Date: Wed, 7 Feb 1996 08:50:57 -0700 Reply-To: Hank Wyckoff Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hank Wyckoff Subject: NEW (4A/10) The Duplicity This chapter has been split due to the maximum line rule. Sorry for the inconvenience, for those who don't have a line limit. The Duplicity (4A/10) -- By Henry Wyckoff A Crossover between Highlander/Forever Knight/X-Files/A Poem by Rudyard Kipling/and Sharpe's Rifles A continuation of When the Veil is Lifted Disclaimer -- The "worlds" of Highlander et al are not of my own creation -- however, the plot and general story is mine, as are the characters Axer Carrick, Coleen, and Patrick Morgan (even though he does become Krycek in the last part, the P.M. part is not property of the series writers). Anybody who wants to look up who produced the shows can look it up on their own time. Now, on with the show. Chapter 4 "What do you mean, I can't get a plane for five hours?" demanded Axer, his voice raising in volume and anger. "I'm sorry sir," said the insincere, nasal voice on the other end of the phone. "All our flights are booked. If you're that desperate, I suggest you fly with Federal Express -- they have overnight delivery." Axer slammed the receiver onto the payphone several times before hanging it up. As Coleen watched him with an uncertain look, he took a deep breath, mumbled something in Welsh, and calmed down like someone flipped a switch. "I guess we have nothing to do but wait." "Oh," ranted Coleen, pacing back and forth. "This is just great! You drag me down to Toronto, and just when things are getting interesting, you take me to some other boring place! Would you mind explaining what the hell is going on?" Axer nodded. "I promised to introduce you to the grimmer aspects of immortality... I see an old haunt of mine. I'll tell you over some iced mocha -- my treat." They walked across the street to a rather ancient looking shop called The Pony Espresso. Their motto was: Ride the Wave! A sign on the door said: Don't Forget To Take Your Nerves With You On Your Way Out! Coleen shook her head sadly. "The place is closed! Couldn't you see that from across the street?" The shop was dark and empty. The tables were barely visible. Axer smiled. "You don't know the owner like I do." A few discreet knocks brought a heavyset old woman over to the door. "My God!" she nearly screamed. "You're back!" A surprised Axer was lifted up off his feet into a smothering bear hug. A moment later, he mumbled through several pounds of flesh, "Yes, I am. Perhaps you could let me breathe?" Coleen looked at this whole exchange with a smile. The old woman, said with a distinct North Carolina accent, "Come in, the both of you -- you look starved!" The more accurate term, now that Coleen noticed, was lean. They both had the look of weather-beaten travelers. Maybe she never really noticed because she had better things to do than look at herself in the mirror, but she suddenly realized what a few years in the Arctic tundra could do to a person. In Axer, she saw a transformation from a beaten down, bitterly cynical man to a plain, healthy, upbeat cynical man. She wondered what someone else would have seen looking at her. "I greatly appreciate it, Eunice," said Axer, unconsciously slipping into the same accent. "I'd like you to meet a student of mine, Coleen... Coleen, this is a very old friend, Eunice Carrick." They both gave him an odd look for two totally separate reasons. "No, Eunice," he answered the unspoken question. "She's not my child -- I can't have children." Eunice's hands rose to her face in shock, and her face turned white. "No children? I'm so sorry!" He grinned lopsidedly, "For some reason, I'm not. How about some of your world-famous iced mocha -- and a good Smoky Mountain breakfast while you're at it?" Eunice, hobbled off to the espresso machine to work her magic. In the meantime, the two sat at a table in the back. Axer answered the other unspoken question. "It was a hard time. I helped out a dispossessed clansman -- a relative of Bonnie Prince Charlie -- and he rewarded me by making him a member of his family as they made their fortune in the New World... To me, that meant a lot. "My secret is passed down from generation to generation -- to the eldest son or daughter of a very direct line. She is the direct descendent of Sean Carrick, the man who I saved during the battle of Culloden." Coleen saw a common expression in his face, as if he were reliving a thousand years in a moment. "But that is another story for a different time... I have a different one to tell you. It all started here in Toronto, at a bar called Tam O'Shanty's. I was drunk as a lord, and had publicly humiliated someone who was trying to beat his girlfriend's head into grape juice..." ******************************************* Mulder and Scully sat on the plane, silent for their own reasons. Mulder, having spent the last night in deep thought, was so exhausted that he didn't feel like speaking to anyone. Scully was silent because she had no kind words to say. The grief had left her somewhat, and what remained was a bitter hate of everything. She hated everything and everyone she could think of, because her perfect, logical world was being shot down in flames. Those she loved were being killed, and Mulder seemed to be going off the deep end. She continually asked herself why she was going along with this wild goose chase, and she finally answered herself with a true answer: she couldn't allow Mulder to go off on his own. It wasn't because of some lack of trust or some wild love for Mulder that is accompanied by emotional Italian violin music -- no... it was more of a reflexive, involuntary inability. It was a sensation that she couldn't understand or name. "Ever been to Toronto before?" asked a voice behind them. Scully turned around and saw the one from the funeral she didn't recognize. His expression was somewhat whimsical. "Once. Why do you ask?" "Because I wanted to make sure it was you. I knew your sister, but I believe I only met you at a distance." His voice was soft in volume and accent. Oddly familiar yet unplaceable. "Where did you see me?" she was oddly curious. "Toronto. Just when you recovered Agent Mulder from the hands of Patrick Morgan and the man Mulder aptly named Cancerman. I'd seen Mulder a bit more, so I DO know him." Scully's expression was one of utter shock and surprise. She certainly hadn't expected this. The soft-spoken man smiled warmly and held out his hand. "Special Agent Alan Powys -- Interpol. I think we need to have a talk." ********************************************* Duncan and Richie were talking about mundane matters -- the dojo, mortal friends, the landscape down below. For all of Duncan's years, flying was still a novel experience, and he was thrilled by it. Only one who sees the world spin by quickly can take such simple pleasures. Richard Sharpe's mind was on other matters. He meditated, mostly, and dreamed on the long flight to Toronto. He thought back to the time where he was travelling through what was then Afghanistan, India, and Tibet. The Napoleonic war had ended, and the death and destruction was so rampant that Sharpe had needed to get away. Besides, he was officially dead. Francois Frazier, an immortal French-Scotsman, had killed him in one of those duels that stops all other fighting taking place. When Sharpe died, he managed to get Francois as well, so both had to give up their name, rank, privileges, and medals. Both had become nameless travelers throughout the land, observing what had been hidden before. Francois had adapted by becoming even more ruthless. He killed every immortal he saw on sight -- or tried to. Sharpe chuckled in his meditative state as he remembered Francois' last duel. Francois had tracked down Axer Carrick because the man was a notorious drunk, and figured he would be an easy mark... ...Sharpe followed Francois down the alleyway, but far enough away so as not to call attention to himself. The man was up to something, but Sharpe didn't know what. The alleyway was dark and full of mist, trash, and stray cats. It was devoid of bums, winos, and such, except for the immortal who approached from the other direction. His presence was so powerful that even Sharpe felt it from where he stood. "You're a hard man to find," said Francois. "I almost believed that you were dead." "I like to encourage that belief," slurred Axer, barely able to finish his sentence. He carried a bottle of scotch in his trembling hand. "You won't need to encourage it anymore." Francois produced a rapier, "Defend yourself." He at least had combat manners, if he had no other kind. Axer just stood there, and drained the half-full bottle then and there. Francois waited for the man to finish -- maybe something like honoring a last request. "Where is your sword?" "I don't need a sword with the likes of you." Francois thrust for Axer's heart, but in a motion so fast it was almost a blur -- a single motion -- Axer reached inside his trenchcoat, pulled out a glaive-sword (one of those swords that's somewhere between a glaive and a sword), and thrust so that the blade cut the inside of Francois' arm to the bone. The simple guard jolted the forearm back towards the torso -- the hand let go of the rapier -- and Francois' screamed loudly in shock and pain. A heartbeat after the glaive was drawn, it swung around and cut off the man's head. The whole exchange took space in two heartbeats. As the Axer absorbed the quickening, Sharpe thought to himself, "That man is good!"... ...Sharpe thought back to his time in northern Afghanistan, in a range of nameless mountains. He searched for nothing except tranquility, but found wisdom -- when most who search these mountains for wisdom find tranquility they don't appreciate, and so discard. He encountered a mortal monk who looked older than he really was -- probably the climate and the diet. The man's name was too foreign to pronounce, so Sharpe called him Lenny. The monk seemed to like the name, and would always smile at it. Perhaps it meant something in his own language. At first, Sharpe just nodded and went on his way, but somehow he had been diverted, and then spent the next thirty years there... ..."Relax!" commanded Lenny. "Your energy flows are locked whenever you tense! How will you ever hope to fight off enemies when your energy is tied in knots?" Sharpe WAS relaxed, but whenever Lenny raised the issue, he realized that he could relax a little more. Everything he learned here was new to Sharpe: energy flows, balance, the concept of opposite polarities causing life and death, and all motion, because of their constant struggle. He was learning some nameless way of life that the monk lived. It involved adopting a simple diet -- it was the lack of meat and beer that he hated the most, following a strict moral code, meditation, learning Sanskrit, and becoming adept at an amazing art that resembled yoga in some ways, and the Oriental manner of fighting in another, but Lenny insisted on using no name on account of the fact that names and systems killed a thing. "Good. I do not say you've relaxed enough, but even an unmeasurable amount is something." Lenny had the worn body of an 80 year old, but he had the agility and strength of a man twice his size and a quarter his age. It was uncanny. "Enough. I can see you cannot relax. Let us go in the sun and drink tea. We might even talk of things." They moved over to a large boulder and sat down. Lenny started a fire, and some time later, some Darjeeling tea was made -- imported somehow from northern India, at the base of the Himalayas. How it got here was beyond Sharpe -- it just did, and that was enough for him. "You have come a long way," said Lenny with a faraway tone. "I have seen more progress from you in a day than I see in most students in a year." That stunned Sharpe. He had been the old man's only student for as long as he knew. "How old are you?" Lenny laughed. "I should say the same for you. Many years, and you have not aged a day. I almost believed that you were one such as I, testing me. But I came to realize that you are not as I, but a true miracle walking the land." "What are you, and what do you think I am?" "You are a human CREATED by the gods to live a long life. I am a human TOUCHED by the gods to live a different one." That was all the old man said on the matter. The rest of the conversation had to do with fine points of Sanskrit grammar, which came very hard to Sharpe. Even Voltaire seemed preferable to the complex poetry he not only had to memorize, but truly understand... =========================== Continued in chapter 4b. *********************************************************************** ** e-mail: wyckoff@ag.arizona.edu ** homepage: http://ag.arizona.edu/~wyckoff ** My fanfics are now archived in pkzip format on my fanfic page ** at http://ag.arizona/edu/~wyckoff/fanfic.html ** Also: check out the X-files creative archive at Gossamer ******************************************************************* ** ERROR: You just deleted 6 years of work -- MERCY KILL ? ******************************************************************* =========================================================================