Date: Thu, 9 Mar 1995 14:51:23 -0800 Reply-To: Noah Johnson Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Noah Johnson Subject: "The One And The Many" 1/1 (Long) This is my first story on this list, so please email me if you have any comments. This is a story about Richie. You have been warned. THE ONE AND THE MANY By Noah Johnson This story is copyright 1994, by Noah Johnson. Permission is given to reproduce it, in its entirety, and including this notice. The year was 1998. It happened in an empty warehouse in Seattle, where Duncan MacLeod had used to train with his sword. In the warehouse was waiting a tall, dark man in a long and bulky coat. A thousand-year-old gypsy calling himself Carranzino. Roaring through the door, on one wheel, came a motorcycle. It made a circle around the gypsy, and came to a halt. Its rider, wearing a black leather trenchcoat, dismounted and removed his helmet. His hair was red-blond, and curly. His face was as young as it had been five years ago. His eyes were angry. His name was Richie Ryan, and he and Carranzino were the only two Immortals remaining on earth. "Time to die, boy." said Carranzino quietly. "Not for me." Richie said. "Not tonight." When Conner MacLeod had died, three years ago, it had finally brought home to Richie that the Gathering was real, and that it would inevitably find him, as it had found Conner. Richie had realized that in all likelihood, he would never see his thirtieth birthday. That Immortality would actually cut his life short. He had been cheated. He had been angry. He had taken it out on the Gathering itself. In those intervening three years, Richie had taken to the sword with a passion that amazed his teacher Duncan, and had taken more than a dozen heads himself. He had done little else but train. He had learned everything Duncan could teach, had learned all he could from other Immortals, before they died, one by one. He had gone to the Watchers, and demanded their film footage of Immortal duels, dating back to the 1930's, and had studied these almost religiously, watching in every case for the fatal mistake, the winning technique. He refused to accept that he might receive all of the curse of Immortality, without ever being able to experience the advantages. Then, two days ago, Richie had followed Duncan MacLeod to a duel for the last time. He had seen the most honorable man he had ever known fall to an underhanded trick. To Carranzino. So there he was, in the warehouse, facing the big gypsy, a sword in his coat. In two days he had not slept, or eaten. He had practiced. Every move Duncan had ever taught him, every technique he'd been able to glean from years of study. He rested only long enough for his sore, cramped muscles to heal, and began again. He understood that he was the last good Immortal, and that the fate of the world was on his shoulders. After more millenia than mortals felt comfortable counting, it had come down to him. The Game was almost at an end. In the warehouse, he looked at Carranzino and put a hand inside his coat. The gypsy's right hand also slipped behind his lapel, but it was his left hand Richie was watching. It went into one of the side pockets of his coat. Richie knew what it would find there. Carranzino did not know about Richie's habit of spying on Duncan. "Let's do it." Richie said. "History's waiting." "Indeed." said Carranzino, and moved. It was his left hand that moved first, coming out of his pocket with a blocky, flashlight-shaped weapon. Fast as a cobra, he pointed it at Richie, and pressed the trigger. Richie's body was quicksilver. It casually dropped to one side, as twin metal darts, trailing long, thin wires, passed over his head. Even as he moved, his sword appeared in his hand. A taser has only one shot, and Carranzino had expended it. Richie kicked forward in a long fencer's lunge that pinned the gypsy's left hand to his lower chest. Before the taser even slipped from Carranzino's grasp, Richie had withdrawn his blade and fallen back into an en garde stance. Somewhere in this, Carranzino had found time to draw a scimitar. The gypsy scowled. Pain distorted his face for an instant. "First blood is yours, boy." he growled through his teeth. "You'll die better than your teacher, at least." "You won't." Richie said, his sword not moving. "Take your best shot." "I think I will." replied Carranzino, as his sword flashed at Richie's neck like a sheet of summer lightning. It didn't even come close. The duel they fought ranged across most of the warehouse. Their swords were flashes of light, not steel at all. For miles around, people looked up, inexplicably nervous, as though feeling a storm approaching. Richie had been taught by the best. The very best. All of them. Carranzino was a hundred times older, a hundred times more experienced, with the Quickenings of most of the greatest Immortals who ever lived inside him. It was a match the like of which the world had never seen. Logically, Richie should not have survived past the first minute. But ours is not a logical world. In the end, Carranzino was driven by self-interest and a lust for power, and Richie was driven by fury and ten thousand years of hope for the future. Finally, Carranzino made a mistake, and Richie's sword passed through his neck with what felt like no resistance at all. There came a long pause. Richie looked at the headless corpse of the only other Immortal in the world. From inside of him came a voice that was not his. "_There can be only one._" he said. The planet trembled. Richie was torn from the earth, thrown into the air. A tornado of light surrounded him. Every window in the warehouse disintegrated into a million sparkling shards. The concrete floor cracked as though in an earthquake. Richie couldn't hear himself screaming over the sound of thousands of lives and thousands of years. Finally, everything rushed into him at once. He was a thousand score men and women, and all they had ever been. Everything they had ever known, everything they had ever done, all the skill and knowledge that they had ever held was at his command. The Prize was his. When Richie's feet touched earth once more, he was the most powerful being that had ever lived. He looked again at the dead man on the floor, then got onto his motorcycle and rode away. * * * Richard Ryan was a simple soul. He'd grown up parentless on the streets of Seattle, and such a childhood is not conducive to grandiose dreams. All he'd ever wanted was a comfortable living, some good friends, someone to marry, maybe even a couple of kids. He didn't want to rule the world, or change the course of history, or put his own ideas ahead of the rest of humanity. He'd been taught better than that. He was surprised to learn that he was Duncan MacLeod's sole beneficiary, and inherited all of the highlander's considerable financial holdings. He had no need for money the rest of his life. So his simple dreams came true, and not even his wife, Danielle, who was pretty and smart with a great sense of humor, ever knew that Richie had for a short time been Immortal, or that at any given moment, the destiny of the world was in his hands. He was happy. It was all he'd ever really wanted. * * * The year was 2028. The future had turned out like the future always does, cleaner in some places, dirtier in some places, and nothing like anybody expected. Richard Ryan was fifty-eight. He'd kept his hair, and it was now a pleasant shade of gray. He'd managed to retain most of the swordsman's build that he'd developed a long time ago for reasons that seemed important at the time. He was comfortably wealthy, and loved his wife and two daughters. He was definitely not going to live forever. Richard was downtown, having just engaged in a male-bonding ritual with his friends, involving Jack's Bar and Grill, comparison of bald spots, discussion of sports and politics, and three pitchers of beer. He'd had a good time with his friends. But then, he always did. They were that kind of friends. He was walking back to his car, the only 1965 Thunderbird still on the road, when he heard gunshots. He was under cover very fast. After the gunshots came the sound of running feet, receding into the distance. Then there came a feeling that Richard had almost forgotten. A deep part of his mind registered the nearby presence of an Immortal. Richie came to his feet fluidly, looking about him for an attacker. He realized that reflexes he'd cultivated decades ago were still active. He found himself wishing he had his sword. _Think_, he told himself, _what's going on? That's the Quickening you feel, no mistaking it. But from where? All the Immortals are dead. You were the last. That's not in dispute. So what the hell is going on?_ He moved toward the sound of the gunshots, feeling the Quickening grow stronger. He came to the mouth of an alley. In the alley lay a young black man in a pool of his own blood, three bullet holes in the front of his sweatshirt. As Richie moved toward him, he moaned quietly. _Goddamn._ Richie thought. _That kid just got killed. For the first time. And now he's one of us._ _No,_ he amended, looking at his fifty-eight-year-old body, _he's one of *them*._ Richie knelt next to the young man. "Hey, buddy." he said in a friendly tone. "You okay?" "Huh?" said the victim, blinking carefully. "Yeah, I guess so. Damn, I thought he... Hey, who are you, anyway?" "My name's Ryan." he paused a second and smiled to himself. "Richie Ryan." "Yeah, great to meet you, man. Isaac St. Michael. Did you see that dude who... uh, damn, I guess he shot me, huh?" a look of surprise passed across the young man's face as he remembered what had happened. "No, he got away. And yes, he shot you." Richie said, thinking _Remember this moment, kid. You'll have a long time to remember it in._ "Well, I don't... feel shot or nothing." said the young man, feeling his chest. "That's a long story. But you're completely healed now, take my word for it. Listen, do you want to spend the rest of your life explaining to the cops how you got shot and didn't die?" "What are you talking about, mister?" Richie sighed and gave up on breaking it to him gently. "You're going to live forever, Isaac. Can I call you Isaac? I'm the only person on earth who knows about what your life will be like from now on, so trust me. Tell the cops that this guy shot at you but missed, you fought, your shirt got ripped, he knocked you down and ran, and I came in to see if you were okay. Unless you want to spend forever in a medical lab, just tell them that, okay?" "What do you mean I'm gonna live forever? Are you crazy?" Isaac was getting agitated. "Am I crazy? You just took three bullets in the chest and we're talking right now. That's crazy." he jerked his head at the people gathering around the mouth of the alley. "We can't talk about it now, but if you want to find out about what you are, you'll tell the cops what I said." He did. As Isaac left the police station, Richie appeared next to him. "How'd it go?" he asked. "They bought that line you came up with." Isaac turned to Richie. "Now what the hell is going on here?" Richie looked at the younger man and tried to decide how much to tell him, how fast. Isaac was a few inches taller than Richie, hair cut close to his head, making him a little over six feet tall. His body was lean, clad in casual, inexpensive clothes. His eyes were dark and confused. But there was real intelligence in them. Everything, Richie decided. Everything at once. "You died in that alley, Isaac." he began. "You died and came back to life. And now you're Immortal." Isaac looked at him for a second. "You are crazy." he decided. "I just lied to the police on account of a stupid crazy man." Richie grabbed the younger man by the shirt and spun him against the wall. "I am not crazy, you got that? I'm the only person in the world who can help you, so you'd better start believing me. Unless you have a better explanation for what happened to you back there." Isaac was silent a moment. "Okay, just say you ain't a nutcase. How come you know so much?" "Because the same thing happened to me. In 1993 I was shot fatally through the chest with a cheap Saturday night special by a young punk who just wanted my wallet. Like you, I recovered. Like you, I became Immortal." "What's that mean, Immortal, anyway?" Isaac asked, looking as though he wasn't sure how much to believe Richie. "It means that you don't age. You can't die. Your wounds heal in minutes. You'll live forever. I am not kidding." "Sounds like a pretty good deal to me." Isaac said, trying to lighten the situation with a grin. "It's not. But it's what you're stuck with, and you'll get used to it. I did." "I still think you're crazy." Isaac admitted. Richie sighed and reached into his pocket, producing a Swiss army knife. He opened the blade and, before Isaac could ask what he intended, slashed a shallow cut across the back of the young man's hand. "OWWW! Goddammit, man, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Isaac yelled. "Shut up and look." Richie said, grabbing Isaac's wrist and holding his hand up in front of his face. After a moment, there was a small crackle of energy and the wound slid closed. Isaac ran his fingers over the suddenly intact skin. He had nothing to say. "Do you believe me now?" Richie asked. "Talk on, mister." Isaac replied. Richie did. He talked about living forever, and what it would mean. He talked about the Gathering. He talked about the Prize. He talked about swords. He talked about millenia. He did his best to convey a different style of existence to this young man. "Do you believe me?" he finally finished. Isaac looked at the older man for a long moment. "Yeah." he said. "I do. I'm probably crazy myself, but I do. I do have one question." "Shoot." "How come you know all this?" "Well, you know I said about the Gathering, and there can be only one?" "Uh-huh." Isaac said carefully. "I'm it." Richie spread his hands and grinned. "You mean all that crap about being mortal again, and knowing everything, and all that..." Isaac let the sentence trail off. "Yeah. That's me." Richie nodded. "For real?" "Yeah." "Damn." "No kidding." Nobody said anything for a minute. "So, how come you're not president of the universe, or something?" Isaac asked. "I mean, from the way you said it, it sounded like the last one of you would be able to do pretty much anything he wanted." "That's about right." Richie nodded. "But I never really wanted to be president of the universe. I'm happy the way I am." "I knew it. You're crazy." Isaac said, half-grinning. Richie chuckled to himself. "Yeah, well, see if you think so in a few hundred years." Isaac paused, beginning to understand that he really would be around that long. He stopped smiling. Richie saw his expression change, recognized what Isaac must be thinking. "I know." he said. "It's not as fun as it sounds. There's compensations, for sure, but..." Richie couldn't think of a way to put it. He'd only been Immortal a short time, but even in those few years it had redefined his life to a degree he couldn't have imagined. Richie had a feeling Isaac would be around quite a while, and neither of them had any way of knowing what it would be like. He took Isaac back to his house, on the outskirts of the city. It was a gorgeous old Tudor, with stained glass windows. It had a large basement, which Richie had had extensively remodeled. It was in front of this house that Richie and Tessa Nel had been shot to death. Only one of them had recovered. Richie would occasionally go outside and look at a section of the pavement, and remember how he had gotten up from the ground, his shirt shot to bloody rags, and looked at Duncan holding Tessa's body and rocking slowly back and forth. Richie's wife and children were surprised when he turned up with a young black man, and introduced him as his new friend Isaac St. Michael, who'd saved Richie's life that day in a shooting incident downtown. His wife Danielle in particular took Richie aside and asked him why he felt compelled to bring his rescuer home with him. Richie smiled and hugged her. "I don't know, love." he said. "I know that when I was this kid's age, Duncan MacLeod took me in, and changed my life. I know that he reminds me of myself in a lot of ways, and that I have this feeling he could use my help. It's not like he'll be moving in, but he will be around a lot. I don't know, I just think I owe it to Duncan's memory to do for someone else what he did for me. Is that okay, Dani?" She kissed him and allowed that it was. Together, Richie and Danielle returned to the living room, where Isaac was getting acquainted with Richie's daughters, eighteen-year-old Ruth and fifteen-year-old Elizabeth. They appeared to be getting along famously. The young are always more accepting of things new and different than their elders. There was chat for a while, then Richie took Isaac down to the basement, where a rec room/exercise room had been put in where there used to be a large, dark hall. On the way down the stairs, Richie's shins acquired Trina, his daughters' gray-and-white cat. He stepped unerringly around her going down the stairs, despite her efforts to trip him, but he wanted her gone for what he had in mind. "Trina." he said, by way of attracting her attention. The cat looked up at him. Richie looked down at the cat and stared. Trina froze, trembling, nailed to the ground. He held her there for a moment, then narrowed his eyes and looked away. With a yowl, Trina tore off up the stairs. "What the hell was that?" Isaac wanted to know. "That was the Prize." Richie grinned self-deprecatingly. "I can talk my way out of speeding tickets, too." With that, Richie went through the door in back of the rec room, into the place where hostages used to be kept in darkness, which was now used as storage space. In the back, behind a number of things, was a long, wooden case. Richie took it back into the exercise room, where Isaac was waiting. He opened it. Inside, resting on red velvet, was a very rare breed of sword. It was a sword rapier. Fast enough to parry and thrust, light enough to fence with, strong enough to cut. This one had a gold-plated shell guard, to protect the hand in combat. The blade was still sharp and uncorroded, and as Richie looked at the minute nicks and scratches on the sword, he couldn't help but smile as he recalled where each one had come from. Isaac looked at Richie's sword. "That's pretty nice, man." "Yeah. It means a lot to me." Richie nodded. He remembered a much younger version of himself, looking at this sword with admiration, as MacLeod had pulled it out of that same case, and handed it to him. His memory sent the voice of a dead man up from its depths. _Live with it. Make it part of you. It might be the only friend you have._ "Was that the sword you used to use?" Isaac asked. "Yeah. It's a hell of a sword, let me tell you." "Looks like it." "You'll have to learn to use one of these." Richie said. "I thought you said this whole Gathering thing was finished." Isaac said suspiciously. "It was. But you exist. If you, then others. They may exist already. And that means the Game has begun again." "The Game?" Isaac asked. "It's what we used to call it." Richie answered. "The whole 'there can be only one' thing. I don't know why. I mean, there we were, dueling for the fate of the world, and we called it the Game. It seemed to fit, somehow, though." "The Game." Isaac said, trying on the phrase for size. "Whatever. So I gotta have a sword?" "If you want to keep your head you do. It'd be nice if Immortals all got along, but that's not the way it was, and I doubt it's the way it's are going to be. Immortality comes to all kinds of people, and a lot of them are real bastards. Besides, it's a destiny thing. Only one of you can live, and that means the others have to die." "Well, goddammit, who made these stupid rules?" Isaac demanded. Richie shrugged. "Maybe once someone knew, but for the last few thousand years, nobody's had a clue. I tell you what my teacher told me, which is what he was told himself. But wherever they came from, the rules exist, and you'll find yourself following them." "This is still crazy." Isaac grumbled. "You'll get no argument from me." Richie said, reaching into a storage closet for a pair of wooden practice swords. He pulled them out and tossed one to Isaac. He was pleased to see that Isaac picked it out of the air with one hand. "Here, we'll start with these. Have you ever used a sword before?" "Oh, yeah, just the other day. Me and the guys were hanging around the castle, when we were jumped by these ninjas." Isaac said sarcastically. "Didn't really think so. Okay, the basic idea is to hit the other guy with your sword, and keep him from hitting you with his. Remember, in any duel with another Immortal, your final objective is a beheading. So there are two basic ways of keeping the other guy's blade away from you. You can parry or dodge. The parries are..." Richie began demonstrating as he talked, conveying a knowledge of swordmanship unparalleled in the world. Isaac nodded, following along as best he could, asking questions when Richie began to get ahead of him. Time passed. At one point, the two men went upstairs in search of food, before returning to practice. Eventually Richie looked at his watch. "Jesus, it's almost eight. I hope you didn't have anything you were supposed to do this evening." Isaac shrugged. "Not really. I don't have what you could call a regular job. Here was as good a place as any to be this afternoon. Thanks a lot for showing me all this stuff. I kind of like it." Richie smiled a little. "Get used to it, Isaac; this is going to be a big part of your life from now on." Later, after dropping Isaac off at his apartment downtown, Richie had a thought. Instead of heading straight back to his house, he took a detour to go see an old friend. Joe Dawson was well into his eighties by now, and had an artificial heart and kidney to go with his prosthetic legs. His mind, however, was as sharp as it had always been. He was surprised, but pleased, when Richie turned up on his doorstep that evening. "Richie, hi! It's good to see you again." he said. "It's been too long." "Hi, Joe." Richie said. "Is this an okay time to drop by?" "Sure, sure. I wasn't doing anything. Just watching TV. Come on in, I'll get you something to drink." "Thanks. You know, a guy your age really shouldn't live by himself." Richie said, coming in and looking around Dawson's spacious apartment. "Pfah." came Dawson's voice, as he rummaged in the fridge. "I've never been healthier. I'll probably outlive you, Mr. Immortal." Richie laughed. "Yeah, you might at that." Dawson came back into the room with two glasses of beer. "Here you go, Richie." he said, handing Richie one and sitting down on his couch. "So what brings you by?" Richie sipped his beer and looked at the older man. "Joe, how come you never stopped calling me Richie? Everyone else called me Richard at one point or another, either when I won the Prize, or when I got married, or when Ruth was born. But not you. Why?" Joe chuckled. "Because whenever I look at you, all I see is that young guy who used to come to me for advice, trying to learn to be Immortal before he'd ever learned to be mortal." Richie smiled. "Those were some good days." he nodded. "You didn't think so at the time." Dawson pointed out. "Yeah, but... I don't know." Richie said slowly. "It was kind of exciting, with the Gathering and everything, carrying a sword around, getting into duels, hanging around with Duncan." he sighed. "I miss Mac sometimes." "You think I don't?" Joe said with a wistful smile. "He was a hell of a guy. I spent thirty years following him around with a camera. Back then I had a real purpose. I was a Watcher. Hell, I was head of the Watchers in this whole area. After you beat that son of a bitch Carranzino, I was just another old man with a bar." Joe took another drink of beer, and turned his left wrist over, to look at the faded blue tattoo there. Richie smiled. "Actually, Joe, that's why I'm here. You remember that time I came by here, Carranzino's body hardly cold, and told you you could hang up your binoculars?" "Of course I do." "Well, you can take them out of mothballs now. It's started again." Joe paused and looked at him. "What are you saying, Richie?" Richie shrugged. "I met a kid today who's Immortal. He got shot, and died, and came back to life. It can only mean that the whole damn thing is starting over." "Richie, you're not pulling an old man's leg, are you?" Joe asked. "God's truth, Joe. His name's Isaac St. Michael. He's got a real talent for swordwork." Dawson was still cautious. "Are you certain he's the real thing?" "I can feel him, Joe. There's no mistake." "How do you know he's not the only one?" Richie smiled. "Joe, you're talking to the last of the Immortals. In the last thirty years, have I ever been wrong? Even one time?" Joe thought for a long minute. "No." he decided finally. "You never have." "Then believe me. I just know. The Game has started over." Joe sat back in his chair, looking very tired all of a sudden. "Are you all right, Joe?" Richie asked, half rising. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Dawson said, waving a hand. "There's just so much to do. I'm still in touch with most of the old crew, so I can probably get most of them back, but new recruits are going to be an interesting problem. Have you got this St. Michael's address, by the way?" "I take it, then, that you're going to start the Watchers back up?" Richie said with a grin at Joe's enthusiasm. "Are you kidding? If there are Immortals to watch, we intend to watch them. That's what we're about. It'll be nice to be able to track the entire progress of the Game from the beginning; we couldn't before, you know. Hmm, we'll need a new tattoo artist since Andy died. I don't suppose you know someone who'd be interested?" The two old friends talked for some time after that of the past and the future, and eventually Richie had to leave. As Joe was showing him the door, the old man looked at him and said, "Richie, can I ask a favor?" "Sure, Joe." Richie said with a shrug. "Don't tell him about us. Don't tell any of them. We were a lot more effective back when we were peering out of the shadows and no one knew we existed. I'd like that feeling back." Richie smiled and put his hand on Joe's shoulder. "It's not just our Game starting up again, is it? Sure, I'll keep my mouth shut. How long do you think you can keep your secret, though?" Joe smiled, a certain light in his eyes. "I don't know, Richie, but god, it's going to be fun finding out." Richie continued to train Isaac carefully. All the wisdom he'd absorbed in his life, and all that had come with the Prize, he tried to pass on. He couldn't, of course, but it was the trying that was important. Isaac seemed eager to learn. Over the next seven months, Richie gathered that Isaac had never really had anything to do with his life, just sort of wandered around aimlessly. It seemed that to have something concrete and specific to learn to be was what he needed. One day Richie and Isaac were practicing some samurai sword forms in the warehouse where Richie had defeated Carranzino, and were talking about the various restrictions of Immortality. "Any holy ground is sanctuary. MacLeod used to have this great summer home he built on sacred Sioux lands. He'd go there when he needed to be away from the Game for a while. Another guy, Darius, got himself made a priest and lived in this church in Paris for fifteen hundred years." Richie said, swinging his sword in slow, deliberate arcs. "Fifteen hundred?" Isaac asked, mirroring him. "As in, one thousand five hundred?" "Yeah. He didn't want to fight anymore." "Damn. I'd go nuts." "That's right." Richie smiled. "Which is why we're practicing this. Keep your edge flat." Isaac corrected his grip on the katana he was working with. "Right. I keep doing that. So tell me about this Darius dude." "Oh, he was a hell of a guy." Richie smiled, reminiscing. "Apparently, a couple thousand years ago, he was this big-time general, who was taking his army and conquering all of Europe. So he got as far as the gates of Paris, and was about to roll right over the city, but he got into a duel at the gates. He took the Quickening of the oldest living Immortal around at the time, and apparently it completely changed him. He decided that war was a bad idea after all, and that peace was the answer. So he moved into this church so he'd never have to fight again." Isaac stopped his swordwork. "Are you serious?" he asked. "I've got no reason to lie, Isaac." "You never said anything about one of those Quickenings messing with your head." Isaac said, frowning. "Didn't I? Well, it's not generally a problem. First Quickening I took was from a 700-year-old guy name of Maycoe. He was a total bug on law and order, and had less sense of humor than anyone I'd ever met. So I took his head, and for a while after that, I was a little touchier, and kind of anal about some things, but that's really about it. It's only ever a problem when you're dealing with a very old or very powerful Immortal. However, all of them are dead, so you shouldn't have any problems. C'mon, keep practicing." Isaac picked up his sword again and got back into the rhythm of the movements before asking his next question. "How do you mean, powerful?" "Well, there are Immortals and then there are Immortals, if you follow. Not everyone gets the same Quickening, so some of you will be more powerful than others. Near as I can guess, your Quickening is about average, kind of like mine was. There's some who will be weaker, and some stronger. Watch out for the strong ones, they're tougher to beat, tougher to kill, tougher all over. But, see, the older you get, and the more heads you take, the stronger you get." "So if I'm still around in a thousand years, I'll be the toughest dude on the block, right?" Isaac grinned. "Maybe. One thing I learned about Immortality is that nothing is a sure bet. I remember MacLeod once took out a guy almost two thousand years old, just because the guy assumed that MacLeod didn't have a chance against him. He got cocky, and he screwed up, and Mac took his head clean off." Richie smiled evilly, making a slow, dangerous pass with his sword. Isaac shuddered. "Ouch. Point taken, teach. So what's the good news?" "Good news?" Richie asked. Isaac shrugged, continuing the exercises. "There's gotta be an up side to this whole mess somewhere. So what is it?" "The up side is you'll live forever. Us mortals, everything we do is under the shadow of death. We're just waiting for the hammer to fall, really, because sooner or later our time is going to run out. "None of that applies to you. You're going to live long enough to chase down every dream that enters your head. You'll have the ability to kill a year here, a decade there, without knowing that the end is inevitably on its way. Pretty good deal." Neither of them said anything for some time after that. After a time, the clipping service Richie had employed found one of the stories he had been looking for, about a woman in France who'd been struck down by a car, pronounced dead at the scene, and returned to life. Thus began the first of many trips he would make. He flew to Paris on the pretext of an extended business trip to examine some of his French holdings. His family believed him, of course. Richie was a very good liar. He was good at everything. In Paris he found Marie Chevalier, a young college student with an open mind and a fantastic talent for swordwork. He saw her on her school fencing team, and immediately flew her to Austria to have a sword made for her that was the equal of her ability. After a few months, he believed that she was sufficiently instructed in Immortality, and returned home. That was the way of the second half of the life of Richie Ryan. All over the world, they popped up, one at a time. In Arizona Richie discovered an angry, intense young Navajo, who expressed himself better with a sword than with language. In China, a forty-year-old man politely declined Richie's offer to teach him swordsmanship, preferring to concentrate more on the sword forms of the tai chi he had studied since childhood. In India a young man of the untouchable caste watched the leprosy that raddled his body heal in the space of half an hour, and after that was willing to believe everything Richie had to say. Russia gave Richie a man named Nikolay, born two centuries too late to be a Cossack, which Richie found to be the Cossacks' loss. The years passed. Joe Dawson eventually expired, as old men will, having restored the Watchers to all the shadowy glory they'd ever had. Richie and Isaac served as pallbearers at his funeral. Isaac had a brief, ill-advised affair with Richie's daughter Elizabeth, which strained more than a few relationships. More Immortals kept turning up. Always Richie would seek them out, teach them the lore of Immortality, instruct them in the fundamentals of swordsmanship, and go. With the Game begun again, it was Richie's job to see that the players were ready for it, and a good job he did. A few Immortals went unnoticed by him, but not many. Besides, he knew that sooner or later they would encounter one of his students, and he felt confident that those he had taught would pass those teachings on. It was, in all, a grand and glorious adventure, flying across the globe dealing with the new generation of Immortals. Towards the end, Richie taught from a wheelchair, but teach he did. It was his job, after all. His responsibility. The year was 2078. Richie Ryan was one hundred and eight years old. He lay in bed, surrounded by his family. His mortal family, naturally, two children, three grandchildren, and just last week, a pair of twins born to his grandson Antony. But also many of his other children came, the ageless ones who gathered around him on his deathbed, who came to thank him for everything he'd done for them all over the years. Not all of them came, of course, but more than a dozen people from five continents showed up in the Ryan household that last month, to pay their respects to the winner of the Prize. Among them was Isaac St. Michael, who came earliest and stayed till the end. He was claiming to be Edward St. Michael, Isaac's son. Those in the Ryan family who'd known Isaac pretended to believe him. He spent most of his time speaking with Richie and the other Immortals who came. He kept an eye on who came and went, and made certain that none of them started any trouble. Finally, Richie called him to his bedside. "I heard Marie call you something a minute ago, Isaac. Sounded like a nickname." Richie said slowly, quietly, looking into Isaac's eyes. "Yeah, that." Isaac laughed a little self-deprecatingly. "Some of them have started calling me the Protg. I don't mind." "Protg." Richie said to himself, listening to the word. "Heh. Not as good as Highlander, maybe, but serviceable. How's the Game doing?" "Shouldn't you be worried about other things right now?" Isaac asked, gesturing vaguely at the medicines gathered on Richie's nightstand like chess pieces. "Worried?" Richie smiled and coughed. "What's to worry about? I'm dying. For good this time. But my job is to see to it that all you guys get a good start, and I'm not going out without an update." "You're not dying..." Isaac started, but Richie waved a hand as best he could, cutting him off. "Ah, don't bullshit me, Isaac. I've been knowing everything since before you were born, and I'm dying. I know it, you know it, everyone in here knows it. This is no time to start lying. Now how's the Game going?" Isaac shrugged compliantly. "Just like you said it would. A new one turns up every now and then, and one of us tries to train him or her, and there's some of us that're good, and some that're bad. There's been a few duels here and there, and more than one of us is missing his head. Remember that guy Dreyfuss I told you about? With the attitude? Anyway, Chan got him last week. Seems it wasn't much of a contest." Richie smiled, ignoring the fact that he could feel his organs slowly shutting down. "Good. Good. Well, maybe not good, but on schedule. Isaac, get something for me, would you?" "Sure." Isaac said, getting up from his chair. "The closet." Richie said, gesturing. "Wooden box on the top shelf. Bring it over here." Isaac did, coming back with a mahogany case about the size to hold a sword. "Open it." He did, and found two katanas lying side by side on red velvet. Dragons snarled on their ivory hilts, and the setting sun through the window brought a beautiful gleam to the steel of their blades. "Oh, man. These are..." Isaac couldn't find the right word. "Those are the MacLeod katanas." Richie said, eyes closed, apparently with fatigue. "The one on top, with the longer dragon-face, is for you. It's four hundred years old. It was Duncan's. He'd want you to have it. You've earned it." "I... I mean... thanks." Isaac said haltingly. He'd heard many stories about Duncan, and knew what the Scotsman had meant to Richie. "Don't thank me. Like I say, you deserve it. Now, listen. The other one, with the jewels in the handle. It's two and a half millenia old. It was a technical work of genius when it was made. That sword is not for you." "Then who?" Isaac asked, holding the older sword up and trying to imagine a work of art like this being created centuries before Christ. "Right now, in a house on the shores of Loch Ericht in the Scottish highlands, a child named Stuart MacConn is being born. That's his sword. Keep it for him. Expect him in about twenty, thirty years. I'm making him your responsibility." Richie said, waving a hand in the direction of Scotland and feeling his liver give out completely. "Okay." Isaac nodded. "Well, that's it for me. I'm the last remnant of an epoch that's gone now, and I'm going too. Tell Dani I wish we'd had more time." Richie's body was closing down entirely. "Goodbye." Isaac said simply. "Thanks for everything." "Goodbye. Enjoy forever." and with that, he died. Like any other man, he died. Quietly, of old age. And all the knowledge he carried inside went with him, as has been the way with death forever. * * * Ten thousand years later, in a world we could hardly comprehend, a woman who was much older than she looked and much younger than she felt waited in a quiet place for the last duel. She felt afraid, and excited, and confident that she would not lose. She had been prepared for this moment for a long time. She had been trained. She had learned from a man, who had learned from a man, who had learned from a woman, who had learned from Richie Ryan. Who in turn had been taught by Duncan MacLeod, who had been taught by Conner, who had been taught by Ramirez, and so on down the unbroken chain to the long-forgotten beginnings, and so on into the future to the unguessable end. As though a circle has either one. =========================================================================