Date: Sat, 29 Apr 1995 15:10:53 +0100 Reply-To: MB Overton Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: MB Overton Subject: "Atlantic Games" Part 5 >--!--!----!----!-----------------------------------------------------R "Atlantic Games" Part 5 by Mark Overton 23rd July 1976 13:22 Mandy Dallas crawled aboard the cruise liner and hid inside a lifeboat, shaking uncontrollably from the bone-cutting cold. She barely managed to stop herself from sneezing explosively, her hair and clothing soaked, her skin blue when she uncovered her hands. The freezing waters of the Atlantic, even in July, would have killed any normal person within a few hours; as it was, Dallas suspected she might be getting a case of pneumonia from spending so long in the water. She didn't know whether she would actually suffer or whether her immortal physiology would let her survive without going through pneumonia's unpleasant symptoms. She knew so little about herself; the Magician had explained so little. Dallas curled into a foetal shape, closing her eyes and hugging her legs to her chest. She felt something stirring deep within her, that same nearly-electric force which she had felt on her first awakening as an immortal, and guessed her body was already repairing itself. Exhausted, she fell asleep. Flint watched Connor pacing up and down with amusement. Eventually, he sighed and removed his sunglasses. "Connor, what are you waiting for? I'm not your mother. If you want to go and track down the Magician, go ahead. I'm not stopping you." Connor paused and looked down. "I'm waiting for dark to come. I can't risk a sword fight in daylight, not with so many people in such a small space. There'd be witnesses." He moved to the railing at the edge of the deck and gazed out across the sea. "Without a sword I'd have as much chance against the Magician as a snowball has of surviving in a furnace." Flint chuckled lazily. "You could just let her go." Connor did not respond, but his facial muscles tightened a little. Flint seemed to sense this, because he did not push that suggestion. Instead, he got up from the sun lounger and put the sunglasses back on, joining Connor at the rail. "A word of warning, Connor. Whatever you do, don't get into a confined space alone with her or she'll tear you apart." Connor looked sideways. "I can handle her. I just need to get the time and place right." Flint patted him on the shoulder in an oddly fatherly gesture. "Then make sure you do." As the older immortal strolled away down the deck, Connor moved away from the railing and headed into the interior of the cruise liner. The bar was the first room he came to, a cool dark room filled with the more upper-class passengers sipping from wine glasses. He was about to move on, when he decided against it and ordered a Scotch from the bar. Sitting on a bar stool, he considered his situation. The Empress was a fairly old cruise liner, as the vessels went, but she was well-built all the same. The uppermost deck, where Connor was now, was the entertainment level; the bar, the dancefloor, and the small casino were all on this deck, as well as the swimming pool. The next three decks were residential, and the following three for passengers' cars and luggage. Finally, at the very base of the ship, there was the engine deck, the power for the ship's movement. Connor had been there once, at the beginning of the voyage, just out of curiosity; it was a narrow cramped place, and as Flint had said Connor would have no chance in a place like that. At night, the residential decks would be filled with people asleeping, and any sword fight there would undoubtedly bring them out. And the entertainment deck never emptied until two in the morning, so unless he was prepared to wait until then Connor suspected any fight would have to take place on the car decks. Unbidden, an image of his clansman Duncan flashed into his mind. Connor had heard, as had many other immortals, that Duncan and Malcolm Marsden had supposedly finished off the Magician atop an unfinished tower in Bristol nine years ago; only Connor and a few others knew the truth, that the Magician had fallen into the Severn and apparently drowned. It had been the misfortune of the crew of the trawler Blue Ribbon that they had presumably dredged her up again, reviving the threat. Someone came to the bar beside him. "Double vodka, please." Connor glanced sideways, then hesitated and looked properly. The man beside him had several days' stubble on his cheeks, one arm in a sling, and there was a haunted look in his eyes as he handed over the money for the drink. He sat on a bar stool beside Connor and took a big gulp of the vodka, swallowing the throat-scarring drink with barely a blink. "Excuse me," Connor said suddenly. "Are you the captain of that trawler? The one that just exploded?" Myles turned blank eyes to the man at the bar. He had brownish-grey hair and features that looked faintly chiselled, as if carved out of something. His eyes were brown, but a deeper brown than Myles had seen for a long time. "Yes," he said heavily, expecting a flood of questions. They didn't come. "I thought so," Connor nodded, and turned back to the bar. Myles frowned. "That's unusual." "What is?" "You're the first person not to follow up on that. Everybody else wants all the details." "I know them already," Connor said grimly. "Or I can guess. You found a dead woman in your fishing nets and she came back to life. She killed your crew, though you were a lucky survivor, and she booby- trapped the trawler to explode as soon as someone came on board." The captain was staring at him in shock. "How do you know all that?" "I've seen her do the same thing before," Connor said matter-of- factly. "I've heard rumours from other people as well." "Rumours?" "She has...a reputation." Myles shook involuntarily at the cold malice with which Connor pronounced the word. "Can you explain how she came back to life?" "Oh yes." Connor stared into his drink. "It's a talent that some of us share." "You mean you - " Miles broke off. "What kind of person are you?" "A very special kind," Connor said morosely. "There are all sorts of varieties on the theme, but we all share one characteristic." "Resurrection?" He nodded. "Immortality. Yes." Myles paused for a long moment, assimilating this. When he spoke again, it was with a kind of hushed awe, as if he was deferring towards Connor - which he was. "How old is she? The woman?" "Her name is the Magician," Connor said. "And she's over nine hundred years old." 7th September 1795 Duncan Macleod stepped out onto the deck of the ship, his sixth sense tingling like crazy as his eyes searched the fo'c'sle for any sign of his quarry. The sword he held weighed heavily in his hand with his grief, but he had a hard determination in the base of his soul and his mouth was set in a thin line as he edged warily forward. There, he could see her now, outlined against the stars. She had her back to him as she stared out across the ocean, to where the coast of the New World was visible in the distance, about thirty miles away. "I thought you'd come out sooner or later," she said. Duncan nodded. "Aye, ye were right. Why in God's name did ye do it?" "Security," the woman calling herself Elizabeth Shore said casually. "That ship I was on was a prison ship, Macleod. I didn't want anyone recognising me when I got to America. I intend to make a new life for myself in the colonies. A quiet life. I could do with a rest for the next forty years or so." "Ye killed thirty people!" Duncan snarled in fury. "Thirty, three hundred, what's the difference?" Shore shrugged. "They still had to die. I'd kill you, but I don't have a sword right now, and you can't get me because it'd bring too much attention to yourself as well." Duncan started forward and she turned. He caught the glint of something metal in one hand, and saw the smile on her face. A coldhearted deadly smile. "I wouldn't," she warned. "This is filled with unstable gunpowder. If I throw it, you'll be blown halfway across this ship. All I have to do is take your sword and then your head's mine after that." Duncan stopped moving. "Better." With one hand, Shore unlaced her bodice and let her dress drop to the floor. Underneath, she was wearing the usual pale white undergarments of an eighteenth-century woman. "I'll be leaving now. I don't fancy sailing into port on a ship full of dead people. What you do is up to you." "One thing!" Duncan called. "Your real name. Is it Elizabeth Shore?" She shook her head. "No. Why d'you want to know?" "Curiosity?" The smile appeared again. "My name is the Magician." Duncan raised his sword. "Then I, Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod, vow that one day I'll avenge these killings and take your head, Magician." The Magician clapped her hands in sarcasm. "How marvellous. Be seeing you, Duncan Macleod." She sketched a mock salute and leapt up onto the railing. Duncan darted forward, but Shore dived forwards, at the same time, hurling the cache of gunpowder over her shoulder. As she hit the water the gunpowder capsule struck the ship in the centre of the deck and a fountain of flame and wooden debris shot into the air. Duncan was knocked into the railing and for a moment lost his breath. When he caught it again, the Magician was already forty feet away from the ship and swimming strongly away into the night. 23rd July 1976 15:09 The Magician sat back and considered the artefacts on the desk in front of her. After knocking out the cabin's owner and taking possession of the door key, she had tied the owner up and gone out in search of various pieces of equipment which would prove useful to her. Nearly two hours later, about half of her usual stock of equipment had been reconstructed. By stealing a soldering iron from the engineering deck and some gun cartridges from the cruise liner's weapons locker, she had constructed her usual explosive ball-bearings; the kitchen had yielded some knife blades, and by cannabilising a fire extinguisher she had made a wristgun that could fire the ball-bearings if she wanted them to. Some interesting-looking aerosols on the engineering deck had produced, when the propellant gases were extracted, the right elements necessary to mix a rather nasty variation on her usual theme of tear- gas, and a half-constructed mini flame-thrower was on the dressing table right now. By her standards she was not well armed, but it was acceptable enough for any challenges that came her way. She rose from the dressing table and crossed to the bed, throwing herself down with a sigh. A muffled yelp of anger came from the woman tied to the chair in one corner, and the Magician smiled placatingly at her. "Never mind," she said. "At least I haven't killed you." Fear showed in the woman's eyes and she went quiet as the Magician picked up a pad and pen and began to sketch the layout of the ship from memory. She suspected that Captain Myles had been picked up by the Empress before the cruise liner came across the trawler; if this were the case, Myles would have to be killed, since he would be able to recognise her. If Dallas had survived the explosion of the trawler, and the Magician rather suspected the younger woman had done, then she had no need to worry about her; Dallas would come looking for her before too long. She would be ready when she did. Flint whistled a light tune as he strolled along the deck, swinging his sunglasses from one finger and nodding politely to anyone he passed. He was heading for the front of the ship to look out at the spectacular view; as he got halfway down the liner, the ship lurched a little and began to move forwards once more, back on its course towards America. Flint grabbed onto the railing to hold his balance; when the ship had stabilised, he released the railing and carried on again. Yet beneath the cheerful exterior, the oldest immortal in the world at the time was thinking about the Magician. He knew Connor hated her. He knew most of the immortals hated her, particularly for the cold way in which the Magician despatched both evil and good immortals with equal calm. Flint knew as well that if there was any justice in the world he ought to be helping Connor in his hunt. He couldn't. Flint didn't want to fight the Magician. He had this terrible fear he would lose. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted as a chill ran through his mind, the metaphorical saying that someone had walked over his grave coming to mind. Flint hesitated, then turned towards one of the covered-over lifeboats nearby. The part of the deck where he was was empty and unobserved. Warily, he moved over to the lifeboat and climbed up beside it. The cover of the lifeboat moved back of its own accord. A red-haired woman in her early thirties blinked up at him uncertainly. "Hi," Dallas said. ..to be continued.. =========================================================================