March 17, 1996 ************************************************************************ Oh, No, Not Again! By Elizabeth Ann Lewis and Wendy Kelley March 16th ****************************** It was Horton. Lizbet simply stopped and stared for several moments. No. Impossible. HHorton was dead. He had been stabbed, shot, and... well, she forgot the last thing that had happened to him in Paris, but it had definitely equaled dead. No way Horton could be here, in UCLA's Research Library, in the Department of Special Collections where she worked. He was here for the Chronicle. The thought jarred Lizbet back into motion. She had discovered the Watcher Chronicle only a few hours ago, when it had been paged for a reader and brought out of the stacks. She hadn't realized at the time that the Chronicle had been for Horton. All she had known was that somehow, someway, a medieval Chronicle had ended up in Los Angeles. "Mythos Kaesoum Toulousi decolliverat," she had read with her painfully meager Latin. "Methos beheaded Kaseo in Toulouse." Clues in the manuscript placed it as being probably seven or eight hundred years old. Torn between two conflicting needs, Lizbet hovered over the manuscript, watching Horton sign in at the reading desk. As a medieval historian, she was passionately against private people locking away precious items so that they could not be studied, known and understood. But this was different, this was a Watcher Chronicle. One of the Methos Chronicles. Whatever Horton wanted with it, it could only be evil. Moving quickly, Lizbet snatched the leather-bound journal from the truck and slipped back to her work area. She could always put it back later, she reasoned, as she brought up the e-mail program on her work computer, scowling at it as is gave her a hassle trying to get into the network. *Blasted foolish thing, I want my Mac!* she thought impatiently. ------------ To: Wendy Date: March 16, 1996 14:37 PST From: Lizbet Subj: You won't believe this but... Wendy-- Help! ------------- ***** Wendy read the email message three times before it's content sunk in. A Methos chronicle not in the Watcher's hands? Horton alive? It couldn't be. Not now. Finals were right around the corner. Wait -- this had to be a War. War's only happened during midterms and finals. But, a Highlander War? That was a first. She never thought a Highlander war would break out. Now, not only had one started, she was somehow at the front of it. She slammed her head against her desk, cursing softly in Japanese. ------------- To: Lizbet Date: March 16, 1996 17:42 EST From: W. Loraine Kelley Subj: RE: You won't believe this but... Lizbet- Sit tight. I'm on the next plane out. Meet me at the airport. This is War. DO NOT LET HORTON HAVE THE CHRONICLE!!!! ------------- Wendy swivled her desk chair around, surveying the room. What did she need to do? First things first. She grabbed one of her red duffle bags, stuffing in it clothing and anything else portable and remotely useful. She threw on her black trenchcoat, shouldered the duffle bag, purse, and backpack, then turned to the final items. Over these she hesitated, which one to bring? They were both awkward, heavy, and hard to explain. But she knew they'd be necessary. Jeezu, look how useful they had been during the last Forever Knight War. That clinched it. She'd bring both. She grabbed the items, shoving the larger into the right side of her duster and the smaller into the left side. Not for the first time was she grateful that she'd installed Katana space in this jacket during the "In Search of LaCroix" episode on FKFIC-L all those months ago. Now for the most important part. She returned to her computer, calling up the com program again. ____________ To: Carol Ann, grinnyp@aros.net, Marina, tmar@fast.co.za, Celli, slane@SUNBIRD.USD.EDU, Sean, stsas02@moravian.edu, Rachel, janier@ix.netcom.com, Virginia, vfoster@mindspring.com, Joanne, jcurme@pyramid.com Date: March 16, 1996 18:23 EST From: W. Loraine Kelley Subject: Emergency--Please Read~ HORTON IS ALIVE!!!!!!!!!! ************************************************************************ Again?!?!?!? by Sean A Simpson Sean wandered into Moravian's computer lab for the first time that day. It was going to be a long day. Research to do, papers to write, books to read... Sean logged into the school's network and immediately booted up Eudora. After what seemed like an eternity (can't the damn school get computers made in the last six months? Damn Bill Gates...), the familiar pile of minimized mailboxes formed into a neat little row at the bottom of the screen. Sean pressed CTRL+M, entered his password, cursed as he remembered he'd changed it, and entered the right password. After scanning through the mess of HIGHLA-L mail, Sean came across a high-priority message: _______________________________ From: W. Loraine Kelley To: Carol Ann, grinnyp@aros.net, Marina, tmar@fast.co.za, Celli, slane@SUNBIRD.USD.EDU, Sean, stsas02@moravian.edu, Rachel, janier@ix.netcom.com, Virginia, vfoster@mindspring.com, Joanne, jcurme@pyramid.com Subject: Emergency--Please read~ Date: March 16, 1996 HORTON IS ALIVE!!!!!!!!!! _______________________________ Oh, hell. Just what Sean needed. Not only would he have to break his neck to keep his grades up, he'd have to send his virtual self to Seacouver. Being split in two could be so problematic. Sean ran both hands through his hair as he cursed roundly in French, and then brought up a New Message box. _______________________________ To: Duncan MacLeod Subject: Here we go again :-( Priority: Highest From: Sean A. Simpson Date: 3/17/96 2:14 PM HORTON IS ALIVE!!!!!!!!! repeat: HORTON IS ALIVE!!!!!!!!! Be on the lookout for Hunters! Also, alert the FWs! This is WAR!! _______________________________ Sean clicked the [Send] button, hoping that it would reach Duncan in time. Now it was off to plan for an emergency trip to Seacouver. ************************************************************************ A Funny thing happened on the way to Athens... by: Carol Ann Liddiard The Methos faction joins the fun . . . SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH Carol Ann did a double take at the e-mail message that had just popped up on her screen. ----------------- From: W. Loraine Kelley To: Carol Ann, grinnyp@aros.net, Marina, tmar@fast.co.za, Celli, slane@SUNBIRD.USD.EDU, Sean, stsas02@moravian.edu, Rachel, janier@ix.netcom.com, Virginia, vfoster@mindspring.com, Joanne, jcurme@pyramid.com Subject: Emergency--Please read~ Date: March 16, 1996 HORTON IS ALIVE!!!!!!!!!! -------------------- "Shit!" The ringing noise startled her as she stared at the message in disbelief. It was Elizabeth, and the story she told was even worse than the e-mail. Hanging up, she looked around at the stacks of clothes that needed laundering, the stacks of bills that needed paying, and the stacks of stories that needed editing. She picked up the phone and dialed Jen. "Jen, I need you to go to Athens and fetch Methos. Yeah, he's in danger. Horton's back, and both Elizabeth and the Methos chronicle are on the run. Yeah, I'll arrange for the tickets, just get packing. I know, I know, the plan was for Denise to go with you and help you if this ever came up, but she's busy with school right now. You're on your own. Oh yeah, pick up your ticket at the airport." After she hung up Carol Ann thought about the advisability of sending *one* lone person to pick up Methos, while at the same time remembering some of Jen's "hobby" equipment. Sighing, she dialed her sister's number at work. "Delta Airlines, can I help you?" "Jeri? I need some tickets, one for Jen to Athens, one for Jen, Methos, and Alexa from Athens to London, one for me to London, one for Heidi to London . . . yes, I *do* know Heidi lives in Hawaii . . . where was I? Oh yes, and then five tickets from London to Seacouver, direct." She jerked the phone away from her ear to avoid deafness at the sudden outburst of yelling. "Jeri, Jeri, calm down. You'll give us the tickets, or the current love of your life will get the pictures I took at the New Year's party three years ago." A sudden thought occured to her. "Jeri, I also need a ticket for Cindy, Boston to Paris with a return to Seacouver. Uh huh, that's right, we want to fly first class. And make them non-transferable. Thanks hon, bye!" Sighing, she looked around at the stacks of undone stuff, and then started to pack. ***************** SOMEWHERE IN GREECE "What?!" "I'm sorry Adam," Alexa began when he interrupted her. "What do you mean you're cured?" he asked in astonishment. Alexa smiled serenely. "After you took off in such a hurry I was a little depressed, so I headed for the local taverna for a drink. That's where I met Stavros." Methos waved her to silence. "I got that part, where you met him. Skip to the next bit." "Well, it turns out that Stavros has his own island, his father is some sort of shipping Tycoon. Adam, you should *see* this place!" She exclaimed enthusiastically. "There's a mansion on the highest part of the island. Well, I say mansion, but it's more like some fantastic palace, with over 100 rooms, and a helicopter landing pad on the roof, and five swimming pools, and . . . " Methos placed his hand over her mouth to cut off her recitation. "You've alread told me about the fantastic Stavros and his fantastic island ten times. Can you please skip it and get to the important part?" he asked impatiently. When she nodded he removed his hand. "Well, on the island there's this grotto with an ancient temple in it. And behind the temple there's this kind of well thing that opens up into a cave below. And in the cave is the holy spring." "The holy spring," he repeated, dazed. Alexa nodded. "Yes, I went into the spring, and the strangest thing happened. It was like there were suddenly two of me, a good, disease-free me and an evil, disease-ridden me. I realized that if I wanted to live I had to fight the diseased me so I did, and I won! When I came out I felt so much better, better than I have in years. Stavros insisted I see a doctor and the diagnosis was confirmed. All traces of AMD* are gone and I am in perfect health!" "That's wonderful, Alexa, a miracle. But I don't understand the next part at all," he said, bewildered. he thought incredulously. Alexa smiled again and patted his hand. "Try to understand, Adam. When I thought I was dying I was happy to chuck it all and spend my last year traveling the world with you. But I'm not dying anymore. I have my whole life ahead of me, and I can't keep playing Gypsy. I really love you Adam," she continued gently, "but let's face it. You have no aim in life, no direction. Frankly, I think you'll be a grad student forever. Well, I need something more than that. Stavros is settled, stable, and has a direction in life." "And a private island," he muttered under his breath. Alexa ignored him and blithely continued. "I knew you'd understand Adam. This is for the best." She kissed him on the cheek, then skipped over to mthe helicopter that had brought her to this meeting place. Methos watched numbly as she enthusiastically embraced the man who was waiting within. His last vision of Alexa as the helicopter lifted off was her cheerfully smiling and waving goodbye. He stood there quietly for several minutes, his eyes on the horizon where the helicopter had vanished. Finally he shook himself, turned, and set out for the nearest village. "I need a beer." (Note: *AMD - Ali MacGraw Disease) ------ Ari, the bartender at the little taverna, eyed his last customer nervously. He should have closed up and gone home hours ago, but there was something about the morose englishman (and his strange, furry companion who frolicked at his feet) that said, "Mess with me at your peril." It wasn't his actions, he had picked no fights, started no arguments. In fact other than drinking well over 50 beers, and muttering occasionally in greek, he had been pretty quiet the entire evening. Ari looked up and shared a look with old Gus, the janitor, who was also waiting for the stranger to leave. They didn't know what it was about this lone customer that was making them nervous. It wasn't the growling, tailless thing at his feet, when it went for his ankles Ari just nudged it away with his foot and it soon ran back to it's master. He decided it was the man's fluency with greek that was making him nervous. Ari noticed that he spoke the language competently, but that changed with each beer drunk. It wasn't that his command got worse, it was the drunker the stranger got, the more archaic his vocabulary and phrasing became. Now, after so many hours and so many drinks, Ari could barely understand the man. Ari thought, and was reassured. A loud thunk brought Ari's attention back to his customer. The man had slammed his last empty beer bottle down on the bar. He suddenly said something very clear and distinct in greek so ancient Ari didn't understand it at all, then bonelessly slid off his stool and collapsed onto the floor. Ari thought, and hustled to drag the unconscious man out of the taverna. With the man's furry companion hovering worredly, Ari tossed the drunk out the back door into the alley beyond, to the protesting howls of the displaced alley cats. He and Gus made short work of the cleanup, and within a few minutes were locking the front door of the building behind them as they prepared to finally go home. "Did you understand what he said?" Gus asked the youngster as he listened to the faint scrabbling sounds emerging from the alley. "No," Ari said disinterestedly. "Did you?" "It sounded like he said, 'Fighting your evil self in a holy spring? What kind of horseshit is that?'" The two men exchanged a look as faint snores joined the sounds emanating from the alley. They both shrugged in bewilderment and went their separate ways. ************************************************************************ Phone Call to a Friend by Elizabeth Ann Lewis UCLA Campus Lizbet breathed a sigh of relief that she had managed to sneak out of Special Collections with the Chronicle. She really had to give up stealing books from where she worked; finding the Abarat had had vampires chasing after in the worst way (private FK War, nevermind). Once she got up to her dorm room (how could it be everytime she crossed UCLA she was going uphill in every direction?!?!?) she booted up her beloved Mac and extracted Carol Ann's phone number from her mail. "Hi, Carol Ann, this is Lizbet." "Lizbet, have you heard? Horton is alive!!!" Lizbet sat down. "Yeah, I know. I'm the one who saw him. How did *you* know?" "Wendy told me. Told a lot of the flagwavers too." "Good. We'll need their help. But there's something else. I found a Methos Chronicle. Horton had paged it to look at it." Lizbet heard Carol Ann's indrawn breath through the phone lines. "Do you think that Horton knows Methos is Adam Pierson, Mild-Mannered Watcher?" Biting her lip, Lizbet said, "I don't know, but I'm not willing to chance it. Listen, I'm sending the Chronicle to a friend for safe-keeping. But Methos needs to know that he might be in danger. Can you let everyone know what's going on?" "Sure. Last I heard he was in Athens with Alexa. What about you?" "I'll give you a call tonight. I have to meet Wendy at LAX pretty soon. Good thing it's a short drive." "OK, take care. Darn, this is really going to put publishing "The Methos Chronicles" waaaaaay behind!" Lizbet laughed and hung up. She carefully wrapped the old Chronicle in several layers of paper, and addressed it to her friend Seilidhe. Seilidhe was a Joe Flagwaver, and would be willing to help out the Watchers, so Lizbet figured she would take care of the Chronicle. Then Elizabeth grabbed her keys, heading first to the post office to ship the Chronicle overnight mail to Seilidhe, then to the airport. ************************************************************************ AKA Driver by: Enmare Jimmy Murphy, CFW for Dr. Anne Lindsey, sighed as he lifted his luggage, and started towards the car rental counters. The lines were already ridiculously long this early in the morning. As he walked past a few uncomfortable, plastic, airport benches (patent pending), a young woman who was reading some paperback shoved it into a coat pocket and stood up. "Excuse me. Are you Jimmy Murphy?" "Yes." She smiled brightly. "Ah, good. I'm instructed to offer you a ride. Here, hand me that bag over there..." "A ride?" "Yeah, unless you want to wait at the rental counter, then again for the shuttles..." She shuddered a little. "This way, please." Out in the parking lot, they walked quickly to a sparkling white Rolls Royce Corniche. At first, Jimmy thought it must have been some sort of mistake, until the young woman unlocked the trunk and started loading his luggage into it. "How'd you afford this?" he asked. "Um... first, it's only a rental," she smiled again, then it faded as she continued. "Second, I got a bit of money as a gift." "Was it your birthday?" She made a pained face. "I'd really, rather not talk about it." The trunk was slammed shut, and she walked over to the driver's side and unlocked the doors. Jimmy paused with his door open. "I don't mean to be rude, but...." Her eyes widened. "Oh, sorry, I've been the rude one here. You can call me Enmare." Enmare inclined her head a little, then straightened up with a laugh. "I've been spending too much time with the Society for Creative Anachronism." She offered her hand, and they shook over the hood of the Rolls. They got into the car, and Enmare started the engine. "You should buckle up." she warned, and before Jimmy could ask why, they were barreling down towards Seacover proper at aproximately Mach 1. "I love a car that can accelerate decently." she chuckled. Inevitably, they hit a stop light, and Jimmy had a chance to finish exhaling. "How did you know I was here." Enmare shrugged. "I was briefed. Oh, that's right, here." She reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a card. "Here's my cell number. If you ever need me for *anything*, and I mean it, just call me. Or, if you can't reach me, call Lori. She knows where I am." Jimmy had just the time to get a grip on the card before the light turned green and the G-forces pushed him back into the seat again. Jimmy's heart shuddered once, twice, and then the car had stopped again, and he could breathe. "I figured you'd want to be dropped of to see Anne first." Enmare commented, and Jimmy unlocked his door and stumbled out with great relief to the relative stability of the ground. He turned around to thank Enmare for the ride regardless, and turned around to see the car empty, keys in the ignition, and the engine purring softly. There was no sign of her anywhere. He spotted a note on the passenger's side seat. "Jimmy, best of luck in your endeavor, and you can count on help whenver you ask for it. The car is in your name, and is paid for until the end of April, with unlimited millage. A present for Mary is in the back seat; it's a quilt my mother and I made, and it's white on white so that it can be bleached. Enjoy Seacouver." There were several spelling mistakes. ************************************************************************ For Favors Past by: Taylor Nelson Sunday, March 17 Sunnyvale, California 'Special Agent Andrew MacNeill turned the corner, pistol drawn. Unbeknownst to him, one of Davis' henchman had snuck up behind him. There was a squish as MacNeill stepped into a puddle of decomposed person. "Apparently I'm not the only one after this," he said to himself. As Andrew bent down to inspect the corpse, Davis' henchman came up closer behind him, raising his sword. He was ready to bring it down upon MacNeill's head, but.....' ....the phone rang, shaking me out of the self-induced trance I normally get into while writing. I picked up the receiver from the base next to my "X Files" calendar and tucked it between my shoulder and ear as I continued to type. "Yello," I said. "Yeah," the older, thick New York accent came, "this Taylor Nelson?" "Mmhmmm." "My name's Benny Carbassa." "And...." I prompted. "You don't recognise my name?" "No, can't say that I do." Though I had to admit he sounded like a pasta dish. He sighed, "Fifty-two years ago I did your grandfather a favor. He said that whenever I needed one in return, all I had to do was ask. So here I am." "Bad news, Benny, my grandpa died about four years ago." "Ah, that's too bad. He was a real good man, too." "Sorry I couldn't help you." "Oh, but you still can." "Huh? I don't follow." It was about now that I felt something was up. "The family way, Mister Nelson. You come out to Seacouver and do me a favor. It's simple, shouldn't take too long." "Now wait a sec, I'm an author. I can't just drop everything and jaunt out to Seacouver." "I know, I read your first novel. Very entertaining." "Thank you." Hey, I'm not one to turn down a compliment. "I do, however, think I have an offer you can't refuse. I have a fully equipped Power Book and modem waiting for you. While you're in town, you can keep working, stay connected with your computer at home, and basically not miss a thing." I sighed. This guy really did his homework. "Well, I guess you've got me. When do I need to be in town?" "As soon as possible. I can arrange a flight out of San Jose International this evening." "Yeah, that'll give me time to get everything in order. Anything else?" "Oh, do you still have that green 1963 half restored, half custom VW Bug?" Man, this guy *did* do his homework! "Yeah, just got some new BRM rims for her. Why do you ask?" "Do you have a safe place to keep it while you're gone?" "Yeah, why?" "Oh, some friends of mine in Toronto went through a similar thing and lost a *lot* of cars. Make sure yours is safe before you leave." "What exactly is going on here anyway?" "All the details when you get up here. Alaskan Airlines, tonight, 6.15pm." So that was it. In the span of ten minutes I went from being your average science fiction author - as average as we get - to your average science ficition author doing a favor for a guy who sounds like a gangster that supposedly knew my grandfather half a century ago! Could be worse, I guess. ************************************************************************ Boxers or Briefs? by Jennifer Hawthorne **************** Jen thought. Taking a deep breath to steady her jangling nerves, she knocked on the tavern door. Minutes passed without a response. Cursing under her breath, she pulled a Greek-English phrase book out of her overstuffed backpack and flipped it open. As she squinted at the page in the dim light of the nearby street lamp, searching for a way to yell "Hey! Open up in there!" in Greek, a second-story window cracked open and a man's dark head emerged. He shouted something she couldn't understand, though the tone was clearly grumpy. "Umm, Hi! Err, I don't suppose you speak English, do you?" At his puzzled stare, Jen rolled her eyes, then began to dig around in her backpack once more. A second later she yanked out her prize, scattering a selection of hair combs and well-chewed pens on the cobbled sidewalk. She waved the large photo at the head in the window. "Have you seen this man?" That earned her another puzzled stare and a quick spate of incomprehensible Greek, before the head suddenly vanished from view. Seconds later, the tavern door opened. In response to the owner's beckon, she stepped inside. The tavern was deserted at this hour, though she could still smell beer and smoke from the night's customers in the air. The Greek motioned for her to follow, and led her through the kitchen and out the back door. He pointed at the picture in her hand, then jerked a thumb at a shape slumped in the alley and made a disgusted noise. As she moved cautiously toward it, the tavern owner shook his head and said something in Greek that probably translated to "He's all yours, lady." In the dim light, Jen knelt down and tugged on the sprawled figure. Yeasty beer-smell came off the man in pungent waves. With some effort, she got him turned over, revealing the face that matched the photo -- once one took into account the effects of a truly monumental bender. she thought with some dismay. She shook him slightly. "Adam?" There was no response. She tried again, harder. "Adam? C'mon, wake up. We've got to get out of here." The oldest man in the world started to snore. Jen groaned, and envisioned defenestrating Denise for leaving her alone to deal with a completely plastered Immortal. Defeated, she turned back to the tavern owner. With help from the phrase book, plus a handful of drachma, she managed to convince the man to call her a taxi, and then to help her drag Adam -- still snoring -- into the back seat. She thought she saw a small furry creature with no tail watching these events carefully, but the bright eyes vanished behind a trash can when she tried to get a better look. The taxi driver appeared to find the whole scene very amusing, much to Jen's irritation. She handed him a slip of paper with her hotel's address written on it in the native language, and for once was glad that her lack of Greek made conversation impossible. Fortunately (or unfortunately), the doorman at the Athens Hilton spoke excellent English, and she was able to explain how she'd met a college friend of hers in the city, and he'd had a bit too much ouzo and passed out, and she'd decided to bring him back to her hotel room to make sure he woke up all right. The doorman nodded knowingly and helped her cart the unconscious Immortal upstairs. she thought glumly. She flopped into the chair by the window and stared at the man in the bed. He'd stopped snoring, thankfully, though she could still smell alcohol and other unmentionable scents clinging to him from his nap in the alley. She glanced at her watch, and noticed that time was getting dangerously short. How long would it take Adam to sleep it off? Immortals didn't process drugs any faster than normal humans, so it could easily be hours. Hours they simply didn't have. Desperate situations call for drastic measures. Jen shored up her resolve, and managed to drag Adam off the bed and into the bathroom, though she was panting hard by the time she had him laid out on the linoleum. "You sure weigh a lot for a guy as skinny as you are," she complained aloud, then set about divesting him of his shoes, trench coat, and outer clothes. "I'd be enjoying this a lot more if you were awake and cooperating, you know," she continued, figuring he couldn't possibly hear her anyway. Beneath the sweater and slacks, he was wearing a Fruit-of-the-Loom cotton undershirt -- and a pair of boxers with little red hearts on them. Jen stared for a second, searching for a suitable comment on that, then gave up -- but not without a silent wish for a camera. Getting Adam into the tub took still more tugging, grunting, and cursing, but eventually all gangly six feet of him was safely ensconced in porcelain. Jen took a deep breath, then reached out, turned the shower on full cold, scooped up Adam's clothes, and sprinted from the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then a startled yelp rose above the sound of running water, followed by a truly remarkable stream of curse words. At least, Jen thought they were curse words -- only every tenth one or so was in English. After a minute, the water sound cut off, and the bathroom door cracked open. A sodden head of dark hair over bleary eyes poked cautiously out. Water dripped forlornly off the tip of his majestic nose. "'Lexa?" The bloodshot eyes focused -- more or less -- on Jen, back in her seat by the window. "You're not Alexa," he muttered, followed by, "Where are my *clothes*?!" "Uh, they're right there on the bed. I'm not sure you want to put them back on just yet, though, they're pretty grungy." She smiled timidly. "I figured I could head out and get them cleaned while you, er, recover." "You mean while I sober up? Well, I don't feel like being sober right now, so if you'll just direct me to the nearest tavern, I'll . . . who did you say you were, again?" "I didn't. My name's Jen. What size underwear do you wear?" He blinked. Water dripped off his eyelashes. "I beg your pardon?" "Unless you want to sit in a plane in wet underwear for hours, tell me what size you wear. I'll go out and get you some new ones and have the hotel clean your clothes while you, ah, freshen up." He blinked again, and told her. She grabbed her backpack and made for the door. "There's aspirin on the counter in there, and hot coffee out here," she said. "I'll be back in an hour or so." "Just be sure you knock," he grumbled, withdrawing all the way into the bathroom in search of the promised aspirin. By the time Jen had located a place to buy men's underwear in Athens, made her purchase, and gotten back to the hotel, housekeeping had finished cleaning Adam's clothes. She returned to the room and knocked as instructed, wondering briefly what she'd tell Carol if Adam had gotten it into his head to run off across Athens in his soaked underwear. A scratching noise had her turning around in time to glimpse a hairy, tailless figure disappearing down the hall. she thought, then turned her attention to the matter at hand. A flurry of motion from the other side of the door reassured her. She turned the key and opened the door an inch or so. "Is it safe to come in?" The sound of the bathroom door shutting was the only reply. The pot of coffee was over half empty. So was the bottle of aspirin, she noted with a frown. Adam must have taken a good half-dozen tablets. She knocked on the bathroom door. "Adam? I've got your clothes. They're right outside." She set down the stack and backed away. A hand snaked out from behind the door, snagged the pile of clothes, and dragged them within. About ten minutes later he emerged, looking considerably improved, though still a bit fuzzy around the edges. He stared at Jen -- an ordinary-looking blonde woman in her late twenties -- and she stared back, not quite sure what to say. "Uhm, feeling better?" "Some, yes. Thank you. To what do I owe this hospitality?" "Uh, well, it's kind of a long story, and we don't have a lot of time. We have to catch a plane to London. I've got a ticket for you, and one for Alexa -- where is she, by the way?" He grimaced. "Alexa and I aren't together any more, as it happens." His gaze turned sharp. "And how do you know about Alexa, Miss . . . what did you say your name was?" "Jen. Just Jen. We know a lot about you, actually. Like I said, it's a long story. The important part is," She took a deep breath. No time for subtlety. "We found out that Horton's back, and he's got one of your Chronicles, so he's probably going to be gunning for you. We thought you'd be safest back in Seacouver with MacLeod, so we've made arrangements to escort you there. And the plane for London leaves in just under an hour, so we've got to get moving. Okay? C'mon, let's go." Before he could say a word, she caught him by the arm and tried to shepherd him out the hall. Adam dug in his heels and refused to be dragged. "Wait *just* a moment. Horton is dead -- and how do you know about him?" He did a classic double-take. "For that matter, how do you know about my Chronicles?!" Jen cast a despairing glance at her watch. "Look, Adam . . . *Methos* . . . just come and get on the plane. Carol Ann will meet us in London and she'll explain everything. I promise!" He frowned, still not moving. "Have you got any better place to go right now?" At that, the Immortal sighed. "I suppose not, and Athens has lost a great deal of its charm for me recently. Stavros, hmph." He smiled suddenly, but there was steel behind his eyes. "Besides, I must say I can't wait to hear your Carol Ann's explanation of all this." thought Jen. ************************************************************************ Travel Broadens the Mind, Or Never a Dull Moment in the Life of Duncan MacLeod (or anyone around him for that matter) by: Elspeth Emery ~10:20 local time Seacouver International Airport bustled with people arriving and departing, while others served to add to the air of barely controlled chaos by standing, sitting, or even sprawling on the floor, and waiting One of the sitters was a recent arrival from Pennsylvania. The woman with the waist length chocolate black hair propped her booted feet on her suitcase and tried to look nonchalant. Or at least as non-chalant as someone in a full-length black drover's coat with a backpack, suitcase, notebook case, disk case, and a rifle case piled around her can look while reading a copy of Oakeshott's "The Archaeology of Weapons." Passerby's kept eyeing her, prompting her to wonder: 'Damnit, why not take pictures? They last longer. What's so interesting about a woman with a rifle case and a notebook computer, anyway? Or haven't they ever seen anybody read before? Oh, well. At least all my luggage arrived with me. And they didn't insist on x-raying the disks this time, even if I did have to open all six boxes to demonstrate I didn't have a secret weapon in any of them. Such as? Shuriken disguised as floppy disks, maybe? Probably shouldn't even think that too loud. Airport security people have no sense of humor.' "Elys!" Rich, dark baritone with an ellusive, liquid burr - even when shouting. Elys looked up with a smile, her irritation vanishing as if by the application of a kind of magic. She knew that voice. She liked that voice. Even shouting. Duncan MacLeod was very many things, but quiet was not necessarily one of them. (If he could have just carried a tune, the opera world would never have been the same. Of course, *he* always said he'd done his bit for - or to - the opera world already, and refused to try the singing part.) Still, as far as Elys was concerned, he could read her the telephone book and she wouldn't complain. Elspeth Emery closed Oakeshott and got up, scanning the area. A familiar wavy, sable, pony tail confined by a silver ornamented tie was visible for an instant to her left before a pack of pedestrians wandered between. "Rats," said she, under her breath, waving Oakeshott futilely, before giving up on attracting MacLeod's attention in that manner. Oakeshott had a very nondescript binding. The woman made a face, and muttered, 'Oh, what the hell' under her breath. "Duncan!" she yelled, demonstrating that the Southern side of the family had indeed passed along the full complement of Hollerin' genes. This produced rather more of a response than she had expected, since not only a smiling Mr. MacLeod approached, carrying a brown duster she'd never seen before, but also, a grinning Ms Storm, trailing the split tails of a London Fog storm coat after her like the wings of a cloak. "Elspeth!" Never let it be said that Duncan MacLeod is not good for a hug. Or for a kiss for that matter, either. Or for a lot of other things that one should not even suggest attempting in an airport concourse, Elys thought as she calmly divested him of his silver-bobbed hair tie without interrupting any of the rest of the proceedings. The wavy fall of his hair came down around his face as he ran one long hand through the waist length mane of hers, and the two of them grinned at each other in acknowlegement of an old, mutual joke as the kiss parted. Elys had always thought she had a good memory, but somehow, it never quite succeeded in preserving the physical reality of this man for her. Meeting him again was always a thrill. The broad shoulders, the long legs and narrow hips, the subtle scent of his skin, the beautiful hands, the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled and those long, dark lashes, those lips that seemed to have been created expressly for kissing, the fall of wavy sable-dark hair, the sense of intensity and sheer presence, and the way that he seemed so solid, so capable, and not just physically. As if you could tell him the toaster was on the fritz or the Mafia's was attempting to take over Chase Manhattan Bank, and have him fix both problems with equal ease and expertise. I must remember to ask if he's started giving 'how to attract women' courses at the dojo yet, she thought. That might get a rise. Or better yet a demonstration. "You never look any older," Duncan said, finally letting her go. "Liar," she said genially, smiling as he watched her put his hairtie into the pocket of her jeans with a smile of his own. He laughed, and turned to Falcon, saying, "Let me intro -" "Falcon!" "Elys!" Whereupon Duncan MacLeod was treated to the sight of two dark-haired women doing the hug, bounce, and chatter routine. It's a woman thing. Guys punch each other in the arms and say "Hey!" a lot. Women hug, bounce, and chatter. It's apparently genetic. When they finished their little social ritual, they found Duncan shaking his head and chuckling. "You could have said something, Falcon." "Are you kidding? And stop all the good stories you were telling me?" "'Stories'?" Elys squawked. "What stories?" "Like the time you walked down Court Street at noon on a Saturday carrying a katana over your shoulder, and nobody noticed," Falcon said brightly, enjoying the sight of Elspeth turning an interesting shade of coral. "Grrr," said Elys, glaring at the both of them and getting two perfectly matched innocent looks so sincere they ought to have come packed with haloes. "It better have stopped there." "Oh, no. Not at all. Duncan says -" "That it's time to go to the car," the Immortal interrupted firmly. "Here. Do you think we need a cart? At least you didn't bring the kitchen sink this time, Elspeth." "The folding canvas one from the catalog didn't come in time. And don't think I don't want to know what other tales you've been telling this poor woman about me just because I'm letting you do your take charge routine, either," she reminded him with a suspiciously sweet smile. "I'm old enough to know better," Duncan replied with a sigh. "Oh, I'll protect you from her," Falcon told him, assuming a stance before the tall Immortal. "Did I mention this woman knows how to make nuclear bombs -" Duncan began conversationally, mischief in the very tone. "Oh, Gods! Where're the damned carts!" complained Elys. "Boy, it's warmer here than back in Penn's Woods," Elys said as they toted bags from the concourse entrance through the parking structure. She had the breakable stuff, as in computer, disks, and sword (what? you thought there was a rifle in that rifle case? ), only because she had insisted, (and glared very convincingly in order to make it stick) it being part of her own interpretation of good manners (carrying the breakable stuff, not the glaring). Duncan also had some very decided notions of good manners. The which being why Falcon carried his coat, and he had Ms Emery's pack and bag. At least he hadn't asked questions about rocks. Yet. "The ocean makes for a mild climate." "But the latitude doesn't. Good thing the ocean won." "Lowlander," Falcon said with a dramatic sniff. "Snow is a four letter word," Elys agreed happily. The trio of them proceeded down through the shadowed aisles of parked cars, Duncan in the lead, then Falcon and Elys straggling along together to bring up the rear - or to take in the scenery. Whatever. A rear view of Duncan in well-fitting jeans was not something either one of them had ever objected to. "Where'd you park, Duncan? Juneau?" "It's not - " "Not what?" Elys prompted as he broke off in mid-sentence. "Duncan?" And suddenly her khaki pack and black bag were hitting the rough concrete of the decking with stereo thuds and Duncan MacLeod was off in full flight after some rat-faced guy in a gray jacket who'd been walking (all right, scuttling) along in front of them. The one glance she saw Rodent-Face cast over his shoulder at the fury incarnate sweeping down on him was as much calculating as frightened - and it was pretty frightened. Oh perfect, Elys thought, grimacing. "Duncan!" No response. The Hollerin' genes weren't going to help a bit this time, it seemed. She turned as Duncan's quarry dodged between a pair of cars (a Dodge and a Mitsubishi) down near where the aisle between the parked cars became the ramp down to the next level, with the Immortal in hot pursuit, and found herself just in time to see Falcon hurtle past, after Duncan and the Rat, determination set on her face. "What the hell is going on here!" Elys yelled as Falcon too vanished between the parked cars opposite, leaving her standing alone in the gloom of the unpeopled parking aisle to survey the prospect of her luggage and Duncan's coat strewn around like the aftermath of some cinematic kidnaping. All it needed was the ominous mood music. Elspeth hated surprises. "Oh, *perfect,*" she muttered, out loud this time. But the woman hadn't worked for a company that leased space in downtown Reading, PA , where the legitmate business district coincided with the red-light district (the illegitimate business district?) even during standard business hours without learning a few things, and the goodies in the rifle case hadn't been made as paper knives and pen lights, either. Nobody in sight high. Or low, either, when she crouched to check. No security cameras in sight. Not that that might have meant anything. Of course, if there were cameras in use, then somebody should have been on their way to see what the chasing and yelling was about, and nothing stirred. Right then, Elys thought and started opening bags and cases. The rifle case came open to reveal a Bizen-tori katana in a tachi-style mounting of richly carved dark red wood. The Kanemoto katana went in the pocket inside her coat's lining, and the stun baton that had kept it company in the case went in the long outside pocket on the right side for balance. The bootknife went where bootknives go. Still, nothing stirred anywhere around her as she collected her luggage and Duncan's outerwear, but something in one of the pockets scrunched metallically as she lifted his abandoned coat. No... she thought, fishing through pockets, and coming up with - Keys. Car keys? She turned them in her hands, tilting them to the light. Indeed they were, with "Ford" stamped on the head, and everything. 'Well, by now somebody in that merry little chase ought to be needing a getaway car, you'd think. Or at least something sharp and pointy they'd left under the seat,' she thought. The T-Bird waited patiently almost opposite where the cavalcade had cut between the cars in the opposite row. Wonder of wonders, her 'rifle' case even fit in the trunk, after she'd rescued Duncan's Dragon-Head Muramasa from its incarceration there, and put it on the backseat floor, loose in its saya. There was something nice to be said for a car with a real trunk. Still, the first thing she thought when she got in the driver's seat was "I miss my 3000." The second thing was "Cripes! How d'ya drive with a sword under your coat?" With that little technical difficulty alleviated, the top down, headlights on, and the seat satisfactorily rearranged, off she went in search of two friends and one ratnik. Ratnik was having a bad day. Definitely a bad day. A very bad day.. Any day that Duncan MacLeod decides to hurl a deserving somebody against a concrete pillar is a bad day - for the one who's hurled, at least. Dazed, Ratnik spared time for a wild-eyed glance toward the approaching T-Bird as he tried to scramble to his feet from where the impact's rebound had left him - or maybe he was just taking in Falcon, poised where she could block any escape attempt, and looking as if she'd be quite willing to throw him against something suitably solid herself. Hesitation was a definite mistake for Ratnik, however. Long hands yanked him up without a hint of kindness and he found himself pinned against the trunk of a light blue Buick, one wrist twisted savagely behind his back by a furious Immortal. He yelped, pitiously, and Duncan locked his free hand in his hair. "Don't bother. No one here's going to hurt you. Not a nice talkative fellow like you," he said in a pleasant tone that had anything but a pleasant effect on Ratnik. He began to struggle hysterically, and Duncan responded by applying his forehead to the Buick none too gently. "Who is he?" Falcon asked, eyeing the squirming, whimpering, sobbing creature. "And what is going on!" added Elspeth as she exited the T-Bird. "He's a Hunter! I saw him with Horton in Paris. Get back in that car!" Duncan snapped. "You too, Falcon!" He extricated a pistol from the waistband at the back of Ratnik's chino's and put it in the waist of his own jeans - and Elys got back in that car. Duncan actually spared an instant to blink at the spectacle - Elys Emery, doing what he told her without so much as a question. He'd have to mark his calendar. The last time he'd yelled that at her, she hadn't been anything near so obedient, but _then_ he'd been wobbling to his feet after a Quickening and he'd had to stop and take a breath between 'Back' and 'In' just to complete the sentence. He was, however, whether he knew it or not, a _lot_ more impressive when he had a head of steam up. A hell of a lot more impressive. When the Wrath of God Incarnate told Elys to to do something, she generally decided to do it. Just to get out of his line of sight, if nothing else. Falcon, however, had a full head of steam up too. "I don't think so. Who's Horton and what's a Hunter?" she asked, advancing on the little tableau at the back of the Buick. "Yeah! Will somebody please explain something!" Elys added rather plaintively from the driver's seat of the T-Bird. Which was when Ratnik clawed something out of his left pants pocket. Metal shown in the Ford's headlights as the thing came up, toward Falcon. Duncan yelled, twisting Ratnik's arm and grappling for whatever he held, pulling his hand back. Falcon pounced as something cracked like green wood breaking, mingled with Ratnik's strangled yelp and an odd Mppht sound like a tiger sneezing, and Duncan cried out, the sound fading to a raw moan as he slumped to the rough concrete. "Duncan!" Falcon and Elys did stereo rather well. Falcon kicked Ratnik in his usable shoulder as he tried to scrabble away, one handed, and Elys hit him with 90K volts of stun baton on the way past for good measure. Duncan gasped as the two women tried to lift him. In the light of the T-Bird's headlights his skin was the soft grey of a dove's feathers, and he couldn't seem to hold his head up. "Duncan -" "Poison. A - dart -" he managed, trembling harshly as whatever it was conquered his system. "Duncan, please -" "Go," he breathed. "Go." And his body went limp. Dead bodies were not areas of expertise for either Falcon, or Elys, but if MacLeod hadn't just expired then he was one hell of a fine actor. "Oh, no..." Falcon murmured. Both women were too shocked to move. And then, in a level above the scene being played out in the idling T-Bird's headlights, overhead in the corkscrew of the parking structure, a car door slammed, and an engine started. "Oh, hell!" Elys said, hurriedly slapping the baton back in its pocket and jumping up to tug frantically at Duncan's limp form. "Damn, damn, damn!" "Elys! What do you think you're doing!" "That car up there! It has to come down here to get out!" Falcon's eyes went as big as Elys' already were. The next few minutes were a chaotic blur. Somehow, the two of them managed to stuff Duncan in the backseat of the T-Bird. Falcon scrambled into the driver's seat, Elys positioned herself in the back with Duncan so it would look a little more as if he were asleep, and the car jerked into motion before whoever was coming could see them. Ratnik they left to his fate, whatever it might be. There wasn't enough time to do more than wish him ill and get the hell out of there. But both women were making mental notes. Horton. And Hunters. Somebody was going to have a lot of explaining to do when he woke up. Elys shoved the air pistol under the T-Bird's passenger seat, and dropped the green-tufted dart in the ashtray with a grimace of surprise overlaying her distaste. 30 years and nobody'd smoked in this car? It must be some kind of a record. Of course, if a man with a sword says 'No smoking in my car!' his passengers aren't too likely to light up, are they? She looked back at MacLeod's inert body, still and limp in the back seat of the Thunderbird. Robbed of the intensity of his personality and the fire of his presence, his vacated form might have been an angel from the hand of some pre-Raphaelite master, incongruously dressed in black jeans and a shirt of claret colored silk, woven without sheen. The long fingers of his hands lay half closed in their prehensile curl as if they grasped at the air itself; empty, helpless, all their strength and subtle ability drowned in the waters of the Styx. The thick, sable lashes cast shadows nearly as dark as their own selves on the porcelain pale skin of his cheeks, and the waves of his long hair gleamed mahogany and onyx in the afternoon sun, pasted into the blood smeared over his throat where the dart had gone in. The silk shirt wasn't ruined, at least. A big so what to that, Elys thought. She'd never seen the Immortal this pale, not even when Connor had so blithely informed her that Tessa hadn't just died, she'd been murdered, before Duncan could so much as get in a breath to put the tragedy of it into his own words. She wondered if he always looked like this dead, and the thought was uniquely painful. What was the proper penalty for murdering an angel, even if he wasn't precisely one in death - even if he wouldn't be one in truth when he came back? Even if one knew he'd come back? Even...if he could live...forever.... Somebody was going to pay for this. Elys had promised herself that. She intended to see to it herself, if necessary. And Duncan gasped, dark eyes jerking open even as his body spasmed: instinct demanding the leopard wake ready to fight. The long hands flicked up, clenched, ready to strike as he looked back and forth wildly - And sagged back in the seat. MacLeod shook his head, put a hand to it, and groaned softly. "Where are we?" he murmured. "In a turnout in the park," Falcon said quietly. "Are you all right?" He grimaced. "I will be. You know that." "Demonstrations are not required, Duncan," she informed him tartly. "But explanations are," Elys said, handing him the pack of pre-moistened towelets that had been hibernating in one of the pockets of her drover's coat. "Thanks." "Explanations?" MacLeod looked at the determined expressions on the women's faces and heaved an internal sigh of resignation. There appeared to be no hope of doing the silent routine on this one. "All right. In a minute." "Mmm. You know, I've heard it said that Ford stands for Found On The Road Dead," Elys mused, eyeing him. "But, Duncan, this's the first time that I realized they meant the owner." Falcon stared at her for half a second and then burst into laughter. The Immortal peeled open a pack of handi-wipes, wearing an expression caught between a grimace and a grin, and kept his mouth most carefully shut. ************************************************************************ The Amanda Army Steps In part 1 by Renee Date: 3/17/96 * * * * * * * * * "Don't you EVER want to do anything cultural? Here we are, in one of the most cultured cities anywhere and all you want to do is go book store hopping? What about the Louvre? Notre Dame? The Arch d'Triumph?" exclaimed Leila quite loudly. Loudly enough to draw stares, in fact, although all they saw were two women, both heavyset, me with curly hair and Leila with straight, both brown, both with glasses, gesteculating wildly. Kayla, our 18-month old daughter, looked on. This was nothing new. She already knows that we argue loudly. "But sweetie," I said in my best molifying voice, "I've been to Paris. I've seen all that. I haven't seen the local color that bookstores are. There was that great antique store we went into, remember, with all those swords? That was fun, wasn't it?" "Okay, let's compromise. I'll go with you to one bookstore if you go with me to the Louvre. One bookstore per cultural site. Only, please don't give advice to the owner. Just because you owned your own store doesn't mean you're the repository of wisdom about this and maybe the owner just doesn't care. -- Oh, we must set a time limit. 10 minutes." "No way. 30." I never was a good bargainer, when it comes to bookstore time, I try. "20 minutes. End of discussion." I could tell that was her final offer. "We'll see..." I started to say, when we were interrupted by Kayla. "MINE," Kayla shouted, sticking out her hand in that totally self-absorbed way that toddlers have of assuming that the whole world revolves around their poop, bellies, and their cute smiles. Unfortunately, Kayla knows us too well. "Here's your cookie, choopie." I still wonder where that nick-name comes from. "So let's go. But if they only have books in French, it doesn't count," I said over my shoulder as I pushed the stroller towards the store that we had been arguing about. "Then we'll meet everyone for lunch." The bookstore looked old, but didn't smell musty, a blessing since Leila, the historian who deals in old manuscripts, is allergic to the mold that grows on old books. The owner/clerk was youngish, on the good looking side, and immersed in his computer when we walked in. We nodded to each other, and I went to explore, first handing the stroller off to Leila. "If I only have 20 minutes, you get to take care of the baby." I was wandering around, getting that sideways crink in the neck that you get looking at book spines, when I noticed a very old looking book almost hiding in between two much larger ones. Taking it, there was a symbol on the front, it looked sort of like a mercedes-benz thing, with dots around the edges. I picked it up, looking for a price tag. There wasn't one, so I went up to the cashier. "Sir, do you speak English?" "Quite well, so they tell me. Can I help you with that?" Pointing to the book in my hand. "I found it in the stacks. Do you know how much it costs?" He picked it up, looked at the spine, looked at the insides, looked at the front cover, but he couldn't find a price tag or any other kind of identification. "Not a clue. It could've belonged to the previous owner. Murdered you know," he said in a whisper, leaning towards me and pointing, "right over there, in fact. I moved the Mystery section over there. Nice touch, I thought." "Renee, 5 minutes!" The call came from the back by the poetry section. "So, what are you doing in Paris?" "We're were on an interfaith trip to Israel and we arranged for a one-stay stop-over on the way home. I think that I'd like to buy this. How much?" "Sight or sound unseen? And where's home?" he continued in that nonchalance of a store keeper who senses a sale. "Atlanta in the States. Although we're going to go straight to Seacouver to continue our vacation. How much?" I repeated. "Well, 25 dollars, American. That'd be alright." "For something you don't even know what is? I'll give you 10 for it." "1 minute and counting!" The owner shook his head. "Fifteen." I could tell he wasn't going to budge on it. "Fine," I said smugly. I was getting good at this barganing thing. "It's a deal." I handed over my 15 dollars just as Leila walked out the door. "What's that?" she asked "This was hiding in the stacks. It looked interesting. I'll take a look at it on the plane to Seacouver." A loud rumble from my stomach reminded me what time it was. "I'm totally starved, let's go!" - - - - - - I didn't have a chance to look at the book on the plane between Kayla getting motion sickness and Leila freaking out at the sight. So finally when I got to the hotel I had a chance to lie down, relax, kick up my feet and take a good hard look at the book. After about 3 hours of long, hard reading, I'd finished the thing. It was really interesting. It chronicled the life of an "immortal" named Amanda for thirty years: from 1900 to 1930 when I guess the historian, or "watcher" as they called themselves, died. I called the police asking them about beheadings and they transfered me to this guy in a special unit who was VERY interested in who I was, all of a sudden. Seems like they've had quite a run of them, here, recently. In a rather uncharictaristic show of self-preservation, I hung up. My listie friends would *love* this. I just *had* to call them. I VERY carefully took the book and went upstairs to start calling. ************************************************************************ Raw Recruits by: Russ McMillan March 17, 1:00 pm PST, Joe's bar Joe Dawson bent his head over the table next to Mike Barrett. "I'm not sure what it is," he said uneasily, "but something's going on." He jabbed his pencil at the hardcopy of the account statements. "Money's been going missing from the accounts. It's like someone's broken in, somehow." "With the security you put on those files?" Mike said. "I don't think so." "That's the only answer I can come up with. Maybe it was someone on the inside." "A Watcher?" "Or an ex-Watcher." Joe remembered another time money had gone missing, and only one person could have been responsible. But he was dead now . . . As if Mike were thinking the same thing, he said, "Even in the Watchers, only a couple of people would have that knowledge. I couldn't do it." "Well, I set a trap. The next time the files are accessed, I'll know who's doing it." Joe smiled at the accounts in satisfaction. "Y'know," Mike said slowly, "There's something else going on. There seem to be a lot of people headed this way." "Like who?" "Immortals. Old enemies of Macleod's, the ones he let walk away. Haven't you been getting the reports?" "Of course, but I didn't notice anything . . . you're right, though. And come to think of it, MacLeod's been asking a lot of his old friends to come by -- mortal and Immortal. Everyone's converging on Seacouver. I wonder what's up?" Joe sighed. "This couldn't have come at a worse time. Half our Watchers out of town, plus the auditions for the house band this afternoon . . ." As he spoke, the door to the bar swung open. Joe quickly slid an auditions flyer over the printout on the table and turned with an easy smile. A short woman had entered, wearing a green coat with capacious pockets, a floor-length scarf wrapped around her neck, and a black fedora. "Hi, if you're here for the auditions --" Joe began. "Um, no. I was just looking for a restroom." Joe hesitated. There was still more he wanted to discuss with Mike. "If it's just for patrons, I'll buy a drink," she promised quickly. "Sure," Joe conceded. "Through there." He pointed, then turned quickly back to Mike as the woman disappeared. "Listen, there's another problem. Too many Immortals know about us. They're looking for the tattoos. I've been thinking of using new recruits to do some of the work anyway, ones who don't have their tattoos yet. If something big is about to go down, this might be the time to go for it." "Joe, the new recruits hardly have any idea what they've gotten into yet," Mike protested. "And if they don't have tattoos, that means they haven't taken the oath of non-interference yet." The reappearance of the woman from the back saved Joe from having to respond. He had his own opinions of non-interference. "So, what'll it be?" he asked the woman, moving behind the bar. "Can I see your driver's license?" She blinked. "Uh, I'm flattered, but I'd prefer just a soft drink. Sprite, or 7-Up?" "Coming up." She looked around the bar, and her eyes lingered on the stage. "You have live music here?" "Sure do," Joe said as he produced a bubbling glass. "What kind?" "Blues," he intoned solemnly. "This is a blues bar." "Oh." She looked disappointed. "We're having auditions this afternoon, if you're interested." Joe passed her another of the flyers. After a sip from the drink, she said suddenly, "Do you mind if I bring my instrument inside? It's kind of cold to leave it in the car." Joe raised his brows. "Go ahead." A few minutes later, she reappeared in the doorway with a triangular blue case strapped to her back and a large white dog in tow. Joe frowned. "Um, it doesn't say 'no dogs' on the door," she said shyly. "And it's kind of cold to leave _him_ in the car too." "Oh, all right," Joe gave in. The bar wasn't officially open yet anyway. She swung the case down to the floor beside the bar and looped her dog's leash around the leg of a stool. Joe's attention was distracted from the dog. "Is that a harp?" he said in surprise. "Yep, a folk harp. I take it just about everywhere." "What do you play?" "Celtic and folk, mostly. I've been getting into jazz and blues a little, too, but I'm not really up to any kind of a standard, yet." She tousled the dog's curly hair. "I might be getting a job around here, at the University. Do you know anything about the music scene in Seacouver? Aside from blues?" Mike chuckled. "Nobody knows more about the music scene in Seacouver than Joe," he said. "Joe? As in, `Joe's'?" "That's right. Everybody come's to Joe's." Joe remembered the convergence of Immortals, Watchers, and general population on Seacouver, and worried a little. "Hi. I'm Russ." She extended her hand across the bar. The door opened again, and the dog woofed in surprise. "Shut up, Daniel," Russ hissed. Another strange woman stood in the doorway, brushing dark hair from her eyes. In her left hand she carried a guitar case. "Auditions?" Joe said with more confidence this time. "Um, yeah. I'm Lori, I play bass." She grinned. "Go on over to the stage and tune up, then," Joe suggested. He noticed Russ watching wistfully. "Why don't you tune up too?" he said. "There's plenty of time. You could jam a little bit." Russ hesitated and looked embarrassed, but finally pulled the small harp out of its case and started doing arcane things with a tuning key. She sat on the edge of the stage and discussed possible keys with Lori. Eventually they got a decent improv going in D. Russ' tendency to slip into Irish jigs made it an interesting combination, but surely that was only appropriate for St. Patrick's Day. Joe grinned at them. "Joe, what are you doing?" Mike asked, leaning across the bar. "I thought you said we didn't have time for this sort of thing right now." "I also said we need new recruits. What do you think?" Joe said. "No tattoos. And what about that other girl who was in here before -- Steph? They'd make a pretty good team, don't you think?" While Mike stared appalled, Joe grabbed his Hummingbird and joined in the jam. Time enough later to worry about impending cataclysm. ************************************************************************ Arrival: Richie's Chief Flag Waver by Marina Bailey **Here begins the tale of the Richie Reserve** Celli waited for Marina at the Seacouver airport, pondering why she was waiting for a flight from *Toronto*. Well, she supposed she would soon find out. There was Marina now, wearing her List T-shirt, a huge, oversized jacket and looking slightly blue. "Marina!" called Celli. "Celli!" Marina shouted back, and Celli grimaced at the pronunciation, but didn't say anything because, after all, they had had many conversations about these things called *accents*. "I can't believe you're here!" Celli said on a laugh. "I can't believe *you're* here. I thought you were broke." "Yeah, well..." Celli made a production of studying the arrival screen. Marina fixed her with a look. "Sheila Marie!" Celli flinched. "How did you get to Seacouver?" "Well, um, you know how lax security is at small-town airports? The people at TWA left the counter for a minute and, well..." She shrugged. "There was a first-class seat available." Marina couldn't help but laugh, thinking of the irony. Was she the only one who had used her hard-earned *money* to get to places?? "Sorry I asked." She hoisted her togbag back up onto her shoulder and said, "Let's go." "Don't you have luggage?" "Nope. This is it. This is all I brought the first time." "First time?" "For the other War. I left Jo'Burg in a hurry and caught the first plane to Toronto." "You mean your virtual self has been in Toronto all this time?" "Ja." (It came out sounding like "yar".) "Huh?" "I mean, yes. Afrikaans. Sorry. Don't you remember, I was in the fifth Forever Knight War? Well, they wrote me going there - and forgot to fetch me at the airport, too - but no one wrote me going home. So I was *stuck* in Toronto for months! Have you any idea of how *cold* it is there?!" "Anything like the plains of South Dakota?" That got her the look again. Celli backed away. This was a person who carried a dangerous flag, and she sounded like she might be getting ready to whap someone... anyone. "Er... where did you stay... virtually, that is?" "Oh, I crashed at Nick's place. He didn't say anything to anyone, because all the Knighties were supposed to have left. I just had to promise not to hide in his bedroom waiting for him to take his shirt off." Celli grinned. "Did you keep that promise?" "Of course not, but it didn't help - he could hear my heartbeat every time!" A thought struck Celli. "Hey, we could do that to Richie!" Marina grinned back evilly. "Ha ha, ja. Definitely! Although, it won't be as much of a challenge for us since we already know what Richie looks like with no shirt!" "Don't ruin my fun!" said Celli as they reached the car. "Well, you know who gets dibs if we *do* see him with no shirt." "Yes, me." Marina made a vampire hissing noise at Celli (Marina was obviously still having Forever Knight War flashbacks) as she dumped her togbag in the back seat, then opened the front door on the passenger side and got in. "Too bad I didn't bring my flag." Celli was so shocked she almost choked. "WHAT?!" "Well, I didn't need a Richie flag in Toronto, did I? All the FK fans would have thought I was a fan of Natalie's brother!" Celli just frowned. "So, how are you going to make an impression without a flag?" Marina just grinned evilly again. "I got my aunt - she has lots of money, that's why I asked her - to mail it to Richie's place priority mail so that it would arrive today. Hopefully, by the time we get there it will be there." "'Kay," replied Celli. Marina squinted at the clock on the car's dashboard. "What time is it?" "Nearly time to meet up with the rest of the Reserve at Joe's." "Great! I can't wait! Sooner or later..." "'Everybody comes to Joe's!'" they chorused together. ************************************************************************ From the House of Lindsey by: Jimmy Murphy March 17 Seacouver, USA "Good bye, Mrs. Taylor...thanks again," Anne Lindsey said loudly, speaking from the porch of her suburban home. A pile of baby bags and a stroller were at her feet, and baby Mary was lying on the porch swing, fascinated by the overhead ceiling fan. Mrs. Taylor, a sixty-something woman who lived down the street, trudged up the slight incline that led to her house on the corner. Anne recognized how lucky she was to have a sweet lady in the neighborhood who would take Mary on short notice like that; she smiled every time she visualized Mrs. Taylor's cheerful demeanor with Mary. Anne relied on the "old dear" more and more as the day of the Mary's Christening drew nearer. Earlier, Mrs. Taylor had looked at Anne's suddenly-immaculate living room with skepticism when she and Mary had returned from an afternoon at the park. "Why clean it up when it will only get messed up again?" seemed to be the look expressed on Mrs. Taylor's face. "I'm expecting an old friend..." Anne replied upon seeing Mrs. Taylor's look. Now Anne watched as Mrs. Taylor disappeared down the lane. "What a wonderful, caring woman," she said. As Mrs. Taylor continued down the sidewalk, she muttered to herself, "Wonder if it's that jerk who knocked her up?" Anne always felt a certain amount of anxiety whenever she gave Mary to a sitter, even one as sweet as Mrs. Taylor, but she knew that she would never have been able to get her housework done with Mary around. Now everything looked perfect, and it was not even 2:30 yet. She kept glancing at the street, as if that would make her friend appear any sooner. Mary had just managed to fall asleep in the crib when Anne heard the cab pull up. It wasn't easy, flying out of the house that way without waking Mary, but Anne did it in record time. Donna Griffon stepped from the cab to join the yelps, jumps and happy hugs of two old friends reuniting. "Donna! You look *great*!" "Annie! You haven't changed a *bit*!" "I love your dress..." "Love that haircut!" "What a house!" Unmoved by this joyous reunion, the cabbie asked just who was going to cough up the $14.68 for the fare. Donna surveyed the immaculate living room. "Yeah, this definitely says 'Annie the Granny'...", cutting a teasing look. "I thought we buried that in med school!" Anne replied, feigning indignation. Only Donna could have gotten away with that sort of remark. She offered Donna a cup of coffee, which Donna politely waved away. "Wow, things sure have changed in the state of New Mexico when 'Juan Val-Donna' turns down a cup of coffee! I think Maxwell House should have co-signed our degrees!" "Robert's still there...cute as ever," Donna said, fishing for a response. Anne smiled and said "Well, bully for him!" The subject of old boyfriends inevitably came up whenever these two ladies got together. "So, tell me..what's changed since I left?" "Oh, haven't you heard? I'm rollin' in it..yes, most successful private practice in the Community Hospital annex. How do you think I am able to drop things at the drop of a hat and come see my best friend's new baby?" "....And to bring a great big Christening gift, I hope!" Anne added. Getting a spare moment for *anything* was hard enough, so the idea of an approaching Christening date did not help her relax. So much to plan, so many invitations to send..."Sheez" was a word she used often. "So, you have this big house, this big angel named Mary, and this big career at the hospital...what's missing from this picture?" Anne knew immediately what Donna was getting at, and the topic was not one that she wished to discuss. She attempted to change the subject to their hometown friends, but Donna was not one to let "Annie" get out of answering a question. "C'mon, Annie, this is Donna you're talking to. Now you know that a divorce is not the stigma it used to be." Anne's jaw dropped. "Oh, no...that's not it at all!" "Then how do you explain this house? This furniture? I *know* the hospitals don't pay *this* well." Donna was an authority on low pay at hospitals; it was what had driven her to private practice. "I don't want to talk about it, okay?" Anne was getting flustered, much more than she wished to admit. She turned toward the kitchen door. "OH MY *GOD*! *Who* is that?" Donna exclaimed, picking up a framed photo from Anne's desk. It was one of the few photos taken of Anne and Duncan together in Paris, showing them sitting on the barge. "He's a dream! And is this Europe somewhere? Tell me *everything*!" "Boy, would that be a long story," Anne thought to herself. ************************************************************************ Spyglass by: Enmare Enmare sighed as she walked into a Kinko's and telnetted into her mail account. Things were going well, and it looked like she might even get time to enjoy spring break this year... The pinging of various messages arriving from her shell accounts flooded the ears and made almost everyone look up, and her swearing in German got the rest of their attention. -Damnation!- she thought. -All that work gone to waste...- That thought quickly degenerated into Basque obsenities, and she switched into French when the Basque ran out. She shut down the program with a few quick strokes. -Well, I'll have to tell the boss, and Jimmy too. Nah, he has enough on his mind right now. I'll let Lori tell him. Damnation!- Enmare stomped out of the building, dialing on her cell phone. ----- Enmare got to the dojo about the same time that Duncan, Elys and Falcon pulled up in the car. Taking a few deep breaths to calm down, she walked up to them as they started taking things out of the trunk. Whatever they were talking about, they clammed up quick when they saw an angry stranger in a ratty black sweater approaching. "Um... Duncan?" Falcon poked him, while Elys went for what was presumably a sword in a rifle case. Duncan turned around to face Enmare, with the "one-eyebrow" look on and a little worse for wear. "What?" he asked irritably. Enmare walked up to under his nose and looked up. "You idiot. You messed up everything." Duncan's look darkened. "Excuse me... *miss*. Do I know you?" "We've met." Duncan began to get a flashback look on his face. -This won't do- she thought, and snapped her fingers repeatedly in front of his eyes, angering him more. "None of that, now. I just thought I'd let you know that you have just single-handedly ruined a year of work." "How..." Enmare sighed. "Ratnik was one of mine." That did it. Falcon and Elys stiffened up, and Duncan grabbed her arm. Enmare broke the hold sharply -Thank god I've been practicing that move- "Nah, hold on! It's not quite that. Johnathon volunteered to inflitrate the Hunters. *Fortunately*, your violent barbaric actions didn't blow his cover, but now he's out of comission for a month at the very least. I no longer have an active mole in the operation, and this forces me to be a bit less subtle. And, now the Hunters know that you know. They're going to be coming at you faster than before, and I won't be able to warn the appropiate channels to protect you." Duncan was insulted. "I don't *need* protection." "Good." Enmare snorted. Duncan's mind kicked further into gear and he turned Enmare's wrist over. There was no tattoo. "Happy?" she asked, waving her forearm around so everyone could see, then shoved it into her coat pocket. "Oh, and I'd like the dart and the gun back please." Elys held them closer. "Why?" "Well, if you *really* want the gun, you can have it. But the airpistol was lent to him by me, probably after he read one too many Sherlock Holmes stories. If you look at it, Elys, I think your the expert in weapons, its really quite old. I have to return it to the collection." Elys perked up a little. "A weapons collection." Enmare grinned a little, weakly. "I'll show it to you when this mess is over." Falcon held out the dart by the feathers with distaste, and Enmare took it gingerly and put it in a plastic bag. "Oh, and Falcon, I'll have to talk to you about physics someday. Remind me." She turned back to Duncan and glared. "There. I'll leave now. Take care of yourselves. And *do* explain everything to the folks Duncan? That's a dear." Falcon stopped Enmare as she turned to go. "Why're you being mean to Duncan?" Enmare grinned again. "If he gets that flashback working again, *he* can tell you. Of course, the story will be horribly skewed but..." she shrugged, walked off, swearing softly in Russian all the way. Falcon and Elys turned to the scot, and once again in stereo, demanded to know what was going on. ------- Enmare walked into a playground, sat down on the bench and pulled out the cell phone again. "Lori? Yeah, everything's hit the fan... I know, it was foolish of me to think I could pull off something that complecated as inflitrating the Hunters, but we had to try, right?... I got the dart, and I'll get to a lab to anaylize the poison; it worked way too quickly in an immortal's body than most poisons I know off... benifit of taking toxicology courses... Yeah, yeah... Keep a close eye on Joe for me? I don't think that Horton would go straight for him, but we can't be too careful.... The Hunters know. I'm not sure, but I think they know me too, now... Johnathan was probably incoherent by the time they found him, but enough came out, I'm almost sure... No the Barbarian hasn't recognized me yet." Enmare laughed at something said on the other line. "Yeah, watch yourself too." She hung up, and sat back in the chair. There was still someone that she had to meet, and he probably wasn't going to be in town until tonight. And by now, she had run out of languages to swear in. ************************************************************************ Or, Maybe Not So Raw... by: Russet McMillan March 17, 2:00 pm PST, Joe's bar The music was really getting off the ground when a metallic beeping made the dog tilt his head curiously. Joe and Lori and Mike all patted their coats. Lori's phone won. "Yeah, it's me . . . Well, I told you so, didn't I? . . . Yeah, you're right . . . How do you know? . . . Taking too many courses, period . . . Anyway, good work . . . " Russ noodled on her harp while this boring talk was going on, but Lori's next words made Joe stiffen, and she looked up as well. "I'll watch out. Do the Hunters know about Johnathon? . . . How much did he tell them? . . . Huh. Well, what about the Barbarian?" Russ glanced at Joe, who was glaring at Lori as if he had found out she was some kind of serial killer. Mike had come over to the stage, and his open face was also dark with worry. Lori glanced up at them, and blushed as she realized everyone was staring at her. "Well, you take care of yourself, okay? I'll see you later." She closed the phone and cleared her throat nervously. "What do you know about Hunters?" Lori sighed. "A friend of mine was trying to infiltrate them. It didn't really work, but they learned some important things. I think you ought to know. One, Horton's alive." "What!" "Two, he's coming here." "That's impossible. He's dead! I saw him --" Joe broke off and turned toward Russ. "Are you in on this too?" Russ swallowed. "Um. I don't know about any Horton. Lori just said I should come to Seacouver, that something was about to happen and she would need my help." Mike leaned forward. "Joe, if she's right --" he cocked his head at Lori "-- it could explain problem you noticed." Joe set his guitar aside and levered himself to his feet. "I think it's about time for some serious explaining, here." ************************************************************************ Explanations and Seating Limits by: Lori Goldman Lori gulped and slowly folded her phone back up and placed in in her pocket. "Explanantions, huh?" Joe crossed his arms and looked at her levelly. "Russ?" she glanced over at her fellow musician, whose look plainly said "this is all yours". "OK, here's the deal," she sighed, holding her bass protectively in front of her. "It seems there's been a rather *large* increase in activity among a certain...splinter group of the Watchers and some of the "morally challenged" Immortals, shall we say?" "What exactly are you talking about?" Joe ground out, "I heard you say 'Horton', my brother-in-law is dead." "Um, I hate to differ," Russ finally broke in as Lori halted in her explanation. "But it seems he's very much alive and is stirring up trouble again." Joe turned and looked at Mike. "Get on the phone," he snapped, "see what you can dig up." "Wait a sec--" Lori cut in, "here's a number you might try." She pulled a card out of her pocket and held it out to Mike. "This is the number of one of my operatives. She thought she had someone set up inside the Hunters, but unfortunately, a Scottish Barbarian pretty much messed *that* one up." She looked at Joe. "Does he always hit first and ask questions later?" Turning back to Mike, who had crossed to the bar, she pitched her voice so he could hear her. "When you talk to my contact, use the code word 'KaiSteph'." She smiled internally as she settled the bass back in her lap, knowing that her contact would know the code word meant only reveal what was absolutely necessary. Joe sat himself back down and prepared to wait along with Lori and Russ. "Anything else I should know?" he asked as he settled in his chair. "Yeah," Lori nodded, "you might want to check out the fire code for this building. It seems there's going to be *quite* a few people descending here in short order..." ************************************************************************ *NOT* at the House of Lindsey...:) by: Jimmy Murphy March 17 Seacouver, USA Downtown "What do you mean she no longer lives here? I just talked on the phone to her a few weeks ago!" Jimmy Murphy was not a happy man. He had arrived in Seacouver armed with a Christening gift, ready to see and spoil his new goddaughter. It had been nearly two years since he had laid eyes on Anne Lindsey, the mother of his goddaughter, Mary, and he had endured many slings and arrows in order to come to see the two Ms. Lindseys. The plane was full of refugees of some sort, conversing about wars and how someone named Horton should be dead but isn't. To top it off, some crazy woman came out of nowhere and gave him a death-defying ride from Seacouver Airport in a Rolls Royce of all things. Before he knew what happened, the woman had disappeared and left him the keys to the car! Now, just when he thought things were getting back to semi-normal, the superintendent of Anne's co-op tells tells Jimmy that Anne no longer lives there. "Surely you have some sort of forwarding address?" he asked, ready to thump the old guy for being such a jerk. The super only scratched his head and said "You could call her...." Jimmy realized that Anne had called *him*, and that she had not even mentioned a new phone number...or a new address, for that matter. How could such a thing slip her mind? Jimmy collected his most demonically sarcastic grin and replied "Thank you ever so much for your so-called help!" He walked a few blocks to cool off (it did not work), and then returned to the Corniche parked in the fire lane, and saw that he had been ticketed. "Well, thanks for the greeting, Seacouver Parking Services!" He ripped up the ticket and drove away in frustration. "Anne, if my thesis research gets screwed up because of this...." he mumbled to himself as he followed his final lead: Community Hospital. The plan: find her at work, since she certainly would not move from *there*. The problem: no one at the front desk would give out her home address. "Can you have her beeped? It's very important." He clutched his side as though it were a medical emergency. The reception nurse barely looked up from her terminal. In a monotone, she replied that any friend of Anne Lindsey's would know that she is on vacation...and he certainly would know where she lives! In that same sarcastic tone used with the super, Jimmy replied that he thanked her so much for her non-help...and hoped that she would catch dysentery soon. "So, Jimmy, what do you do now?" he lamented to himself. Fumbling with the radio stations as he drove, Jimmy realized that this would be some story to tell Anne when he finally found her...*if* he found her. " I guess I could put her photo on a milk carton!" ************************************************************************ A Phone Call by: Enmare Enmare sighed and let herself into the rundown hotel room (just a few blocks from Joe's bad, actually). She had a few hours to relax before she was due to go out again, and settled down on the bed and pulled out some books. It may be spring break, it may be war, it may be undercover operations in hostile territory, but Enmare had learned that professors were not too sympathetic to that sort of thing. Halfway through the left frontal lobe, the phone rang. -Ah, hells- she thought and pulled the phone out of her coat and flipped it open. "Yeah." "KaiSteph." That froze her. -So early, Lori? One Scottish Barbarian can throw everything off. I guess I won't be stopping by for that drink at Joe's anytime soon. Ah well, here goes nothing.- "Yes, I understand. What do you want to know?" "Everything." She snorted. "That's a tall order, and I don't have too much time to talk. More specific please." "Very well then. About Johnathan and the Hunters." The voice didn't *sound* like Joe, and she didn't think that the phone affected the way people sound that much. Mike, then. "As you wish. About one year ago, we recieved some anonymous information that the Hunters were starting up again." "How did you know about them in the first place?" "They weren't exactly subtle about it. Running around, beheading people? It was in all the papers. It took some digging, but we found out some more background details. As it is, we don't know much," now *that* was a lie. Enmare figured that she and Lori together knew more than most Watchers. And that wasn't counting what Selma or Russ had brought into the mix. "But, we do know that they are teaming up with some of the 'evil' Immortals, most often under false pretenses. I intercepted a message being routed through a university subsystem. After reading that, I decided to try to inflitrate them, and asked Johnathan to help. He was accepted as a junior Hunter nine months ago, and I was waiting for something solid to come up before going public with the information." "Public?" His voice was wary. "Relatively. In the message I found a reference to an old Watcher address. We figured that if the orginazation was worth its salt that it would keep an eye on the place, and we could get the information to you that way." Enmare looked at her watch. 5 minutes was the limit for a conversation with that codeword. "Listen, I really have to go." She turned off the phone, then called up the company and changed the number as they agreed upon earlier. Enmare was a little uncomfortable with revealing that level of information, but it couldn't be helped. At least she didn't tell Mike how much they actually knew about the Watchers, or Joe and Macleod in particular. That probably clam 'em up permanently. She herself had known about their existence for going on seven years now, since she'd spent all of her free time then in a graduate library, reading things. It actually wasn't that hard to figure out. -But nothing makes a secret organization more annoyed than realizing just how hard it is to keep a secret.- She hoped Lori and Russ were doing well on their end. ************************************************************************ Virtual World, Virtual Problems by: Sean A Simpson Sean sighed. He owed about a hundred different people favors now, but at least he was getting to Seacouver. He checked over his belongings one last time as a way to pass the time until the cab showed up. Okay...brown duffel bag, the Old Faithful. Full of clothes, a few hygienic necessities, and the omnipresent journal that he wrote in once in a blue moon. The other bag was a carrying case for a laptop that, unfortunately, only his virtual self had access to. The reality-bending powers of a fiction writer could go only so far. Trenchcoat that had been with him through high school, and that, a few months ago, he'd had the foresight to build katana space into. However, at the moment, the katana space was holding an Eric Lustbader novel and a few Nutrageous bars for the flight out to Seacouver. Sean realized that he probably looked a little stupid, sitting on the curb in front of Moravian College, waiting for a taxi, playing with his hair, and muttering something to himself about a "damn time-sink mailing list" and people that should be dead but weren't. Well, at least he wasn't railing about Immortals. That would probably be much worse. The cab finally showed up, a prompt half-hour late. After a minor struggle with the physics of cabs and luggage, Sean was off. ************************************************************************ Gina Enters the Fray, Part I by: Gina Shaw Washington, DC, March 17, 1996 - 5 pm local time Gina fumbled clumsily with the double-lock on the security door. Tonight's shelter shift had been a *long* one, involving eight screaming children, one suspicious-looking car lurking in the parking lot next door (fortunately it had been just a drug deal, not LeeAnn's psychotic ex-boyfriend), and a severe shortage of tampons, toilet paper and laundry detergent. YAWN. Home... Oglethorpe and Dickens were standing alertly on the desk in the den. Strange. They never shared a perch of any kind. Beds and floors were for mutual washing and shared sleep, but a countertop, TV or other small surface was private territory -- "yours" or "mine," never "ours." "Something I'm supposed to notice here?" Gina inquired of the hefty felines. Seeing nothing else of interest, she switched on the computer and logged onto Eudora. Among the litter of notes from various figure skating, political and health-related lists, she spotted one that made her stop in her tracks. "What are you, kitty psychics?" she asked the two cats who were peering around the corner of the screen, looks of great satisfaction on their faces. "You don't get your Pounce until *after* I read this." FROM: dmacleod@seacouver.edu TO: GinaDC@erols.com RE: Um...Feel Like a Field Trip? DATE: March 17, 1996 Beware of promises made while drinking red wine, oh petite one. You *do* remember, don't you? The Hawk and Dove, two summers ago? I thought you would. And I will probably live to regret pulling you into this; let me say that I hope we both live to regret it. It's always been a firm principle with me that mortals have no place in the battles we fight. It's not a fair fight. You know how I feel -- we polished off at least three bottles of Merlot arguing about it and embarrassed poor Grace half to death. But I have to admit it -- you were right. Oh, stop smirking. And take your hand off that phone, "Ripley's Believe It Or Not" does not answer calls on Sunday nights. I'm serious. If you remember what you said (I think you were still speaking in complete sentences at the time, so you should), you were most adamant that if evil or unprincipled Immortals ally themselves with mortals to attack their own kind, then fairness demands that we may work with mortals to defeat them. *You* thought you were arguing a theory, didn't you? Well, at the time I thought so as well. But times they are a-changin', and let it never be said that Duncan MacLeod refused to learn a lesson from a beautiful woman. (We can argue whether that was a sexist remark later.) Theory becomes practice. All right, I expect I've ducked the issue long enough to have you pounding impatiently on your keyboard. (Don't *do* that. You know it just makes the escape key pop out and you'll have to go crawling under the desk to look for it again.) It comes down to this: I need your help. A war is on the horizon, and alliances are forming. You're a loyal friend, and you've earned both Grace's trust and mine. . .and proven yourself worthy of it more than once. I have the feeling that, in the days to come, that sort of trust will be at a premium. Didn't you tell me not long ago that you'd piled up rather a lot of vacation time? I know you were hoping to go hide from the world in that little dirt-road town on the Talamanca coast of Costa Rica you keep telling me about. . .but Seacouver is really *lovely* this time of year. I keep joking with you because I am asking something that is very difficult for me to ask: I'm asking a friend to take a very dangerous risk for me, and a mortal friend at that. I don't know what this war will involve, but early rumors are that several of my more unsavory counterparts (don't your friends on the Internet call them "Kimmies"?) have allied with some mortals from my past, as well as a few you might be currently acquainted with, for purposes yet unknown. It could get ugly. Elys and Falcon and I had a rather -- um -- interesting experience in the parking garage at Seacouver airport today. We can't do this without you. Besides, it won't be any fun to get drunk after we win if you're not around to provoke into singing ten choruses of the "Fugue for Tinhorns." Duncan Gina stared at the screen for a long time. Then she picked up the phone. "Tim, I'm going out of town for a couple of days. Maybe a little longer than that. Think you can come in and feed the guys?. . .Seacouver. Well, it's complicated. No, you can't come along. Because you're not on HIGHLA-L, that's why. Yes, I *know* the reason I only got interested in this whole Highlander thing in the first place was because someone told me you kinda looked like him and I wanted to see for myself. Yeah, you do. Kinda. No, actually, much sexier. Really. You are." Gina negotiated a ride to the airport and hung up. "I'm going to hell," she thought. Or wherever women who lie to preserve their boyfriends' egos go. FROM: GinaDC@erols.com TO: dmacleod@seacouver.edu RE: I Must Be an Idiot DATE: March 17, 1996 I'm on my way. A promise is a promise, even one made from the bottom of a wine bottle. (Or three.) But seriously, Duncan, I would have made the same promise sober, and you know you can always call on me. And stop with the "I'm just a mortal and you're putting me at risk " stuff. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Believe me, duels to the death and all that jazz are far more interesting than planning the association's Annual Meeting and writing the newsletter. I can't wait to jump into the fray. Besides, I can take care of myself. I'm sure Grace told you about the night that Jasmine's ex-husband tried to break the front door down. Okay, okay, so I broke my wrist. Big deal. He didn't get in, now did he? I'll see you all at the airport. I'm on the next flight out -- I hope you'll be over your distaste for the parking garage at Seacouver-Tac by nine pm your time. Oh, and I've got a new band for you to check out. Celtic music with a Chicana twist. Great to drink by. Gina (NOTES: Though I volunteer for a battered women's shelter, in real life I am communications director for a professional medical association. And for those of you who are wondering, yes, Tim really *does* bear a passing resemblance to you-know-who. Needs to work out a bit more though. Don't tell him I said that. . . I'm hardly one to talk.) ************************************************************************ Problems and Problems by: Sean A Simpson Place: Duncan's loft Time: 6:30 PM 3/17 Falcon, Elys, and Duncan finally arrived at the loft. Ratkin in the garage, Enmare yelling at them about Ratkin...sometimes it seemed like too much. While Falcon and Elys set about scrounging up dinner from Duncan's fridge, Duncan pulled out his laptop and pulled up his com program. "Uh oh. This is bad," he said, with a very This Is Bad expression on his face. "I don't like the sound of that, Duncan," Falcon said. "What is it?" "It's from Sean." Duncan looked up at the two women. "Horton's alive." "How could that be? You just said he was shot, stabbed, and other things at various times," Elys asked. Duncan nodded. "He just keeps coming back. Well, maybe this time will be the last time." Duncan didn't sound like he believed it, though. "At any rate, Sean is getting in at about three AM tonight. You two want to come along?" Falcon sighed. "Guess we're not going to get much sleep tonight." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Place: Lehigh Valley International Airport Time: 7:00 PM Well, Sean had managed to get through airport security with minimal problems, although the security man had nearly had a conniption when he'd seen Sean's Swiss Army Knife. After five minutes and a lot of smooth talking, Sean had managed to convince the man not to bring in the SWAT team. There is something to be said for not taking your job _too_ seriously. At any rate, Sean was now safely (he hoped) aboard the plane, and on his way to Seacouver. He pulled the Eric Lustbader novel out of his katana space and settled down for a long flight. ************************************************************************ The Trip by: Elizabeth Arritt Beth closed her Word program and stopped the Michael Ball CD she was listening on the new laptop she had purchased right before leaving DC. Shoving her headphones off her ears she checked her watch. How long did it take to get to Seacouver? She didn't like to be out of touch, and she wasn't allowed to use the cellular modem on the plane, much less her cell phone. Still, she didn't think much would happen before the meeting at Joe's. She used the airplane phone to call and check that the automobile she had arranged to rent would be waiting. It had taken a little searching to arrange it - GMC Syclones were hard to come by. But she'd always wanted to drive one, and she figured that since she had all this money now and since the third fastest legal road vehicle might come in handy, she'd go for it. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning our final descent into Seacouver..." Finally!! She checked her watch. Just after 3. Plenty of time to pick up a few things and get to Joe's before five. She started packing up her laptop. Almost there... ************************************************************************ Gina Enters the Fray, Part II by: Gina Shaw Seacouver, 9 pm local time Duncan didn't have to tell me that the fur was reallyflying. As I shouldered my way into the main airport terminal, I spotted one agitated-looking Highlander awaiting me. The liquid, toe-tingling smile that spread across his face when he spotted me did nothing (well, not much) to alleviate the electric charge of disquiet that fairly crackled from his body. As he caught me in his arms and spun me around, I could sense it in him -- he felt like my cats on dry winter nights, sharp and sparking. But it would be a crime not to enjoy a welcome from Duncan MacLeod properly. I smiled up at him as he set me on my feet, dazzled all over again by the magnificent depths of his eyes and the sculpted elegance of his cheekbones. He traced a finger lazily over my lower lip, then bent to kiss me. For a moment there was nothing else. My hips were trying mightily to disobey my brain's command not to slide against his. I felt the warm pressure of his broad hands on my spine, sliding lower, and debated abandoning my long-held strictures against flagrant exhibitionism. At the same time, we both pulled back abruptly. "Nice to see you too," I said, flustered. He grinned, a suspicious hint of red creeping up from the collar of his worn denim shirt. "We said we weren't going to do that anymore." I was still working to catch my breath. "Yes, well, I say a lot of things. Besides, I think what we said we weren't going to do was the stuff that comes after that." Duncan chuckled and put an arm around me, pointing us in the direction of the baggage claim. "Hold on a minute," I said, and took him by the shoulders, staring searchingly into his face. "No fair, absolutely NO fair starting without me," I snapped after a moment. "Well, it wasn't my idea," Duncan said, then shook his head in astonishment. "How did you --" "You've got that look, Duncan. You know, the LOOK. Like every nerve of your body has been plugged into something. Like every second you're expecting fourteen different Immortals to come swooping from every corner of the airport." "Oh. That look," he said helplessly, struggling not to laugh. "The very one." I took his hand and towed him after me toward the baggage area. "I want details. Lots of them. Preferably with lots of action verbs and vivid adjectives." Duncan complied. By the time we made it back to the dojo, where Falcon was helping Elspeth get unpacked and settled, I'd heard the whole story. Horton? How could Horton be involved in this? I clearly remembered Duncan's vivid description of his final, all-too-deserved and far-too-long-awaited demise. "And now he shows up in the Special Collections Department at UCLA?" I asked. "Are you absolutely sure this guy isn't one of you, Duncan? He's got more lives than Morris." "Believe me, I can't explain it either. But this could get very interesting." Upstairs in the loft, Falcon and Elys were poised inches from the elevator gate, bouncing impatiently from foot to foot. We hadn't seen each other face to face before, but I knew them instantly. Elys swung that fabulous hair as she grabbed me, yelping "Gina!" Falcon piled immediately on top of her and we formed a shrieking, hugging mass. Duncan smiled and shook his head indulgently. "How many more times do I get to go through this?" he asked. "Oh, Duncan, don't be such a boy," Falcon said. "Did he TELL you?" Elys asked urgently as I slung my duffel bag to the floor. (I prefer to travel light.) "I dragged it out of him," I said. "Horton, Enmare, Ratnik, the works." Duncan snorted and began to rattle things in the kitchen, while the three of us flopped down on the couch. He should have known better than to leave the three of us alone. Some intense reviewing of notes and careful plotting ensued. Not ten minutes later, when he returned bearing a truly festive-looking platter of cheese, chips, and fruit, Duncan stopped stock-still in dismay when he saw the identical smug expressions on three female faces. "Rule number one, MacLeod," Elspeth declared. "Oh no," he moaned, setting the platter down and dropping to his knees in mock-agony. "I know I'm in trouble when she calls me MacLeod." Falcon smirked. "Precisely. Rule number one is, you called us into this War -- and we are full participants. No more chivalrous stuff, no more 'get back in the car.' We aren't fragile little girls, remember." "Lord preserve me if I ever had such a thought," Duncan moaned, putting his head in his hands. "Rule number two," I stated, gently prying his fingers away from his eyes. "Full disclosure. At least you gave me some sort of a preview of what might be going on out here in your e-mail...though far too cryptic, I might add." Duncan opened his mouth to protest and thought better of it. "Poor Elspeth here shows up at the airport, expecting just a nice peaceful visit, and is promptly in media res of some bizarre action movie." "But I didn't know..." Duncan started to protest. "True," I conceded. "But I still have the feeling you're trying to shelter us from what this all might be about. It's time you told us, all of us, everything you know about what's going to be happening. Stop protecting us." Duncan's face wore that adorable sheepish look designed to wear any woman down. Falcon, Elys and I exchanged tormented glances. It was Falcon who steeled her spine. "Duncan, if this is a war, we're here to fight it with you, not stand on the sidelines with pompoms and little skirts yelling 'Go Duncan go.' I thought you were a bit more enlightened than that." Duncan sighed and hoisted himself up on the couch between me and Falcon, his expression growing introspective. "I know," he said. "Anyone who takes on the three of you had better watch their head, and that includes me." He leaned against my shoulder and reached out to rub Elspeth's arm affectionately. "It's just that I don't know what we're in for here. There's never been a war like this before. As soon as I realized the game had already started -- or at least the warm-up round -- there at the airport, all my protective instincts kicked in." Falcon laughed. "I think it was your pursuit instincts that kicked in first, Duncan." "Okay, then after that," he agreed. "I'm just not used to fighting as a team sport." "Fair enough," I said. "But just who, exactly, saved your bonny rear end in that parking garage?" Falcon and Elys regarded Duncan with innocent gazes and fluttering eyelashes. "Okay, okay, okay. I surrender. From now on, it's Team Duncan." "Beautiful," Elys smiled. "I believe that's a cue to begin drawing up battle plans...which we can't do until you clue us in to what you know." Duncan sighed wearily. We could joke all we wanted, but there was something very serious in the shadows under those long, curving lashes. Duncan MacLeod was deeply troubled. What could be happening here? "I'm not really quite sure," Duncan said, answering my unspoken question -- something he'd always been good at doing. "Well, tell us what you do know and we'll help you figure the rest out," Elys said. "Even if it takes all night," I added helpfully. "SLUMBER PARTY!" bellowed Falcon, leaping across the room and in two strides, propelling herself in a full-body leap onto Duncan's bed. Elspeth and I needed no urging to grab Duncan and drag him across the room to join her. Settled in a lumpy pile of women, Duncan tried his best to look put-upon but couldn't hide the smile that said he loved all this attention. "By the way," he asked, "what exactly did you have planned for me?" "You mean right now?" asked Falcon evilly. "No, before. When you had those terrifying looks on your faces, after I came back from the kitchen." "Oh that..." said Elspeth. "We had just made note of the fact that...well...there are certain things we three have in common. Certain, uh, subjects we should discuss in excruciating detail. Comparisons to be made, if you know what I --mmf..." Duncan had clamped a hand over my mouth, but Falcon and Elspeth were convulsed in laughter. Duncan rolled over on his stomach, burying his face in a pillow and moaning. "What was that, Duncan?" Falcon asked. "I said," he muttered, lifting his head a little, "I can't WAIT until Sean gets here." "We've got four whole hours until then..." I mused. Three pairs of eyes met with three knowing glances.