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Author’s note: I belong
to HIGHLANDER 100, a live journal community, where each week or so you are
given a topic on which to write a drabble (a drabble is a story of exactly
100 words). One week the theme was “when
pigs fly” which, despite Peter Wingfield’s appearance in the episode THE
OTHERS, brought to my mind the time when someone would write a successful
Andromeda/Highlander crossover. I
wrote three short pieces included at the end of this work. While they finish the story, they remain in
their original “drabble” format. The idea of the crossover remained with me. What ensued was a
struggle between a story that wanted to be written and a blocked writer most
hesitant to take up such an unlikely plot as a way of working out her
malady. It would be putting it mildly
to say that the story “did not want to go away” even though it required a
great deal of research, rewriting, rethinking, retiming, and a quote by Peter
Wingfield himself. Boy that delete
button looked tempting at times! Now for the warnings:
If you dislike spoilers and have not seen the Andromeda episode THE
OTHERS – don’t read this. It’s all
here. Of course, my spin on the events
has little to do with what “actually” happened in what I thought was a very
dull episode, despite the presence of Peter Wingfield. There is also male/male sex, though not
very graphic – darn. I want to thank Allan Kemp, my cousin-in-law for information
on what could have been in the barrels of low level nuclear waste to make
them worth going after. It is nice to
have resources like that at the end of a telephone wire. Becky responded to the charge to find the
typos and help with sections that were not clear. Marilyn helped with a beta from the
Highlander side, and of course Uber-Dylan gave it one last read. Thanks! WASTE The battle-scarred star-fighter had exhausted its supply of
fuel and external weapons. The pilot,
a leader of the race of people who lived in the northern hemisphere of the
planet Trillin and called him General Lach, was certain that the enemy
craft he had been following was in similar shape. Now they both were drifting powerlessly in
space waiting to be rescued. His sensors had indicated the presence of a space ship that by
its very size could only be the Andromeda Ascendant. Stories of the ship and its captain, Dylan
Hunt, had reached him here almost at the edge of the universe. Who wouldn’t have wanted to believe that a
person who had survived for centuries at the edge of a black hole could be
the hero necessary to solve the problems of those humans who lived on Trillin? There were many things he wondered about
Dylan Hunt; his ability to survive wasn’t one of them. He dismissed the thoughts always present in
the back of his mind. Could Dylan be .
. . like him? Could he be . . . ?” There wasn’t really time for such speculation; Lach had to
continue as he had planned. Before he
was rescued, it was necessary to take dramatic action. He had to inoculate himself with the blood
carrying the plague which was now ravaging half of his planet. He didn’t bother with antiseptic wipes for
within hours the injection site would be indistinguishable from the other
festering wounds covering his body.
The needle went directly into a vein in his arm and within seconds he
was beginning to scratch the itching lesions appearing on his skin. To anyone who examined him it would appear that he was dying
of the plague that had been inflicted on the planet Trillin by the South
Worlders, the other race that inhabited the planet. Furthermore he would be carrying the agent
of the disease so that anyone who came in contact with his blood would be
infected. Despite his medical
training, albeit out-of-date, he had not been able to identify the cause,
only the method of infection. Perhaps
if the infection moved beyond his planet, someone would be able to find the
cause – even the cure. It was a
desperate measure, but he was not a stranger to such actions. Convinced
that he had done all he could do, Lach stretched out his long legs and leaned
back on his pilot’s seat. All he could
do now was wait for the hero to rescue him. EARTH 2012 “Enter the hero,” Methos thought as he heard the chime on the
security system. At least Still, Methos was not prepared to find The mythical time of the gathering was said again to be at
hand. Even mortals had again begun circulating their own "end of the world" tales. This time it was to occur on MacLoud's birthday. Immortals from all over the
world had converged and were fighting for the prize. MacLeod had joined the mix, not so much to
win, but to avenge the death of those immortals he called friends. For years Methos had argued that as long
as there were new immortals being created that the idea “that there could be
only one” was impossible. The prize
that had been talked about for millennia was only a method of imposing a
limitation on the number of immortals.
It was a lot like natural selection.
He never remembered discussing that concept with Charles Darwin, but
perhaps some other immortal had. But
to MacLeod it wasn’t about the prize; it was his being the hero. Tomorrow this was going to end. Tomorrow he would suggest to Mac that they
take a short trip to the high desert in ANCIENT Enyalios had died in some petty quarrel over hunting
rights. The bronze tipped spear used
by the enemy tribe was no match for his stone weapons. It had pierced his well defined chest and
sent him tumbling to the earth. Those
with whom he fought moved on, leaving him to the carrion and his first
revival. Those who found him did not
know that he had died several weeks before, but he had realized it from the
changes in the moon. From that time
forward he harbored thoughts that perhaps he was one of the gods about whom
those who found him told stories. He
was the brother of the moon and the sun. Since he had survived a battle and
now had the quality spear he’d found lodged in his chest, perhaps he was the
god of war. The idea of his godhood grew as his immortality was proved
again and again in battles. He had
always been a good fighter and now he had the best weapon. Even as weapons improved, he remained the
best. He could not die. Stories began to be told outside the area
and intermingled with those borrowed from others and modified to fit the
Greek way of life. One night four men on horseback rode out of the setting
sun. He knew immediately that they
were different from the local warriors he had fought. Their presence produced a pain in his head
like nothing he had ever felt, even when he returned from the dead. The place between his eyes, the area where
he had concluded that his godhood resided, throbbed and buzzed. He stared at their masked and tattooed
faces and realized that these were the gods.
They had come for him. Tonight
was the night that he would truly die, the end of his godhood. The pain in his head was still there when he revived in the
tent of the one whose face had been painted blue with woad. He was surprised that death had eyes that
flashed and a smile on his face as he reached down to him. Enyalios was taller and broader than his
captor, but he had no doubt that this god was holding him prisoner . . . or
worse. As he attempted to rise to his feet, his captor indicated that
he should remain on his knees. He knew
what was coming next. It was the act
he often asked of those who wanted the God of War’s blessing in the coming
battle. “I am Death . . . and
it is your job to please me.” Death
took his head and pulled it onto him.
He took Death
in his mouth and showed him that he had at least a colorable claim at being
called a god. * * *
* * It was all just play acting.
Lach’s goal was survival at all costs, and to do that he would have to
turn into whatever was appropriate.
In this time and place, or this particular spot on the time/space
continuum, his role was that of the general representing the North World of
his planet. Interaction with Hunt and his crew required him to play rude
and demanding. His enemy was there,
too. She was the representative of the
race that was coming close to destroying what he claimed to be his people and
he spat forth his contempt for her.
Less than one tenth of one percent of the original population of the
North Worlder’s remained. Unless the
disease could be stopped, they would all die, except for him, and that would
be hard to explain. He wished there had been enough time to facilitate the
exchange of his blood with Captain Hunt in a way other than a bite on the
neck. Right after the initial
determination that the captain was not like him, but probably a genetically
engineered human, the thought had crossed his mind. A thought embellished with candlelight,
fine food, alcohol, silk sheets, and . . . but a man with weeping lesions was
not a ripe candidate to conduct a successful seduction . . . so the bite
would have to do. The crew of the Andromeda would rally to save the hero. That is what always happened. * * *
* * Methos had always enjoyed
the daily changes in the desert air.
Even the warmest days would surrender their heat when the darkness
came. Although they were hundreds of
miles north of He was surprised at how
little coaxing it had taken to get Mac out of the city and into the high
desert. Perhaps too many of his
friends had died back there. Perhaps he was tired of being the hero. Perhaps he just needed time to think about
his life again. Perhaps it was just
being with his lover. Methos smiled
inside and admitted that only wishful thinking had allowed the last reason to
be included in the list. Mac had memories of his
cowboy days that he hadn’t shared with him.
Hell, he had memories of Kronos as Melvin Koren. Who knows with whom he had shared the
pillow of a saddle or watched the black desert sky? It didn’t really matter. All that mattered to Methos was survival
for both him and his lover. Today they had hiked in
the heat until they were ready to drop and then gathered wood for the fire
they would need when the day was done.
Methos longed to have had to kill their dinner, but Mac would have
none of it. Freeze-dried food
reconstituted from aluminum foil packets would have to do. Methos had feigned lack of hunger and
given some of his beef stroganoff to MacLeod who ate it with gusto. Equally ersatz eggs and oatmeal would be
available for breakfast. Tonight they
talked. Mostly about being immortal
and the pain of seeing your friends die.
For centuries he escaped its sting until he had met Alexa. Mac had felt that way about Richie and
Amanda. They both had tormented over
Joe, even though he was a mortal. Now
it was the thought of Mac dying, too, that kept him going with his diabolical
plot. Just before the
campfire burned out, as if prompted by an unseen director, they both removed
their clothes and the lovemaking began.
It was quiet and silent. Methos
took great care to explore all of Mac’s body with his mouth, despite the
rigorous physical activity of the day.
Wherever a vein came close enough to the skin to make a pulse, he
lingered and savored. He wanted Mac
in his memory for a long, long time.
Methos had mapped out a
trail for tomorrow’s hike that successfully masked the nature of the
mountain. He hoped that Mac would
concentrate on
the difficulty of the climb and not notice other small irregularities of the
area. The mountain they were going to
climb was nestled in a restricted area of federal land, to which few, had
access. Inside the mountain, hundreds
of feet below the surface, were man-made caves in which the by-products of
man’s experiments with the alchemy of the 20th century was now
being stored. Like * *
* * “You’re doing it again,
brother?” Kronos had a look of
disapproval on his face. “Just like
with that slave girl in the desert, you are keeping Enyalios all to
yourself.” “He’s a bed-warmer,
Kronos, a source of fleeting pleasure.
He means nothing to me.” He
knew that Kronos realized he was lying, but he continued. “If you’d like to borrow him, feel free,
but I hope you do a better job of returning him to me than you did with
Cassandra.” “Quite frankly, I don’t
care what you do with him, Methos, as long as you plan my raids and are
willing to warm my bed and give me fleeting pleasure when requested.” Methos nodded his
head. “The raid this week did go very
well.” He stated, choosing to ignore
the rest of the sentence. “Yes it did, but
Caspian and Silas are not happy that there are no new slaves. They wear them out so quickly you know.” “They’d last longer if
Caspian didn’t . . .” “And, they want to try
your friend Enyalios.” “And if Caspian has a
midnight craving . . .” “I’ll make him promise
not to eat him – at least not his brain.” “Enyalios is one of
us. He could be a member of our group
with proper training.” “Yea, like we need
another horseman who thinks he’s the fucking God of War.” Methos knew he had to
act quickly. His plan was simple,
edging on crude, but when his compatriots came to claim him, he told them
Enyalios had run away. They, of
course, did not notice the large bronze jar in the corner of his tent and
thus believed him. * *
* * * The Nietzschean
Telemachus Rhade was an attractive man, possessing the same long dark hair
and flashing eyes of many of Lach’s former lovers, but this was not the time
or place to think about seduction.
Rhade had flown back to Trillin with him planning to interrogate the
medical staff as to what they knew about the disease that was ravishing the
body of his captain. Lach had not realized
that Captain Hunt’s genetic engineering would cause the disease to spread
quickly causing cankerous lesions on his internal organs as well as his skin. Lach showed Rhade the
wall. What a symbolic nightmare. It had been built by his people, slaves for
the enemy who lived south of the equator, but their building skills could not
overcome the shoddy materials and ill-designed architecture. A large portion of it had fallen, and had
to be rebuilt by his side, using their slaves from the Southern race. The wall had served its purpose well in
dividing the enemies but was useless against disease warfare. As they walked through
the barrels of simple gelatinous fuel that later that day would be dumped on
his enemy, Lach felt a chill travel down his back. When he was certain that the Nietzschean
had relayed all the information available on the disease to his ship, Lach
disabled him and placed him in
a body bag. His people would find him,
sooner or later. He stopped, and
realized the irony embodied in that thought. Barrels and confinement
were part of a reoccurring scenario from which he might never escape. He had been living for years, centuries,
millennia repeating an act that he had not fully thought out when he used it the first
time. A plan forged at the beginning
of civilization that might be there to stop bringing about its end. But unlike Enyalios, Kronos, or MacLeod, at least this time
the confinement would be only temporary. * *
* * * EARTH 1300 BC “What are you doing brother?”
Kronos asked as he hovered over Methos’s shoulder. Methos sat at a table in their small house, lit by a single
oil lamp, and was carefully making marks on an animal skin. “It’s a new form of writing the Greeks have developed. A syllabic form of writing which can easily
be done with a stick dipped in a dye – like woad. You can write on skins of animals and roll
them up to read in the future. “Recording the story of
our last raid, so people can be terrorized forever when they read it” Kronos
commented. “Something like that.” “You drew pictures of our raids on cave walls. In “The Greeks are different.
They not only write to record what happens; they think about
thoughts. How and why things
happened. What could have been different. What you could learn from an experience.” “So what are you writing?” “Remember when I sealed Enyalios in the bronze jar to hide him
from Silas and Caspian. I’ve reworked
the story, turned our brothers into a pair of evil Titans – twins called Otus
and Ephiates. They capture Ares, the god of war
and take over “I remember Silas and Caspian calling out for women for months
after you hid your friend. They don’t
understand the more subtle aspects of . . .” “Never did, never will,” Methos added. “Anyway, I’ve been working on this for a
while and haven’t quite got the ending right.
In one version, Hermes saves Ares and in another Artemis agrees . . .” “But isn’t Artemis the virgin goddess of wild things.” “Dramatic license, brother, dramatic license.” Methos smirked. * * *
* * * Earth 2025 Dr. Ryan Dawson was a first year resident at St. Michael’s
Hospital in Then a few months ago, working late in the emergency room, a
young man named Jeffrey was
brought in clinging to life. His
ribcage had been pulled off collapsing his lungs, but his heart was still beating. He died on the gurney, but Dr. Dawson
insisted that his lungs be re-inflated.
The next morning, he realized that the miracle of immortality was
still present. For the first time in
decades he would have a student, and this time he could modify his teaching
so that the final reward would be survival, not some mythical prize. Training Jeffrey as to the ways of immortals had added yet
another dimension to the doctor’s full life.
His own physical training had been neglected as he worked long hours and
read twice as much as the normal medical student, now they worked out
together and he felt strong and fit.
Jeffrey talked about hiking and rock climbing and longed to go
west. The timing seemed right and a
trip had been scheduled in three months during a brief break at the beginning
of the summer. All seemed right with the world, that afternoon when he sat
down and picked up a newspaper. He
glanced at the front page and turned to the science pages. “ * * *
* * * Captain Hunt’s solution for curing the disease that ravished
Trillin, though not technically correct, would probably bring about the
desired effect. Lach had speculated
that the disease was caused by genetic deficiencies and could only be
remedied by mixing of the two races, but it was not something his people
would have believed if he had said it.
The hero, Captain Hunt, had proposed a solution which eventually both
sides would have to accept. Strangely enough, without knowing the reason, Hunt had
insisted that he be inoculated both with the blood of the South Worlder and
blood taken from Lach’s neck. Lach’s
blood with its immortal re-cooperative powers would have been enough to cure
him, but that was something he didn’t have to know. While not being completely sure that the people of Trillin
would be willing to tear down the wall and once again mix the races, both
sides were now so broken down that perhaps it could work.
After feigned outrage over the proposed interaction required for the solution, he
thanked Hunt. As soon as he was
certain that Trillin was on its way to peace and good health, he would leave
this far away world and again search for that illusive collection of waste
barrels for which he had been searching for millennia. * * *
* * “What is it Rommie?”
Seamus Harper had noticed a subtle change in the avatar’s facial
expression as she studied the readings on the digital chart. “It’s a very, very old piece of space junk, dating from the 21st
century Earth time. I am getting readings of various types of radioactive
materials including, and I have checked this several times to make sure, a
significant amount of Americium.” “Americium, atomic number 95, discovered by Glen Seaborg in
1945, Americium? Used as a source of
ionization for smoke detectors so every home had its own little source of
nuclear generation, Americium?” “The same.” “Any other transuranic elements?” “A few, some of which haven’t been produced for millennia.” “Holy freaking . . . we’re looking at a nuclear gold mine – so
to speak. All those years of salvage
and finally Beka and I have found something that will make us rich.” “Proceed carefully, Harper, the radioactive contents require
special handling, and I am still puzzled with the readings I have been
getting from one of the barrels.” McJude March 25, 2005 TREASURE Harper cut
open the metal barrel with his nano-welder. Without labels, he could only
guess as to its contents; but it had been heavy and difficult to move. As the
air had gushed inside, he swore he heard a gasp followed by a cough. He pulled
off the cover and stepped back, unsure if he wanted to look inside. He didn’t have
to look. A tall, dark man rose from the barrel. He was as tall as Captain
Hunt and as burly as Tyr. “I never
thought I’d say this,” Duncan MacLeod said, “but take me to your leader.” “I’d not
believe you except that I was caught in a black hole for three centuries.” Dylan
surveyed the longhaired stranger carefully. “That’s quite some story you tell
about a race of immortals. I’m surprised I’ve never encountered one.” “There’s
one in particular I believe might have survived.” The man
reached in his pocket and showed him a faded picture. Dylan smiled. “So, you
have seen him.?” “He goes by
the name of Lach and is on the only inhabited planet in the Trillin system.
But . . .” “But . . .” “He has the
plague.” “He’ll
live.” The two men
long separated eyed each other as “Why it’s
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” Lach smiled slightly. “I figured you
were dead.” “It was for
a few thousand years, until the barrel I was sealed in was salvaged and
opened.” “By the
crew of starship Andromeda none-the-less.” “It is
truly amazing that its captain not only believed my story but knew where to
find you. He told me about your illness from which you now seem to have
recovered.” “Did he
tell you I bit him on the neck?" If you enjoyed this story, let me know at mailto:mcjude2001@msn.com |