Date: Sun, 2 Oct 1994 05:44:35 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Jacquie Groom <100045.3717@COMPUSERVE.COM> Subject: There can be only ...pt 1 of 2 [This is my first attempt at either a Highlander or Quantum leap story ... any comments very welcome] There can be only ... Sam A Highlander / Quantum Leap Story by Jacquie Groom (from an idea by Elaine Nicol) He blinked as the familiar tingling began to subside, and the mists in his mind started to clear. "Here we go again," he thought to himself. First impressions were favourable. He seemed to be alone, in a modern- looking kitchen. A cup of coffee - black and steaming - was on the counter in front of him. And a paper bag full of croissants. So far, so good. He picked up a hot croissant, and bit into it as he turned to survey the rest of the room. And nearly choked. For there, on the table, lay a huge, deadly sword. And it's edge was still damp and glistening. With blood. "Oh boy," Sam Beckett whispered. The apartment was sparsely decorated; a strange mixture of styles, some unusual artwork. Nothing that would suggest that this was the abode of a killer. He wandered to the window. And saw the Eiffel Tower. Sam Beckett had given up on being surprised many, many leaps ago. But still - Paris ! As he stepped back, he caught sight of his face reflected in the glass. Late twenties, mousy hair. Nondescript. "Come on, Al," he muttered as he sat down. "Isn't it about time you showed up ?" A brochure lay on the coffee-table; he picked it up. It announced the opening of a new art exhibition at one of Paris' many museums. One of the photos had been circled in black biro. A smiling, dark-haired man, with his arm round a pretty blonde. Keeping his eyes firmly averted from the glistening sword, he went back to the kitchen. Just as he took a sip of the coffee, a familiar voice broke the silence. "Got you !" Al Calavicci said in a triumphant voice. "About time too !" "What took so long ?" Sam asked, stepping back as he took in the multi- coloured waistcoat his friend was wearing. "Ziggy's been having fits," Al said, banging the handset against his leg. "Been spouting out all sorts of nonsense about the character you've leapt into. Hopefully Gushie's talked some sense into her now." "Well ?" Sam took another sip of coffee. No point in wasting it. Al scratched his head. "Sorry, Sam - I still can't make head or tails of this. I don't know what's got into that computer." Sam sighed. "Tell me what she says, anyway. Who am I, for starters ?" "Well, that's part of the problem. Apparently you're Paul Verduystert, a Belgian national, currently living in Paris -" Al's eyes lit up. "Paris ? Really ?" "Really. Eiffel Tower and all. Go on, Al !" "It's January, 1993. And apparently, tomorrow you're going to kill someone - " "Tomorrow ? Are you sure ?" Sam interrupted, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the glistening sword. "Huh ? I'm not sure about anything, this leap. Ziggy, on the other hand -" He paused for a moment, turning round to see what Sam was staring at. His eyes opened wide. "Sam !" he exclaimed. "Did you do that ?" "No, of course I did not," Sam protested. "Looks as if this Paul makes a habit of killing. So what else did Ziggy say ?" "Okay - you're going to kill this man - and get arrested for the murder. You end up in jail. You're still there, actually." "So I suppose I'm here to prevent the murder ?" Al tipped his head to one side. "Not exactly. That's where Ziggy's going a bit ga-ga. She says there's an 85% chance you're going to get killed instead." "What ?" Sam swung round to face Al. Al nodded. "Now, remember this is Ziggy talking, not me. You're an insurance salesman. She says you were born in -" He thumped the handlink, then screwed up his eyes to focus. "1795." "Al, that's impossible. That would make me -" "Going on for two hundred years old. According to Ziggy, you're an Immortal." Sam felt slightly dizzy. He sat down, and rubbed his eyes. "An immortal. Al, that's ridiculous. No-one is immortal. " "I know that. You know that. But try telling that computer of yours !" "All right - I'll play along. So this Paul will live forever, will he ?" "Unless someone chops his head off, he will. Ziggy says that's the only way to kill an Immortal. And," he looked doubtfully at the screen, "It seems there are lots of these Immortals around. And they're all trying to sever each other's heads. When they do, they receive the Quickening, which is supposedly some sort of electrical charge. It transfers the essence of the defeated Immortal. In the end, there will be only one. And he, or she, will have all the knowledge of the others." Sam felt incredibly tired. This leap was turning out to be incredibly weird. "And the man I kill tomorrow -" "Is another Immortal. His name is -" Another bang on the handset - "Duncan MacLeod. Of the Clan MacLeod. He's about twice your age." "So he's four-hundred years old. Great." "At some point in the next couple of days, he and Paul will fight each other. One to one combat. With -" he nodded towards the massive sabre on the table - "that thing." "So," Sam said with a shrug. "I keep out the way of this MacLeod, and hey presto - I leap out of here." Al sighed. Somehow he didn't think it was going to be so simple. And although he did not say so, Sam did not think so either. After Al had left to have a good talk to Ziggy, Sam sat down and put the television on. He seemed to be able to understand the French quite easily; it must have been one of the skills he had forgotten about. He was just about to drop off to sleep when a bell rang. He searched around. Not the phone. Or the door. Then he noticed a white box on the kitchen wall. Must be an intercom of sorts. Cautiously he pressed the button. "Yes ?" "M'sieur ?" An elderly voice answered. "There is a taxi waiting for you." "A taxi ?" Sam felt a familiar sense of panic rising inside him. Here we go again ... "Could you find out who sent it ?" "Mais certainement, M'sieur Paul," the man said. A moment later he was back. "It is the Musee who sent the taxi, M'sieur. To take you to the soiree." The museum ! The brochure on the table ... should he go ? He really fancied the idea of just dozing in front of the television all night. "Please make my apologies ..." he started to say. But, as so often happened, Al appeared. Waving his hands wildly, he took the cigar out of his mouth. "No, Sam - Ziggy says you've got to go to this party. That's where you meet Duncan MacLeod." "But I don't want to meet him," Sam muttered. "You've got to, if you want to leap out of here. Go on, get the driver to wait for you," With a sigh, Sam pushed the intercom button. "Vous etes encore la, monsieur ? Please make my apologies to the driver. I'm running a bit late this evening. I'll be down in a few minutes." Sure enough, ten minutes later Sam made his way down the spiral staircase, clad in Paul Verduystert's evening suit, complete with pink frilly shirt and sparkling cummerbund. "I feel ridiculous," he muttered to Al as he headed for the taxi. "You look fine," Al reassured him. "Just the sort of thing I'd wear." "That's what worries me," Sam said. "That's just what worries me." "Enjoy yourself," Al called as Dr Beckett got into the taxi. "And, Sam - don't loose your head !" =========================================================================