staring fixedly down at the floor. <He doesn't look like he
enjoys flying much at all.>   A news bulletin crawled across the top of
Jonathan's  screen. A commercial airliner had just crashed,  in North
Carolina, this time.

<The flight crew must all know. No wonder the captain sounded so somber.
Usually they're cracking bad jokes by now. > He turned to MacLeod.

"Have you ever been in a plane crash?"

MacLeod came back from whatever vision he'd been contemplating and looked at
Jonathan. He paused a moment, as if searching his memory, before replying.

"No. I've never been in one. But others of our kind have. Barring a freak
decapitation, you would survive just about anything. Some have. Some have
died."

"Great. I guess I can cancel my flight insurance." Jonathan looked for a
spark of response, but the Immortal had gone back to his thoughts, and seemed
oblivious to Jonathan's attempt at humor.

<Gallows humor, at best.> He looked again at the screen. He didn't want to
think about what the messages that had been sitting in his mail meant. The
Director, the man Jonathan had  kept at bay with the threat of exposing his
double dealing with Russia, his acceptance of contracts for personal
vendettas having no policy reasons of state, his own private bank accounts in
Switzerland and Luxembourg, and the way that money had been placed
there...the man who had selected Jonathan's targets, sent him out as a
killing machine and reeled him in again, bloody and spent, after each
mission...the Director had disappeared.

Dead, or in hiding, the Agency didn't know. But he had left instructions,
specific, detailed instructions, to collect and question Raven.  The Agency
hadn't just retained Kassmir, they'd put out a public contract on Jonathan,
posted a bounty for his body, delivered dead, or double if warm and
breathing,  and sent it out at all their active agents. He'd tapped into
another account, one belonging to a woman on the active list. And read his
own death warrant.

<Sure, I can go underground, for a while. But eventually someone will
recognize me. For one million dollars, I'd have to be invisible, to not be
found. >

His fail safes were virtually useless, if the Director was dead, nothing
would stop the Agency now. Much of its force had hinged on the peculiar and
personal relationship between all the agents, and their trainers, handlers,
and the Director. Still, no point in letting them lie unused, if there was
any chance they could help. He typed in a few more codes and left the
information files primed, ready to arrive at a few preselected destinations.
He had to deactivate the send codes, weekly, in his normal routine. Now, he'd
shortened the time to daily. If he didn't get back to his account and
countermand the order, all the damaging information he had would spill out
along the information superhighway. <I expect it will cause a few crashes,
too.> There were still many persons in power and positions of high government
trust who could be hurt by this data. Complicity, corruption, collusion. All
potentially devastating charges. All verifiable. He hadn't wanted to use it,
ever. But his back was to the wall. There didn't seem to be any other choice.

Jonathan leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, and was surprised at
how tired he felt. <On the run for less than 12 hours and I'm wiped out. What
is the rest of my life going to be like, if its starting like this?>

The low level buzz that signified MacLeod's proximity to him sharpened.
Surprised, Jonathan opened his eyes. MacLeod was staring at him, hard. <I
feel like a bug under a microscope. What's going on here?>

"I think I need to begin your training now."  MacLeod spoke softly, but
Jonathan could hear every word. " I saw the message on your screen. We may
not have much time for you to learn, before you  face death again."

"I estimate we have until this plane lands, and about five minutes more. "
Jonathan smiled, bleakly. He had little faith that they had left the Islands
undetected, now. He cleared the screen and re-accessed his remaining
financial accounts. The primary backup account in the Bahamas was gone.

Access denied. No such account.

<Damn. They were moving too fast. By the time we land,I'll be broke, as well
as dead.>  The transferred funds still showed in Washington., though. All he
needed to do was show up, and verify his identity, to claim them. <With
everything else gone, this smells like a trap. In case they miss me at the
airport, they get me at the bank.>

The germ of an idea began to grow inside Jonathan. He turned to MacLeod, who
had been watching his fruitless struggle with the bank, and laid out his
concerns, first..

"I'm broke, now. They've busted my bank accounts, and I'm pretty sure they
traced the tickets  I bought for this flight, too. They'll be waiting, in San
Francisco. I probably won't make it out of the airport. You'd be safer just
staying entirely away from me."

MacLeod nodded. "You do attract trouble. But I've been dealing with this kind
of trouble for quite a while. Successfully, for the most part. We have an
edge in these situations. You just have to be discreet."

"Right." Jonathan smiled slightly, no humor in his eyes. "I understand the
concept, but I'm not entirely sure how it works."

MacLeod  shrugged. "It's simple. You let them take you, kill you. You die.
They see you dead. They bury you, or whatever. Someone else gets you out,
later. Then it's up to you to keep out of the way, under cover, until all the
people who wanted you dead have died themselves, of old age."

"You've done this, yourself?" Jonathan was curious. Theory was fine, in
theory. He needed to know if MacLeod had the guts to practice what he
preached.

MacLeod nodded. "Yes. More than once. It's not fun, but when it's been
necessary, it has worked." He paused, then added dryly. "Usually. Sometimes
things get more...complicated. There's always a risk something will go wrong.
You just have to decide if it's worth it, or if you have other, better
alternatives."

"I don't see any alternatives, right now." Jonathan wondered again how old
MacLeod really was, how many times he'd *died* and returned to life. How many
other Immortal lives he'd ended. How many mortal friends he'd buried. He
realized that there were ramifications to this Immortality that he was only
beginning to glimpse.

<How does he see himself? We think of ourselves, identify ourselves by the
generation we were born. Our values and beliefs are shaped by that, by the
pressures and events of our youth, by our friendships and relationships with
our peers around us. These values shape us, define us, and stay with us until
we die.

< How does it feel to watch everyone from your generation, everyone who
shared those experiences and values,  die, then watch their children, who may
have carried on some of their parents memories and beliefs,  also die, then
watch their grandchildren also grow old and die?

< What connection does he still feel, for people who may be  the
grandchildren of the grandchildren of the grandchildren of the men and women
he grew up with? People whose very lives and values must be totally alien to
the world he was raised in? How many generations of people has he seen born,
live and go to their graves?  What does it do to a man, to see that? And is
it something I want, for myself? >

"How old are you, MacLeod?" <100 years? 200? I need to know, to ever begin to
understand this man. To begin to understand what it means to be Immortal.>

"I was born in the Highlands of Scotland, 400 years ago." Jonathan tried not
to show his shock. MacLeod's eyes were on him, gauging the impact of his
words. His mouth quirked.   " More or less. Actually I'll be 403 next month."


"Congratulations." Jonathan mustered his wits. <400 years? My god. I wasn't
even close. That means he was born in 1590. What was going on in Scotland in
1590? Did they even speak English there? >

"How does it feel, to watch everyone you know, everyone you love, die, time
and time again?" <What does it do, to your soul? To my soul?>

MacLeod's face tightened. <Pain, there, and loss. Recently, or from long
ago?>

"It hurts. Just as much. Every time. It's not one of the great attractions of
our... condition." MacLeod shook his head, looking inside, looking back. <How
far? How many times?> Jonathan felt like an intruder at a funeral.

"I would have been dust,  myself, long ago, if I didn't keep reaching out for
and finding love, companionship,  friends. We may not be fully human,"
MacLeod shot Jonathan a quick glance, "But we need to give and receive love
and to have friends just as much as any of the mortals around us do, to have
a reason to survive. Those who don't, die early, even if they are Immortals.

"The game, the endless pursuit of the prize, the battle to be the final
one....to be honest, I've never wanted it, for itself." He stared at
Jonathan, as if challenging him to say it was a lie.  " I only fight to
protect those around me, those I love. Lovers die, and it hurts, but you have
to go on, find love again. Knowing that the possibility is there is all that
keeps me going, sometimes."

MacLeod paused for a long moment, a faint smile lightening his face, as he
remembered some pleasant past moment. Jonathan waited, silently.

"Ultimately, all that really matters is love. That's what this struggle is
about, between those of us who love, and those of us who hate and want to
control and rule because they cannot love."

MacLeod leaned toward Jonathan, aiming his words at him like tiny arrows,
testing him, assessing his response. "You have to decide which kind of player
you will be, in this game. I can teach you about *us, *  but you control your
own destiny, make your own choices. You can seek revenge for what has been
done to you and those around you, or you can move on."

<Revenge sounds a lot sweeter to me than love, right now.>  Jonathan opened
his mouth to answer, then bit off the words as the stewardess leaned over
their seats, offering drinks. He waved her away, impatiently, but MacLeod
ordered two fruit juices, and insisted that Jonathan take one.

"Once we leave the plane, you have no idea when you'll eat or sleep again. We
don't *need* food to survive, but it helps. Its another thing that keeps me
going. That's one reason I lived in Paris the past few years." MacLeod
grinned at him, his mood lighter from the quick bantering flirtation he'd
engaged in with the pretty redhead. His eyes followed her as she moved down
the aisle. Jonathan wondered if MacLeod had always been such a prowling
 tomcat. <I can see why love keeps *him* going.>

Jonathan thought back to his plan. It might work. There was a slim chance, at
least. If the Immortal was willing to help. <How far can I trust him? He's
saved my life once, I think...I just have to take his word that he killed
Kassmir, that he mentors new Immortals...all I have is his word, so far.
 Well, here goes....>

"MacLeod, I have a bounty on my head. The Agency is offering a million
dollars to anyone who delivers me to them, alive." MacLeod's face didn't
change, he didn't seem at all surprised, to Jonathan questioning gaze.
 <Damn, did he know that already? Is he already planning his own reward? Is
this whole routine just some elaborate ruse to get me back to them? Well, I
can only try....>  He plunged ahead.

" When we land, if they're waiting for me, you can claim it, claim you were
on your way to them, with me. They're going to check you out anyhow, just for
being on the same plane with me. I hope your cover is solid enough to stand
up to some investigation." MacLeod frowned at that. <Maybe his cover isn't so
good, after all. I warned him I could drag him into trouble.> "You'd at least
get something for your trouble, this way."

Jonathan hesitated, unsure of how to ask this. <I have no power here, I am
totally at the whim of this man's mercy.>

" Maybe, if you have the chance, you could also see your way to getting me
back, getting me out, once they're done with me."  <Not a pleasant thought,
what they'd  probably do before then.> "That way, they'd be sure I was dead,
call off the dogs, shut down the search. It would be easier to disappear,
after." Or disappear forever, somewhere in the basement of the Agency's
 bland looking concrete and steel offices. <I wonder how many bodies they've
disposed of, internally?

" Buying a new identity can be expensive. "  MacLeod looked as if he knew
from personal experience. "I don't need your bounty money. If I get it, I'll
get it back to you. I t would be something for your trouble. " He smiled,
gentle mockery in his eyes.

Jonathan considered. The money would help, but it wasn't essential. < They
think they're stripped me of my assets. But  I still have  my body and my
mind, my experience, my training. My Immortality. And an ally. It's more than
enough.>

MacLeod was nodding, agreeing with the plan. "It sounds plausible. Let's play
it by ear when we get on the ground, see what develops. If I have to, I'll be
your bounty hunter."

"Maybe you should carry the computer, too. Just in case. If you need to
access the primary database, here's the password." Jonathan typed rapidly,
encrypting all the loose files, clearing all traces of his ownership from the
superficially accessible levels. <Anyone who goes in deeper can probably
crack any security codes I've got.>

He set up an automatic reformat command to dump and wipe the hard drive if
the third level was penetrated without the proper tertiary access codes.
Someone could get in by brute force, break the primary and secondary
security,  but to start to work the files, another code had to be entered,
not one preventing entry, just the one preserving all the data.  <I hope this
failsafe works better than my last one did.>

He linked up with one of his most secure and intricately untraceable Internet
accounts, and dumped duplicate copies of some valuable and hard won files
into the mail. Even if the computer went, the data would still be there. It
was something he could take with him to his new life. Some of it, sold
carefully through fourth and fifth parties, could recoup a part of his lost
fortunes. <Enough to get by on, without my own blood money. If I survive to
that point. >

The stewardess was back, bringing  breakfast  this time. Jonathan smiled at
her, experimentally.  <Nice to know the muscles still work.> She smiled back.


<Hmm. Maybe this Immortal thing isn't so bad after all. I can flirt with
women half my age and more, for the rest of my life. Sort of like bedding a
teenybopper as an octagenarian.

< What in the world is there to talk about, after the first hundred years? Do
you remember the early Mozart hits? Like asking someone about the Beatles in
2090. I wonder if there are any women Immortals.>

Jonathan listened while MacLeod explained the rules of the game, holy ground,
renegade immortals, and the watchers. <So MacLeod had been trapped and almost
killed by another Immortal, back at Hilo.>  There were clearly some extra
hazards associated with air travel that Jonathan had never contended with,
before. And these  Watchers. It sounded like a religious cult of some sort.
Or like the Black Dragons. Jonathan was familiar with how devoted men could
be to a fanatical cause. He had been, himself. He wouldn't underestimate the
Watchers.

The stewardess came back twice more, while the two men talked, offering more
beverages, then a lunch/dinner combination. It was almost time. Jonathan
could feel the tension growing in him. He closed his eyes and sought refuge
for a few moments in meditation. He'd studied the discipline, but he wasn't
sure he'd really mastered it. It was hard to judge the accuracy of a thought,
the effectiveness of a moments respite, the same way a kick or a kill could
be evaluated. And he knew he had not yet attained the inner peace that the
masters had. That much, he knew too well. Maybe he never would find the
balance, the peace he supposed he sought. < Maybe I'm not looking for peace,
now, or ever. >

The seat belt light came back on, and the plane tilted down towards the fog
shrouded city below.
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