Date: Thu, 8 Feb 1996 17:18:22 -0700 Reply-To: Hank Wyckoff Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Hank Wyckoff Subject: (10A/10) The Duplicity The Duplicity (10A/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 This concludes The Duplicity, and leads into part three of the five part cycle. THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN SPLIT IN ORDER TO OBEY THE MAXIMUM LINE LIMIT RULE 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, Patrick Morgan, (even though he does become Krycek in the last part, the P.M. part is not property of the series writers). Mulroney is INSPIRED by Rudyard Kipling, but on the surface doesn't resemble the man in any way. Anybody who wants to look up who produced the shows can look it up on their own time. Now, on with the show. Chapter 10 Sharpe scanned the place, his eyes narrowed and his forehead wrinkled. "I think we should divide into groups," he finally decided. Everyone else was huddled around him, out of sight from anyone who might gaze in their direction. Skinner, once he met everyone in the group, became much less aggressive and surprisingly enough became "one of the team". He even started smiling, which spooked out Mulder. "Here's how it's going to be," continued Sharpe. "There's going to be two teams. Skinner, Mulder, Mulroney, and myself will try the side door and make as much noise as we can. "Nick, Krycek, Duncan, and Tracy -- you go in through the back and keep quiet. If my plan works, they'll be leaving you alone, so don't attract attention if you can help it. "Agreed?" Everyone nodded. "Then God give us victory." ****************************************************** LaCroix and Powys descended on the roof. Nobody stood guard. "That was quite an experience, I'll tell you," shuddered Powys. "Quiet," whispered LaCroix in irritation. "You really do talk too much!" Powys shrugged helplessly. The two walked, trying to stay on the beams and make as little noise as possible. The roof wasn't flat -- rather, it was sloped with the occasional tower or attic-window that broke the shape. One attic window was open -- the room was empty and full of dust, but neither one of them cared too much at the moment. On the far end of the room was a door that Powys slowly cracked open. The hallway on the other side was most certainly not abandoned. Real torches were posted on the walls every ten feet, and the occasional Odinsson walked down the hall with a tin-soldier expression. "Tacky..." muttered LaCroix. It was Powys who reminded LaCroix to be quiet. He frowned at Powys, then his expression changed. He pointed down the hallway and travelled down it at a fast walk. Powys followed, looking around nervously. LaCroix didn't seem concerned at all -- though he was absolutely noiseless. They met nobody as they moved at least a hundred feet. LaCroix walked like a driven man, his eyes darting back and forth as if he were trying to peer through the walls, his ears listening for every sound. He stopped at a door and made a stopping motion to Powys. The door was a normal one, with a normal door-handle and a deadbolt. LaCroix made to punch the door open, but Powys stopped him, shaking his head in disgust. He motioned for LaCroix to turn around. "What?" demanded LaCroix in a silent whisper. Powys insisted. "Oh, very well!" He turned around until Powys tapped his shoulder. The door was now unlocked, but still shut. It opened silently -- LaCroix noticed a small can of machine oil barely sticking out of his pocket. //This man thinks of everything!// he thought in admiration. //What was he once in life? A thief?// Inside the room was none other than Scully -- strapped down to what looked like an electric chair, and several men in white suits used for environmental cleanup operations. While most of the inside of this building was made to look medieval, this room looked ultramodern, with all kinds of electrical and biophysical engineering equipment. The men behind the plastic film had Japanese faces. Scully was fully awake and scared out of her wits. The look in her eyes said that she had been drugged -- which didn't make sense because the reason you drug someone is to calm them down. A helmet had been placed on her head, and a long needle inserted into the back of her neck. Whatever was going to happen, it looked like she fully understood the import. Impulsively LaCroix made a loud entrance, speaking not only to their ears, but to their minds -- this was vampire hypnosis at it's rawest, but most chancy form. It was mind against mind as he said, "Stop what you are doing." The scientists might have had sharpened minds, but their wills were weak. They stopped everything and froze like mannequins. Powys freed Scully while LaCroix took a scientist at random and said in a voice so powerful that he had no choice to obey. "What is your business here?" "I am gathering information," he could barely speak English -- just enough to understand the basics and be understood even less. "What are you?" "A scientist." //Damned literal-minded scientists!// swore LaCroix to himself. "What is your organization?" "It has no name." "We don't have time for this!" whispered Powys urgently. Powys was right, but LaCroix snarled, "Shut up!" He focused on the scientist again. "Stop evading me." The man's face began to sweat. "Why are you --" The man face became suddenly tense, and he reflexively slapped his belt. A jolt of electricity flooded through him, as it did through all the other scientists. They collapsed like sacks of potatoes, their limbs twitching. Next went the instrumentation, which fried and fizzled. The Pentiums were the last to go -- the hard-drives and backup drives grinding, and the circuitry snapping and fizzing. It was a good thing that Scully had been removed from the chair, because it glowed with millions of volts of electricity, making the sweet smell of ozone. "My..." said Powys with a tone and accent used by the stereotypical English butler. "How inconvenient." "It looks like somebody wants to keep a secret." Scully seemed to have gained back her wits. "The cult, the kidnapping, the murders -- it's all a front. All a lie." ****************************************************** Nick walked in the front and Duncan took the rear -- neither trusted Krycek, who stayed in the middle. They had easily snuck in the back door -- the guards were skilless fanatics who gained in a lack of pain-sensing nerves where they lost in combative skills. It seemed almost too easy -- the halls were empty, the torches lit, and the air fresh. //It feels like a trap,// Duncan would tell himself, but Nick seemed a bit more confident with himself. Krycek was beside himself with controlled fright. He made one foot walk in front of the other, but with great difficulty. Tracy seemed to be the the least worried out of the whole bunch -- but she exercised as much caution as Krycek. They reached some stairs going down, and two corridors going right and left. Nick stopped, letting everyone else catch up. "What now?" he asked. Everyone looked at everyone else, until Duncan said, "Down?" "Why?" whispered Tracy. "We'll be going down one of those halls on our way out -- we might as well cover as much ground as we can." Nick nodded and led the way down. The stairs were circular and went down what must have been fifty feet. They led to a large, single room with no doors or halls, also lit by torches. It was almost like a museum, with statues lined along the walls, and glass cases spaced every few feet. At the far end of the hall was a cabinet that went from floor to ceiling. Nick and Duncan were too jaded to care, but Tracy's and Krycek's jaws dropped in awe. "This is incredible!" whispered Tracy, as she inspected the stone statues of Viking-like warriors and women. They had a look of considerable age, judging by the grime in the pores of the stone. She inspected some of the glass cases, and saw that they were full of scrolls, gemstones, Viking weaponry, and assorted artifacts. "This must be worth a fortune!" "Priceless," agreed Nick. The Viking age passed at least before he was born -- if Hadradi could be called the last Viking -- but he could tell authenticity when he saw it. His curiosity engaged, Nick walked over to the cabinet, ignoring everything else in the room. The cabinet was thick, oiled oak -- solid and well-cared for. A modern lock kept it shut. He was about to open it by brute force when Duncan stopped him. "Show you a trick," he smiled, inserting the tip of his katana in the line between the two doors, and pried it open with a quick twist and lever. It didn't make too much noise and preserved the doors. "It keeps them from knowing their stuff was inspected." Inside the cabinet were items that did fill Nick and Duncan with awe. They weren't just any old collection of weapons -- they had a spirit to them, a 'feeling' that seemed to come from them. It was analogous to the life that an artist feels on viewing a painting -- even if it's someone else's. They were a spear, axe, hammer, bow, and two swords. They had the same look of age as all the other artifacts in the room, but they didn't look 'old'. "Take them," said Krycek from behind them. "What?" Nick was startled -- the man had said barely a sentence from the time of his capture. "Take the weapons. They must mean something to the Odinssons, and even if they're not important, it might annoy them enough to make a slip." Nick and Duncan looked at one another. Duncan took the spear, and that 'spirit' felt more intense, like it was actually alive. He twirled it around, and it felt like the *perfect* spear. Every inch felt like it were made by a master craftsman. The wood was silky-smooth, and the blade had no blemishes, nicks, or other imperfections. He *liked* this piece of work. Nick took the sword and dropped it in pain, like he grabbed a cactus. "I don't think I'll be able to use these." "What happened?" asked Duncan. "The sword is a holy item." "Try the others." He did, one by one, and found the the axe was the only item he could use. He tested it, and found that it felt like *his* weapon. The grip fit his hand like a glove, and the balance was wonderful. Tracy backed off a little -- there was something about the whole thing that was giving her nerves a good shake, but she couldn't quite figure out what it was. Krycek stepped forward, grabbing both the swords. On closer inspection, he saw that they were a pair, made for use by a single man. They were even designed as left- and right-hand blades, with the grips matching each hand perfectly. The blades were single-edged, straight, and simple. The only weapons left were the hammer and the bow. "Go on, Tracy," said Nick, his voice somewhat dreamy. "Not me," Tracy shook her head. "Something weird is going on. I think they're doing something to you." "They're just weapons," Duncan shook his head, but he seemed to be uncharacteristically jovial. "We have enough of them," smiled Krycek. "Let's get out of here." The cabinet doors were closed, and they went back up the circular stairs, but Tracy couldn't help but wonder if they should have left this room alone altogether. But they were right -- they were just weapons -- so that made her wonder about their sanity... ************************************************************ *********************************************************************** ** 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 ? ******************************************************************* =========================================================================