Date: Thu, 17 Aug 1995 00:07:22 EDT Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Hold Fast, Part 5a of 8 Hold Fast, Part 5 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu Joe Dawson limped into his bar and glanced about at the patrons. It was a Friday night, and business was good. The band was just taking a break from their music. His gaze sharpened as he saw a lanky figure leaning next to the bar. He gave Mike a glance, and the bartender shrugged. Underage kids were not supposed to be in the bar in the evening, but somehow exceptions seemed to be made for family, friends, and fellow Watchers. Joe sighed and shook his head. "Nicky!" he said warmly, approaching the youth and setting a hand on his shoulder. "I haven't seen you or your mother in months -- the last I knew, you were worried about your history final. How has your summer been going?" The kid gave a start, almost upsetting his glass of Coke, and looked down at his uncle. "It's been OK, I guess," he said. "I've been pretty busy." "And how was the history exam?" He grimaced. "I got a C+." "That's too bad. You should get your mother to help you study. She was always the best of us in history." "She never told me that. I guess she's been pretty busy too." "That's true. Are you thinking about colleges yet?" "Yeah, it's not time to start applying, but I've been looking around. I like Washington State, but my parents think I should go to Notre Dame. I could hold down an assignment at the same time." Dawson nodded thoughtfully. One of the professors in the history department at Notre Dame was an Immortal, one of the more stable assignments available these days. Nearly half the Watchers of his generation had attended the University of Illinois while she was on the faculty there, before she left to conceal her continuing youth. Now, sooner than expected, she had resurfaced in another academic environment to teach more young Watchers, never guessing how many of her students knew her secret. "What about you, Uncle Joe?" Nicky asked. "Has Macleod been keeping you busy?" Dawson hesitated at the too-casual tone in his nephew's voice. "Macleod's always in the thick of things," he admitted. "He doesn't go looking for trouble, but anyone who comes after him tends to get more than they bargained for." "Has he killed any more Watchers?" Nicky snarled. Dawson stiffened. "He didn't ask for that fight, Nicky. He was pushed to it. Your Uncle Jim was -- too set on having things turn out the way he wanted them. And he didn't care who got hurt in the process." "So it was OK for Macleod to kill him?" "Macleod didn't have a choice. He was just trying to save innocent lives." Nicky shook his head violently. "Not innocent. He was trying to save more of those murdering Immortal friends of yours!" The conversation was starting to draw attention as the boy got more upset. Joe laid a hand on his shoulder. "Nicky --" Nicky shrugged off the hand. "Don't touch me!" His eyes were bright with tears. "They used to say you were the best, Uncle Joe. Smart, thorough -- now, I don't even know what you are. You might as well be one of _them_!" Crying, the boy shouldered his way toward the door. "Nicky, wait!" Dawson called after his nephew. He leaned over the bar and told Mike to take care of things for the rest of the night. Then he followed his nephew out the door. Dawson didn't know what he was going to do about Nicky. He supposed he could go to his sister; he doubted that she would want her son having anything to do with Hunters. But first he needed some proof of Nicky's involvement aside from what Connor had told him. While the boy's words tonight had made the conclusion fairly obvious, they weren't hard evidence. If Joe Dawson knew anything, it was how to carry out discreet surveillance. When he saw his nephew pull a battered old car out of the lot, he put his own car in gear and followed. =========================== When Richie had left, Connor leaned his head against the back of the couch. He gave Duncan an unhappy glance. "I didn't plan for this," he said quietly. "I never thought about it." "I don't think any of us does." "I mean, I've thought of dying, of losing my head, or maybe picking up a few scars. But nothing like this." His truncated shoulder heaved awkwardly. "It really changes --" He broke off and turned his head sharply. "What was that?" "What was what?" "I sensed another Immortal." Connor moved toward the window. "It was Richie. He went just under this window when he was leaving," said Duncan, recalling the roar of his student's motorcycle. He joined Connor at the window and looked out at the quiet street. "No, not Richie . . . maybe I just imagined it." "Or maybe not. You're the one who got all those strange lessons from Ramirez about the Quickening." Duncan turned as a thought came to him. "Did he ever teach you anything about healing?" Connor shook his head. "I never understood half the things Ramirez told me about the Quickening. I always thought there would be time to ask him again later." "Well, he's with you now, isn't he? Inside of you?" "What are you getting at? You know I can't use his knowledge consciously." "But maybe unconsciously, on some level? Maybe if you try to use the Quickening, you'll remember how!" "Use it for what?" "To heal yourself." Seeing his kinsman's look, Duncan pressed, "Come on, what harm can it do? It's not as if it could kill you." Connor sighed and closed his eye, trying to remember Ramirez' words from long ago. He concentrated on the rhythm of his own breathing, on the beat of his heart . . . "Give it a try, at least!" Duncan insisted. "Quiet, man. I am trying." Connor's breathing deepened and slowed as he concentrated. When he felt properly aware of himself and his own body, he extended his senses outward. The buzz of Duncan's presence was like a bonfire roaring in his ears, but he sifted through the fire until he could feel Duncan's heart beating, faster than his own, and sense the rush of the Quickening through his kinsman's body. He could feel the electricity coursing back and forth between the walls of the loft, and vaguely, outside, the presence of a city full of souls. Drawing on Duncan's Quickening for his strength as Ramirez had showed him, Connor turned his concentration to his missing arm. Where Duncan's energy circulated smoothly through his limbs, Connor's own dissolved into turbulent eddies about the wounded shoulder. He tried to extend the Quickening beyond his shoulder where his arm ought to be, tried to smooth the jagged disruptions of the wound in his cheek. But the energy stubbornly twisted back into its former path, roiling angrily. Connor took a deep breath, used Duncan's arm for comparison, and _pushed_ his Quickening where he wanted it to be. A sudden spark of energy leaped from Duncan to Connor. Duncan cried out, glass shattered, and both clansmen collapsed into a welcoming oblivion. Connor opened his eyes to find that he had fallen sideways on the couch. The light overhead had shattered; the only remaining light filtered in from the kitchen. Duncan was sprawled on the floor at the other end of the couch. After checking to see that Duncan was unhurt, Connor staggered to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror he gave an exclamation, looked more closely, then hurried back to the living room. "Duncan! Duncan, wake up." He bent to shake his kinsman's shoulder, then sat down hastily as dizziness overcame him. Duncan groaned and rolled over. "Wha happen?" "I think we made it work." Duncan twisted his head to get a look. "Your arm?" "No, I didn't heal the arm, but I have most of a shoulder, now, and the cuts on my face are much better." Duncan sat up, bracing himself with an arm on the coffee table. "How long was I out?" "I don't know, I just woke up a minute ago." Duncan scrubbed at his face, then hauled himself to his feet and headed for the kitchen. "It's been over an hour since Richie left," he reported, after checking the clock on the microwave. "We were lying there for at least half an hour." "Duncan, it worked! Look!" Connor flexed his jaw in demonstration. "Very nice," said Duncan dully. "Can you see?" Connor closed his left eye and held open the still-drooping eyelid of the other one. "A little. I can just make out the kitchen light." "Wonderful." Duncan slumped on the couch. "I'm glad that wasn't all for nothing. I've woken up in a body bag and felt better than this." "I think I got back about three inches of shoulder. If we can just do this a few more times --" "Connor. We're not going to do this again." "Why not? You were the one who said we should try it in the first place! Now it's working, you want to give up?" "I didn't realize it would all but kill us. We can't afford to be that vulnerable again. What if those Hunters had been watching the apartment, and they investigated after they saw the sparks? They could have taken both our heads without any effort at all." "Young Richie can guard us. Or you can stand guard --" "Do you think you'd be able to do that again without drawing on the Quickening of any Immortal in range?" "Well, I could try --" "No. Not until we've taken care of these Hunters. Maybe later, when it's safe --" Duncan caught his kinsman's furious glare. "I'm sorry, Connor. But you can live without an arm -- you can't live without your head." Connor was still angry, but he gave a reluctant nod. "All right then, we deal with the Hunters first. At least while I'm stuck being lefthanded, the police won't be able to identify me by my handwriting." ======================== =========================================================================