Date: Thu, 29 Sep 1994 02:45:56 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hobert@AOL.COM Subject: CHOICES, Part 15 of 20 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Again Richie's door chimed. Still pouring over the file, he angrily yelled out. "Go away, damn it!" The door opened anyway, the one person with access storming in. Gillian Fenmore. "What, pray tell, do *you* want?" he asked, as she strode up to the desk. Her face was filled with rage as she threw down a data cartridge on front of him, landing on the mass of paper. "I told you I didn't trust him. But no, you knew better... Don't worry, I've taken care of the surprise. I'll leave the traitor to you." With that, she turned and marched out of the room, leaving the stunned Immortal speechless. Slowly he reached forward, grabbing the media, carefully inserting it the reader. Ready for the show. The screen flickered to life, the strange view from the ceiling of a shuttle interior taking shape. From the playback data at the bottom, it was the DARIUS, the night of the attack at Dunvegan. Richie watched the heads move about in the shuttle, most exiting the hatch, two at a chair. Lucas helping Duncan, trapped by a simple safety harness. Lucas turned away and moved to the hatch, not watching Duncan stand. He didn't see Duncan pull a dart gun from his jacket, shooting it first at Lucas, then at himself. But Richie did. The scene faded as Duncan staggered to the co-pilot's chair, hiding the gun, finally collapsing. But the worst was yet to come. The statistics on the screen showed the salvaging of a deleted message file, dated two days later, early in the morning. It was incomplete, sound and video garbled, but enough was left. "Things didn't go... acLeod," Horton spoke, a voice Richie had never heard before. "He'll have to be punished... bomb in the control... learn how much pai... to see for yourself?" It matched all the descriptive words the Immortal had heard used for the first Hunter, the man who reviled all Immortals, especially the one he couldn't kill, Duncan MacLeod. "Remember, Hi... it off next time." Richie tried shutting off the monitor, his haste making him miss several times. His face flushed as he rammed his fist through the screen, driving it through the glass and wires and out the back. His face twisted in rage, turning red, looking demonic from the thoughts spinning in his head. The next Immortal to die would be the traitor. In the end, Richie would be the one. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Wendy Mitchum watched as Security finally finished disarming the bomb. The two men carried the last of the pieces out of the Command Center, leaving only a gaping hole where the maintenance panel had been. She sat back down, looking sympathetically at Freddie, shaking, a bundle of nerves. [He's never taken all the sabotage stuff well, then again, have any of us?] Her com panel chirped, originating from Richie's room. She opened channel two as she slid the earpiece back in. "Mitchum's mortuary, you stab 'em, we slab 'em. How may I help you, boss?" Richie's voice sounded cold, heartless. In even tones he asked, "Where is Duncan?" No emotion, no nothing. Wendy dropped all frivolity, turning professional. "He's with Jeremiah in the PIPPEN," she replied, naming the little two-man runabout. "Where are they?" It was almost like Death had called her from Hell, scaring her a little. She glanced up, catching Freddie's gaze, holding up two fingers. Freddie nodded once, turning to his station. "They're in Florida, Mr. MacLeod. Shall I contact them?" "No," the voice rasped, Freddie slowly turning back in shock. He looked startled, silently mouthing the name 'Richie?' as he pointed to the headset. She nodded as the voice continued. "When they ask for uplift, inform Duncan he is not to set foot on this station. If he does, he will lose his head. Jeremiah can drop him off any place on the planet. We will ship his belongings wherever he wishes. Tell him... Tell him I know about Connor, and will do what he couldn't." "Richie..." Freddie broke into the silence, but it was too late, the soft hum of the empty channel filling the headsets. "Damn!" he added, throwing his on the counter. Standing, he made a dash for the exit, stopping when Wendy called his name. He turned and shrugged. "Do it. And tell Jer I want to see him before he see his father. I'll go see what I can do," he finished, quickly leaving. Wendy activated the automatic page in the PIPPEN, trying to decide if she should go through with it, or not. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - By the time Freddie reached the residential cylinder, Richie was gone from his cabin. The redhead was elsewhere, staring at another door, ashamed he had forgotten Gregor for so long. Opening it, he was surprised to see the Immortal in bed, covers up to his neck. Walking over, he was shocked when the man spoke to him. "Red?" Gregor asked shakily. "I'm here, Augie," he said, quickly sitting on the bed beside Gregor. He noticed the other was sweating, beads of water on his face. "How do you feel, my friend?" Richie asked, grabbing the hand sticking out of the covers. A cold, clammy hand. Gregor's voice was full of pain. "It hurts, Red. Everything hurts." The black haired Immortal gasped for air. "I was in an airlock... Is Jerry...?" "Jeremiah's safe. So is everyone else. You did good, Augie," Richie said, smiling as he wiped off Gregor's face. "I'll go get Dr. Mitchum..." He started to get up, Gregor suddenly grasping the redhead with both hands, keeping him from leaving. "Don't go. Don't ever..." Terror was in his face, his grip painful. Richie sat back down, more worried than ever. "I never meant to hurt you," the last knight gasped, shaking Richie's arm. Richie just smiled as he leaned over again. "I know. And it all worked out. But you need help..." "I can't stand the pain anymore, Red. It hurts too much. Tell Mac I tried, I really tried." Tears were coming now, Gregor's voice a shriek. "Make it stop, Red. The p.. pain. Please..." Richie stood up, forcing the hands away, moving away as Lancelot started wailing in anguish. Richie tried covering his ears, to no avail. The pressure built as the wail increased in volume, getting louder and louder, like a siren that never stopped. In pain himself, Richie desperately looked around the room, searching for anything. Anything to stop the painful noise, no longer human. Finding the sword, the gleaming, shiny sword. "Forgive me," Richie begged over the howl, turning and neatly decapitating the anguished Immortal. Like a balloon pooping, the room was spookier in the silence, the memory of the cry still lingering. Freddie was just down the hall as the other wail started, a cry of rage and dejection. It was joined by the sound of an explosion, making Freddie break out into a run. Then the lights went out, the sound of a hull breech registering in his brain, the peculiar noise of air moving swiftly through a small hole. He was thrown into a wall as the internal gravity fluctuated, finally giving out. He floated, struggling to reach his pager, keying it on. "What's going on?" Wendy's voice replied over shrieking alarms. "The electrical systems are dead. We're talking door nail. An overload. No gravity, no lights, backups... coming on line everywhere except for Cylinder Four. We're losing attitude control and moving out of position. Sensors indicated a hull breech in... section 20-A of Four before going down. Day at the beach. How about you?" Freddie performed a few gymnastics to propel himself down the corridor as he replied. "I'm in Four. I found Richie. I *think* he just beheaded Greg Powers. Get repair teams going while I stuff Richie in the breech. And call Joe. Tell him to add rule number twenty-seven. No beheadings in space. On pain of electrocution. Wait... I've reached Greg's room. Catch you later, babe. Freddie out." *Beep* - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Duncan rang the bell for the third time, standing in front of the door in the dead of night, the unlit sign above him reading 'DeSalvo's Martial Arts', freshly repainted. A light appeared behind the door, the soft sound of bare feet approaching. Then the door opened, a short, stocky man peeking around it. He groggily looked at Duncan, sizing him up, before sluggishly announcing, "It's three in the morning. What the hell do you want?" Duncan smirked, appearing not the least bit upset. "I'm Duncan MacLeod, and last time I checked, I own the place. And pay you, I believe? May I come in?" It took a moment for the information to sink in, but Max Davis finally got the picture. Still half asleep, he opened the door wide, gesturing for Duncan to enter, then trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. The Highlander turned, watching the twenty year old shut the door. The youngest Davis boy was exactly like Jonathan had described him, a tank. Clad in only gray gym shorts, he was a full five inches shorter than Duncan, but probably weighed a good sixty pounds more, none of it wasted. His hair was a sandy blond, not as dark as Johnny's. {More like little Simon's was...} "I need a place to stay," the Immortal announced, Max leading him to the stairs. After the two flights, the young man sleepily went to the wardrobe in the large upper room, pulling out blankets and a pillow. Much of the furniture was still the same, with psychedelic posters replacing the stuff Duncan had on the walls, all except Darius' robe. That still hung in the roof stairwell, sharing the space with a Soloflex machine. By the time he had made a circuit of the loft, Max was already asleep on the sofa, buried under the blankets. Duncan eyed the bed, wishing it was the old days, and it was Richie spending the night. Not a complete stranger. Exhausted, he managed to take off most of his clothes before collapsing on the sprawling bed, one though rolling rolling around his head. {He knows....} - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - With a splat, Duncan landed on his back, feeling the plastic mat beneath him. Max hopped above him, warily circling. In this friendly little sparring, they had evened out, power and stamina going to the Davis boy, speed and stealth to the Immortal. Both had shown the other a trick or two, Duncan letting the energetic feeling keep other troubling emotions away. {For awhile.} He was about to show the young upstart a thing he learned from Shou Lin priests, when his head exploded, the warning his kind gave driving like a knife into his consciousness. Looking expectantly, he waited for Richie to appear. Something, like a bad taste, made him reconsider. {It's not Richie. And there are two.} With a start, he turned to Max, waiting across the mat. Duncan quickly grabbed both pairs of shoes, handing them to the mortal as he pushed him toward the exit door. "Get out of here, now." Max looked like he was going to argue, so Duncan opened the door for him, throwing him through, shutting it behind him. He then grabbed his sword from the bench and calmly moved to the center of the room, waiting. There first appeared a younger looking man, maybe twenty-seven. His hair was as dark as Duncan's, though not as long, shoulder length. He walked like a cat, sure of himself, the smugness reminding the Highlander of Richie. {No, more like...Arthur.} He opened both doors, unusual in these modern times, and walked several feet into the dojo. Behind him, another came, a woman. She looked a bit like his mysterious paramour, but much older. She smiled, a cruel, expectant kind, promising unsuspecting delights. Duncan involuntarily shivered. It was her. The witch. Morgana. All three stood frozen, calculating as two more appeared. The one in the trench coat was easily identifiable, the bastard Horton. The other, naked, chained, his face a bloody pulp, healing as they watched, was dragged by the damnable Hunter. Connor. A heavy collar, microcircuits visible, circled his neck. He was roughly thrown into the center of the room, landing in a heap. Duncan raised his katana, about to charge, when the side door opened, three hulking thugs manhandling a helpless Max into view. No one said a word as a thug placed a knife on the youngster's bare chest. Slowly, Duncan lowered his blade, the thug doing likewise. Connor moaned, drawing his clansman's attention. Duncan rushed unhindered to the mass on the floor, cradling his mentor's head in his hands. Connor tried to speak, his words hoarse, unintelligible. Duncan leaned closer, desperate to hear. "Why, Dun... How could..." And even the energy Connor had managed to hoard faded, leaving a broken man wheezing for breath, a brittle shell entrapping such a wonderful spirit. Duncan cried, pressing closer to Connor, the pain enveloping him. With a sneer, Mordred LaFaye, Pendragonson, slipped a device into his hand, similar to a garage door opener. Pointing it at the two on the floor, he pressed the one button. A click, and Connor's collar began to whine, getting higher and strong. Instinctively, Duncan backed away, watching in terror as the collar exploded, neatly severing Connor's head from his twitching body. He screamed in hate, in anger, as the bolts of energy leapt for the closest victim, Duncan. The power threw him against the office wall, his body buffeted like a rag doll by the force. And then it was over, the Highlander dropping limply to the wood floor. He was barely conscious as two of the thugs came over, the third still restraining a terrified Maxwell. Duncan flinched from the thud as one of the men emptied a bag on the floor, the metallic clinking of chains landing in a pile. They viciously forced his arms behind him, crossing his wrists behind his back. One locked restraints on them as the other attached a wide, metal collar around his neck, a chain connecting the two, wrenching his hands high up his back. They kept him kneeling as he recovered, his first words unsteady as he looked at Maxwell, struggling helplessly. "He's only a boy. It's me you want." Mordred walked forward, kneeling himself, pulling Duncan's chin up. "It's Richard I want. And don't worry about the mortal. We plan to return him. After we entertain him..." Mordred stood and left, followed by his gleefully cackling mother. Horton walked closer, kicking Connor's lifeless body, adding a sneer for Duncan before helping to maneuver Max out, leaving the last two thugs to drag the recovering Immortal across the dojo to the door. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Outside, the group stopped, all turning to gaze on the old building. A few movements from Morgana's hands, and with a crash of thunder, an explosion shattered the windows, fire and smoke blasting out all the openings. Fiery remnants rained down as they forced the two struggling men into the transport, no one being particularly gently or kind. With a hum, the machine rose, lazily turning and speeding off as it gained altitude, the rescue trucks pulling up to the building as the sirens got louder and louder. =========================================================================