A Dish Served Cold
Kevin Robnett


----------------



Life was full of haze for Richie Ryan.  Dark shapes intruded through
the fog.  Some were phantoms, but others were definitely real.  The
pain they caused was real.  One in particular gained obvious delight in
hurting him.  He was force-fed food, his captors laughing when he
regurgitated it back up.  The slimy nourishment was left to dry on his
chest.  His naked skin felt clammy in the muggy heat.

A small part of him was actively trying to get his conscious attention.
Yelling that he must concentrate.  Fight his way back, fight the drugs
they were injecting in him to keep him helpless.  He didn't want to
listen.  He knew his arms hurt, and his shoulders were strained.  His
wrists were rubbed raw.  Consciousness he avoided, because that brought
pain and fear.  This mindless stupor only brought a small voice
whispering how he must concentrate....



2347 A.D.  --  Qo'noS, Klingon Homeworld



"...must concentrate, Human," B'Erell rather forcefully pointed out.
She backed him toward the wall, the sharp blade of the bat'telh between
his legs.  "This weapon has four points, each as deadly as the other.
You must avoid the entire weapon, or you are doomed."

Richie prayed he didn't trip on something as he stumbled back, trying
to escape the Klingon blade.  "Ah, yeah.  I guess I'm used to a single
point."  With dread, the Immortal felt his back hit the workout room's
wall.  B'Erell kept the sharp edge close to his crotch.

"That is not good enough, Human."  With a grunt, she drove the bottom
end point into the wall between Richie's legs.  The Immortal rose to
tiptoe, pressing himself into the wall as the other end point rushed to
his face.  "Meditate on that while I take a break."

The top point was barely sticking into Richie's forehead, keeping him
from moving his head.  He quickly released his breath, straining higher
to keep his privates from meeting the weapon's sharp edge. "B'Erell!"
She wasn't answering.  Carefully, he reached one hand around, trying to
get at one of the grips.  No luck.  "B'Erell, this isn't funny."

"This is not a lesson in comedy," the Klingon said in his ear, causing
the immortal's heart to jump in his chest.  Sweat broke out on his bare
torso.  "It is to see what you will do when....  How do you Humans say
it?  'Have your back against a wall?'"  B'Erell chuckled, nuzzling
Richie's bare shoulder.  "I want to see what you do."

He heard her move away again.  By the sound of it, she had reached the
water container and was gulping the liquid down.  Gritting his teeth,
Richie placed his palm against the bat'telh edge and pushed.  He felt
steel cut into his skin, warm blood seeping from the wound and dripping
down the blade.  With a grunt, his face screwed up in pain and
concentration, he pushed harder.  The blade point came away from his
forehead as the weapon pivoted down.  Another hard push and the blade
was far enough away he could step over the edge safely.  It was then he
felt the pain from the hand wound.  "Damn."

Richie stood beside the Klingon weapon, cradling his hand, already
feeling the wound heal.  "That was the Klingon response," B'Erell
pointed out as she approached.  "I was wondering what you would do."
She regarded him evenly.  "I have approached my superiors about your
proposed border withdrawal.  They reacted as I predicted; against the
measure."  With one hand, she grabbed the bat'telh and wrenched it out
of the wall.  Keeping an eye on Richie, she licked his still-warm blood
from the blade.  "I pointed out that a small force in the neighboring
system could easily recapture the planets, should our hostilities break
out again.  They relented, and will allow the measure to be included in
the treaty."

That had been Richie's plan all along.  It was becoming easier to deal
with the Klingons after he had learned the steps their thought
processes went through.  And how to couch the terms in ways they
understood.  "Good.  I still think it would be a whole lot faster if I
could talk to them myself."

"On that, we agree, Human," B'Erell replied.  "But only Klingons can
formally address the High Council.  We should at least be happy we can
bypass the imbeciles on the diplomatic arm."  For months, the
Federation diplomats had quietly been dealing through B'Erell, only
making the motions at the 'diplomatic meetings' still scheduled.

Richie wiped the last of the dried blood off his palm.  "Have you
considered my earlier idea?"  For weeks, they had been skirting the
issue he had brought up innocently enough one night.

"For you to become Klingon?  Yes."  She eyed Richie with a disapproving
tone.  "I do not think you can survive the trials.  Even some Klingon
adults do not live through them.  I still believe this is the best way.
We will talk of this no more."

The Immortal came close, rubbing his hands on her bare forearm. "There
may not be choice later on," he softly reminded her.

She grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling his head back.  Her teeth
brushed his neck as she lapped his skin.  "You have never had a choice,
toy'wI''a'," she replied in between light bites.  Richie just moaned,
feeling her other hand crawling down his shorts.

"Pardon the intrusion...," a husky male voice began.  B'Erell bit down
hard in frustration, causing Richie to gasp.  "Please, continue, I
don't mind watching.  Though I don't think a Human could put up much of
a struggle.  To be entertaining.  Apparently some Klingons like easy
prey."

B'Erell moved away, turning to face her brother, K'trik.  "What do you
want, loDnI'?"  Her hands were planted on her hips, her stance both
warlike and sexy as hell to Richie.  "I haven't seen you in a weapons
room in your life.  Or did you want to see how a real man does it? Take
notes?"

"I have come to have a word with you," the man barked.  He eyed Richie
with disgust and revulsion.  "Alone."  The hatred dripped of his words.
"Dulegh qatlh.  Human."  With a hiss, K'trik spat at Richie's feet.

B'Erell stuck an arm out, holding Richie back.  "He is much more a
warrior that you will ever be.  That is what I see in him."  She turned
to the Immortal.  "Leave us.  Clean yourself and be ready.  We are
meeting jup for supper."  To emphasis her words, she ran a hand across
his sweaty chest, adding a push backwards toward the changing rooms.
"I will be along when I can."

Richie turned and left, unable to miss K'trik's parting words.  "You
have him well trained.  At least you have found a man you can dominate
among aliens."  A small part of him warned not to miss this
confrontation.  Over the centuries he had learned to listen to it.  It
was usually right.  He quickly moved down the hall into the far room
and loudly slammed the door.  Then he quietly snuck to the weapon room
doorway, hiding in the shadows of the wall.  Even though his Klingon
was still spotty, he managed to catch most of the words.

"What do you want, brother dear?  You practically naDHa' me because of
the Human."  Her voice was shaken.  Richie guessed she was distressed
and moving.  "And, no, I have not changed my mind.  You and your ghom
can find someone else to spy on these proceedings.  I will not."

K'trik's voice took on a slimy, oily tone.  "We do not need you,
B'Erell.  There are many more people who can do just as well a job as
you."  His voice dropped to a whisper.  "I just wanted to spare you the
pain of being caught in the middle."

"Ha," B'Erell hissed back.  "I'm ghalh a Federation diplomat!  You only
wish you could say the same!  They are going to get what they came for,
and you and your anti-roj group will be left out in the cold.  You came
to me because you are ghIjpu'."

It was K'trik's turn to hiss.  "We will win.  And your little pet will
be broken Hommey on the street before we are done.  And we will be at
war with the Federation!  Nothing you can do will stop us."  At the
mention of war, Richie knew it was time to leave.  He quickly snuck
back to the changing area, and managed to strip and step into the
Klingon equivalent of a shower before B'Erell showed up.

"I am sorry my brother took so much of my time."  She stepped in, as
naked as Richie, and proceeded to help him wash his back.  "You are
still cleaning?  I did not work you that hard today."

The Immortal turned around, handing her the cleansing bar.  "I was
waiting for you," he replied with a smile.  Her eyebrow shot up, but
she didn't comment.  "So, tell me, what does ghalh mean?"

B'Erell grew grim, realizing Richie had overheard at least part of her
conversation with her brother.  Then the harshness melted.  "That was
also a very Klingon thing to do."  Her free hand moved down, encircling
a part of Richie he hadn't cleaned yet.  "This is ghalh," she said,
adding a jerk.

Richie inhaled sharply, responding quickly to her stimulation.  It
seemed supper was going to be delayed.  "Oh," was all he innocently
managed to say before her mouth closed on his, and then the Immortal
got a personal demonstration of ghalh.  A very comprehensive
demonstration at that.



It was very late.  The streets of Qo'noS were deserted.  Richie felt
the warm breeze as it blew under his jacket and caressed the silk
shirt.  His lips still smarted where B'Erell had bitten them.  And he
was wishing the stain in the front of his trousers would dry.  He
didn't want to transport up with that still visible.

A targ howled nearby, probably disturbed by his passage.  The Immortal
jumped anyway.  It was somewhat spooky.  Walking a dark, deserted
street on a strange planet.  He wished the trousers would hurry up. The
waiting finally  became to much.  His hand snaked under his jacket,
lightly tapping his communicator in the interior pocket. "Ryan to
Intrepid.  One to...."

He felt the body behind him first.  Training took over and he ducked,
letting the arm or weapon pass over him.  With his hands on the street
to stabilize, he kicked backward, feeling the solid contact of his boot
on a body.  Someone grunted in pain.  Quickly, he rolled, his sides
coming in contact with another set of legs.  Suddenly, there were arms
everywhere, reaching for him.

·Sir?  Mr. Ryan?·

"I'm being..." Richie managed to gasp before a boot connected with his
stomach.  "Ooff," he finished.  Hands reached for his arms, pulling him
from his fetal position.  They lifted him until he was standing
unsteadily.  Another fist pounding his gut, but the hands wouldn't let
him bend over.

"yltamchoM, Human. Qit Hegh."  The hands restrained him as he
struggled.  His stomach radiated pain.  Fingers dug into his hair,
forcing him to look at the hooded figure and the dagger it brandished.
With a click, the two side points appeared and the hooded figure drove
the d'k tang into Richie's chest.  The figure precisely moved the knife
to the side, cutting the carotid artery.  The knife proceeded downward
as the Immortal screamed, trapped by the hands.

·Initiating emergency beam out.  Hold on·

The Klingon with the knife reached into the opening that had just been
made, grabbing a handful of Richie's guts and pulling them out.  As the
whine of a Federation transporter sounded, the hands released the
Immortal.  Richie collapsed on the ground, in pain.  "Noooo..."  His
final scream died off as the transporter whisked him away.



"Noooo," Richie screamed and struggled in his stupor.  One final jerk,
and the braces holding the wrist manacles parted from the ceiling,
allowing the Immortal to collapse on the floor.  Remembered agony
coursed through his helpless body as it thrashed uncontrollably.
"Nooo...."



Pretar sat up suddenly on the Sickbay bed, clutching his chest. "Nooo,"
he wailed.  The shout drew the attention of Dr. Simmons as he worked in
his office.  "They're killing him," Pretar whispered as the medical
staff surrounded him.  "By the Rings, they're killing him."



----------------



The Sickbay doors opened on Methos.  His first sight was the doctor and
nurse bending over Captain Lorrict in the surgical bay.  "What's the
emergency?" the Immortal asked.

Dr. Simmons looked up.  "The Captain regained consciousness
momentarily.  Said something like 'no' and then 'they're killing him'."
The CMO turned to the nearest display, checking the readings. "He seems
to be comatose again."

"Well, that's just great.  Anything else going on?"  Methos heard his
tone get snippy, but he was too wired to care.  This was turning into a
very bad week.  A very bad thirty-three years, he reminded himself.
"Sorry.  Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how is he?"

"Oh, fine," Dr. Simmons replied.  "He's responding well to the
medication.  That brief moment of lucidity is a good sign."  The
Immortal's agitated fidgeting drew the doctor's attention.  "What
happened to you?" Jarvis asked as he pointed to the torn trouser leg.

Methos waved it off.  "We were clearing Ops and another support pillar
clipped it.  The ensigns on the bridge decided I needed immediate
medical attention, so they...."

·Bridge to, ah, Mr. Pierson?·

"Use Preston.  Go ahead," Methos replied to Harry's call.  What else
has gone wrong? he wondered.  There wasn't much more that could happen.
The Immortal quickly clamped down on that train of thought. As soon as
I come up with something really truly horrible, some variation will
occur.

·We're being hailed.·

Surprise, Methos wanted to shout.  Good news for once.  "It's not a
Ferengi or anything, is it?"  That would really make my day.  "Second
thought, don't worry about it.  Go ahead and patch it down here." There
was a brief second of static, and the channel cleared.  It took maybe a
second for Methos to run through his telephone answer replies. Prudence
won out.  "Go ahead."

·This is Commander Riker of the USS Enterprise.  It looks like you need
some assistance.·

"Commander...Preston, temporarily in command.  So good of you to find
us."  It took a moment for the shock to wear off the Immortal.  They
built another one!  Can't they come up with another name besides
Enterprise?  "Ah, yes.  We do need some assistance.  I was
wondering...."

A wall panel near the doctor's office suddenly exploded in a large
shower of sparks.  Luckily, no one was near it at the time.  Shards
flew out and acidic smoke billowed from inside the destroyed panel. The
nurse chose that rather opportune time to scream.  Methos dropped to
the floor.  Secondary explosions, smaller than the first, continued.
Using a console for a shield, the Immortal crawled toward the Captain. 
He knew the doctor was in that general area and the rest of the people
in Sickbay had been near the doors.

·Get them out of there, Mr. Worf.·

"I'm way too old for this level of excitement," Methos muttered under
his breath.  He moved through the smoke, running head first into a
diagnostic scanner.  "Damn," he cursed.  He waved his hand in the area
in front of him to find any obstructions.  He found another body. "Are
you hurt?" he asked.

The face of Dr. Simmons loomed from the smoke.  He was also on the
floor.  "No.  Just enjoying the cool night air out here on the
terrace."  The doctor chuckled at the Immortal's perturbed look.
"Actually, I've pulled Pretar onto the floor with me...."

The doctor never had a chance to finish, at least on the Intrepid. The
loud whine of a transporter filled Methos' ears and the smoke and
explosions vanished, to be replaced by a calm, cool atmosphere. "...for
safety," Dr. Simmons finished.  Then a mass of medical personal helped
the doctor lift Pretar onto a bed.

The Immortal found himself in a room almost twice the size of the
Sickbay he just vacated.  Probably twenty personnel moved about, most
assisting with Captain Lorrict.  A few others were checking on the rest
of Intrepid crew members who were in Sickbay at the time of the
explosion.  A silent alarm decided to remind the Immortal to pick
himself off the floor.  "How are you?" a feminine voice asked behind
him after he stood.  Methos unconsciously reacted by turning around and
opening his mouth to speak.  He never got as far as words.

For the first time in a century, the oldest living Immortal was
speechless.  His eyes focused on red hair first, then slid easily over
a sparkling face.  The mouth was quirked in the start of a smile, and
the smell of her perfume....  Methos wanted to close his eyes and
breathe deeply, but his body would not respond to his request.  He just
stood there, mouth open as he looked at the vision of loveliness in
front of him.

The woman's eyes glanced across his face, resting on his forehead. The
upturned lips fell into a frown, her deep eyes taking on a touch of
concern.  "You're hurt," she pointed out.  Her hands reached for his
arms and guided him backwards to a bed.  He stiffly sat, still unable
to look away.

"Not since the statues of Aphrodite," he breathed.  She didn't hear
him.  The woman was already digging for a medical tricorder.  Methos'
heart skipped a beat when she turned back to him and he could once
again gaze on her beauty.  "'For now, the beauty of the Moon pales
against your golden face...'"

Her attention was focused on his forehead.  "Possible concussion. Deep
scalp wound.  I need a dermal regenerator."  The woman mumbled to
herself as she worked.  Her words awoke a part of Methos he had been
ignoring.

"I'm fine," he suddenly said as he grabbed her wrist.  All his
protection instincts had kicked in.  Whoever this person was, her
attention was dangerous.  Medically speaking.  "How 'bout dinner?" he
asked, drastically changing the subject.

The woman looked exasperated.  "You have a serious head wound," she
pointed out.  When the Immortal didn't respond, she went on. "Possible
head trauma.  Chance of concussion...."

"Two cc's of trianoline," Methos finished for her.  "I know the drill.
I'll be fine."  The Immortal tried his patented smile.  "You didn't
answer me about dinner."  Maybe I should try cute.

The woman rewarded him with another smile, this one more forced.  "If
you don't cooperate, I'll have security hold you down."  She reached
again for the regenerator, but Methos pulled her back.  That lit the
fire in her eyes.  They blazed as fiery as her hair.

"It will be fine," he insisted.  But it was too late.  Her eyes widened
as she looked at his forehead.  The wound was healing in front of her
eyes.  Methos tried to resist a sigh.  It got so predictable after
that.  Most of the time, the woman would then look into his face, her
eyes full of distrust and horror.  The words 'monster' and 'inhuman'
would be thrown out.  Your basic Frankenstein story on fast-forward and
without the commercials.  The only other reaction he had ever seen was
the mad scientist mode.  He would stop being a man and lover, and turn
into a cash cow.  Lab rat.  Hell, he had even been dragged out of bed
and thrown naked into a laboratory cage.  At least that was better than
being burned at the stake.  That had been a bummer.

Granted, nowadays, with all the aliens running around, things were much
simpler.  "No."  Sometimes "oh my god, no."  A scream every now and
then.  Whomever the woman, explaining about Immortality destroyed his
love life. Whatever the reaction this woman would make, Methos already
felt the rejection.  And she never got a chance to answer me about
dinner.

"Oh," was all she said.  She grabbed the medical tricorder again, ran a
quick scan, and set it down.  "I'll give you a ten minute pain
reliever.  Let me know if you feel any dizziness in the next hour or
so.  Just to rule out a concussion, I want to scan you again in thirty
minutes."  Her hand firmly removed his from her arm and flashed him her
best smile.  "And I'll think about dinner."  Methos just stared at her
again as she injected the medication in his arm.

The Immortal's heart would not stop pounding.  His mouth felt like it
was filled with sand.  He couldn't take his eyes off of her.  Even in a
medical service uniform, she looked fit and healthy.  And she was
walking away from him.  "Wait," he called out, loud enough to draw
everyone's attention.  He didn't care.  "What's your name?"

"Beverly," the red-haired woman replied over her shoulder before she
waltzed out of the room.



----------------



Richie cowered naked in the corner.  He was a fast learner.  It was
harder for the people to kick him when he was pressed into the corner.
That never stopped them from dragging him out into the middle of the
room to kick him anyway.  But it did give a brief respite from the
pain.

It didn't help that he healed so quickly.  Just as soon as one injury
went away, they hurt him there again.  And again.  No one asked him any
questions.  No one demanded access codes.  They just wanted to hurt
him.  And they were doing a pretty good job.

A rough hand grabbed his hair and lifted his head.  The cold hard steel
of a dagger caressed his throat again.  Richie shivered as the sharp
edge brushed his skin.  The point would dance across his chest and
shoulders, winding around his arms and sides.  Sometimes it would draw
blood, sometimes just threaten and tease.  An evil laugh would echo as
the knife pirouetted around.  It would make lazy circles on his
unprotected stomach.  Never was it predictable.

Richie knew intellectually how much damage a d'k tang could do.  He had
been on the receiving end more than a few times.  This wasn't the usual
thrust and kill use.  Part of the terror now was never knowing when the
blade would strike.  Was this cut the start of the end?  But the edge
never penetrated too deeply, never cut into anything vital. It was
maddening.

"I want to see you die," a voice suddenly hissed in his ear.  The
dagger plunged unerringly into Richie's heart.  Steel dug into his
chest, his warm blood heating the icy blade.  His mouth opened in
shock, but no sound came out.  He died slowly, feeling the d'k tang
twist about in his chest.  Each breath he wished would be his last. Or
that darkness would come.  But every second turned into another and
another.  The pain became worse, each plateau a new level of torment.
He knew tears were streaming down his face, but he had no energy to
stop them.  Or to beg for the torture to stop.  That's all he wanted,
for the pain to stop.  But for an Immortal, it never does.

One final gasp, and Richie's body was still.  His eyes remained open to
gaze unseeing on his tormentor's face.  No Klingon present dared howl. 
The blood stopped spurting out of the Immortal's chest.  His skin
turned paled and clammy.  No more air was pulled into his lungs. For a
brief moment, Richie Ryan was at peace.



"He's gone into shock," a nurse called out.  Bedlam erupted in the
Enterprise Sickbay as both Beverly and Dr. Simmons closed in on Captain
Lorrict as he lay unconscious on the main biobed.  "Doctor, I'm reading
elevated psilosynine levels in the paracortex.  Rapid heart rate."

Methos sat helplessly on a side bed as Dr. Crusher bent over the
Betazoid.  "Deanna Troi to Sickbay.   I need a neuroinhibiter, Alyssa."
The nurse quickly moved to a replicator.  "Dr. Simmons?"

The tall doctor was on the other side of the bed, scanning the captain
with a medical tricorder.  "I see no physiological cause for this
reaction," he informed them.  A hiss echoed in the room as the nurse
administered the medication.  "That stabilized his heart rate, but his
metaconscious is going crazy."

"I've never seen anything like it before," Beverly pointed out.  Her
eyes flicked to the large diagnostic display on the Sickbay was that
was now continually updating Pretar's condition.  "It's like he's being
barraged with an overload of mental information."  She turned back to
the nurse.  "Let's get the surgical support frame on him.

Within seconds, the two women were moving the large frame into position
over the captain.  Dr. Simmons assisted and continued to try and
stabilize Pretar's heart rate.  "It's dropping again," he pointed out
as one of the indicators on the wall display changed to red.  "Ten cc's
tricoraleen."

A black-haired woman chose that instant to enter Sickbay.  She was
dressed in a provocative light blue number that Methos found appealing,
but hardly fitting on a Starfleet vessel.  She glanced at him, and he
noticed her dark, wide eyes.  She's a Betazoid.

The newcomer advance slowly to the group around the captain. "Beverly,"
she called hesitantly.  When the doctor moved away from the bed, she
got a good look at the person on it.  "Pretar!"

"Deanna," Beverly replied.  "He's gone into some kind of neural shock.
We're trying to stabilize him."  As the doctor talked, she moved Deanna
off to the side, their view of the bed blocked by the staff. "Can you
think of any reason this could be happening?"

Dr. Simmons let out an expletive.  "I need a neural stimulator.
Quickly."  Julia slipped in between the Enterprise personnel to place
one in his hand. It was interesting for the Immortal to watch both sets
of medical staffs interacting in this emergency. "He's stabilized."

The Enterprise nurse appeared again.  "His paracortex has begun to
deteriorate.  And the psilosynine levels are still off the scale." Dr.
Crusher just shook her head and plowed back into the fray.  Most of the
staff was running around, but nothing seemed to help.  They were just
shoving a lot of drugs into the unconscious Betazoid.

"Wait a minute," Deanna said, grabbing Beverly's arm.  "This has
happened before."  The female Betazoid looked around helplessly as she
tried to remember.  "Someone was telling me about...."  A look of
horror and recognition crossed her face.  "His bonded just died.  This
is just like when Donald was killed, only much slower."

Dr. Simmons absently nodded.  "I read the report."  He motioned for
Julia and whispered in her ear.  She nodded once and handed him a
hypospray.  The Intrepid's doctor reached for the injector and then
administered the medication.

Beverly leaned over the surgical frame.  "How do we lower the
psilosynine levels?"  She looked from Deanna to Jarvis, both of which
looked grim.  Neither one answered.  "What the hell do we do?"

"We don't do anything," Dr. Simmons responded angrily.  Methos gaped in
shock.  Apparently Beverly was shocked as well.  "The only thing that
saved him last time was finding a suitable, willing telepath to bond
with him.  He's not going to be that lucky a second time."

Dr. Crusher was not liking the defeatist attitude in the room.  "And
what if we don't find anyone like that real soon?"

"Most of them die," Deanna answered as tears began to stream down her
face.  She hugged her sides as she watched the captain on the bed.
Beverly wasn't going to take it lying down.  She motioned for the
nurse, and the two held a quiet conference at the head on the biobed.

The words barely made sense to Methos.  "Let's try a series of neural
accelerators.  If we can get...."  Beverly suddenly gasped in shock,
startling everyone in the room.  The doctor quickly looked down to find
Captain Lorrict's hand over hers.  Pretar's mouth moved, but no words
came out.  Dr. Simmons bent over his face and strained to hear.

"No...." was the Betazoid's first word.  "Need water."  A nurse
appeared instantly nearby, a water container and tube in his hand.
Gently, Deanna placed the tube in his mouth and everyone watched as
Pretar sucked in the water.  "Sleep now," he told her when he was
finished.  His eyes closed as the display readings stabilized.  It was
then Methos realized he was holding his breath.



"You should try and sleep," Beverly pointed out to Methos, some time
later.  Sickbay was almost deserted.  Deanna had taken a bed to Methos'
left, and Dr. Simmons had returned to the Intrepid once he was sure
Pretar would be fine.  The only active souls were the Immortal and Dr.
Crusher.  "I could give you a sedative...."

Methos shook his head.  "No, thanks.  I'm too wired for drugs to help
anyway."  He was surprised to find how worried he had been for the
Betazoid.  How worried he still was for Richie.  The Immortal didn't
think he could sleep until everything was resolved.

"We shouldn't be talking in here," Beverly pointed out.  She smiled a
quirky smile that Methos could barely make out in the darkened room.
"Why don't you join me in my office for tea."  She moved away slightly.
"And maybe dinner."  That was the best offer Methos had had in 400
years.



Methos pushed his empty plate to the side.  "So what did happen to
Pretar?" he asked.  They had settled for minor pleasantries while they
ate, but now they were finished.  Beverly wiped her mouth and likewise
moved her plate out of the way.

"More wine?" she offered.  Beverly filled both their glasses as she
talked.  "It's usually fatal for a Betazoid to experience the death of
a person he is telepathically bonded to."  She continued when Methos
didn't respond.  "Some Betazoids form a mental link with their life
partners.  When one dies, the other one does as well, unless certain
steps are taken beforehand."

Still confused, Methos took a swig of his drink.  "So somewhere in the
universe, his spouse just died.  But Pretar's stabilized and will be
fine.  Why is everyone still depressed?  Did you know her?"

Beverly shook her head.  "I'm sorry, I thought you knew.  Being on the
Intrepid, well, I guess we all assumed...."

The Immortal felt himself getting agitated.  "It seems I don't know. It
wasn't someone on the Intrepid?"  After five thousand plus years, he
still hated being the last to find out something.

The doctor leaned in close, grabbing Methos' hands.  "Whoever has
Richard just killed him.  And by now, they know what he truly is."

Methos wasn't stupid.  He quickly added up the numbers and found his
answer.  Richie and Pretar were telepathically linked.  That explains
the conference room.  Hell, that explains a lot of things.  Why didn't
I see it?  The Immortal focused his eyes on Beverly.  "So Richie and
Pretar are...what?  Lovers?"

The doctor laughed at that.  "Oh, no.  I guess I need to tell you more
of the story."  She reached for her glass and settled back in her
chair.  Methos suddenly wished for a blazing fire.  "Pretar's partner
was killed about three years ago.  Richard was nearby and they managed
to transfer the bond and save Pretar's life."  She smoothly switched
into analytical mode.  Methos watched her eyes get a far off look. "It
may have helped that the new bond was weaker, or maybe it's just
deteriorated over time...."

The Immortal found he enjoyed how this woman's mind took off on a
tangent.  Dinner had been more than he hoped, and talking to her was
pure excitement.  "It sounds like you know him very well."  Methos
intentionally left out whom he was referring to.  After all, Pretar's
cousin Deanna was her co-worker.  And she could have found out about
Richie's Immortality the same way it happened today.  By accident.

Beverly came back to the present, leaving the problem alone for now.
"Richie?  Of course.  He was my husband's legal guardian for a bit."

Methos almost spewed out his wine.  He choked as the liquid went down
the wrong way.  "I'm sorry," he apologized between coughs.  That little
bit of information caught him off guard.  He found it odd he was more
surprised that Richie had taken responsibility for someone than that
this lovely creature was married.  "It just threw me."

Beverly winked once she saw he was all right.  "Don't worry.  He's been
dead for quite some time."  She added another smile as she gazed at the
Immortal over her wine glass as she sipped.

"No, I meant Richie..." he said before he could stop.  He chastised
himself for letting his defenses down around this woman.  "I never
could picture Richie as the fatherly type."  He had expected Beverly to
frown at that revelation.  But instead, she still had a knowing little
grin plastered on her face.

"Well, it did happen suddenly, and Jack was...fifteen at the time.  He
never thought of Richard as his father, but a good close male friend he
could talk to.  They mainly looked out for each other."  It seemed
Beverly had a few good memories about the past.  Her face was happy and
dreamy.  "Have you known Richard long?" she asked abruptly, catching
Methos in some wishful thinking of his own.

The Immortal wondered briefly how much to tell her.  "Almost four
hundred years.  I met him through Duncan MacLeod."  She nodded at the
mention of the Highlander.  "I've run into him a couple of times over
the centuries, usually because of Duncan.  You might have heard things
are...strained."

He found his glass empty and reached for the bottle.  "You two are
hardly friends," she observed.  Methos shrugged.  "I find that
surprising.  Richard isn't the type of person who makes many enemies.
Unless you're...."  Beverly paused a moment.  "...after his head?"

The Immortal found that extremely funny.  "No.  That's the farthest
from my mind."  There had been an occasion, once or twice, when the
young Immortal had let his defenses down, and felt cold steel at his
neck because of Methos.  "I'm not a head hunter."

"Then what?" Beverly asked.

Methos eyed her as he pulled his legs up into the chair.  This was
turning into a very cozy after-dinner conversation.  He weighed the
truth and a lie.  "Truth?" he finally asked, placing the decision on
her.  She eagerly nodded.  The Immortal noticed the spark had returned
to her eyes.  "I learned, a very long time ago, not to get attached to
very young Immortals.  They tend to die rather quickly."



2039 B.C. - Mesopotamia, Earth



"Arista," Methos gently called.  The body in his arms did not hear, the
head almost a yard away did not answer.  They had worked so hard,
daily, but it had been for naught.  The new Immortal's second challenge
had been his last.  And his teacher would be the one to bury him, just
like the last.

Methos had tried, very hard, to impart a little of his skill, his
knowledge to the fledgling he had taken under his wing. Enough so that
the young Immortal might survive until he had skill of his own.  But it
didn't work.  It never worked.  Not one of his students ever survived
long outside of his protection.  Not one in a thousand years...



"And Richard..." Beverly gently prodded.

"Richie was as green and naive as they come."  He was finding it less
awkward then he had thought it would be to talk about things with this
woman.  "He wasn't raised a fighter.  He was a street punk, a thief.
Granted, there were basic survival skills there, but the will to fight?
To kill?  Hardly."

"So what do you think happened?" Beverly asked.  Her glass was empty as
she set it on the desk.  "Wait, hold off answering that.  Would you
like to go someplace more comfortable, maybe some coffee?"

Score, Methos resisted shouting.  It may have been a while since he had
been invited to a lady's bedroom, but he wasn't that out of practice.
It was a disappointment when she showed him the large lounge, 'Ten-
Forward' she had called it.  At the moment, it was dark and empty.
They sprawled on a side couch, the better to see the stars streaking by
out the windows, as a quiet waiter brought over hot coffee.

"Where were we...," Methos continued.  He wondered if he should try an
accidental body contact.  Probably not while they were talking about
Richie.  "Why has Richie survived?  Luck.  A whole truckload of lucky
breaks."  He looked back at Beverly, who waited for him to continue.
"Oh, being taken in by Duncan.  Winning his first few challenges.  I
heard his first head was an accomplished fighter over eight hundred.
That was luck."  A brief flash of their disastrous holodeck excursion
awoke.  "And I never knew it before, but he has a burning desire to
live.  That's a strong part of surviving through the centuries.  You
know, in many ways, he reminds me of Duncan at four hundred."

Beverly took another sip.  "I remember a friend of Richard's.
Greg...Collins, I believe.  Although, I think he used Powers when
Richard first met him.  He was...is a holoprogrammer.  Very intense.
One night, he compared Richard and Duncan for Jack and me.  It was
interesting to hear about the famous Highlander from someone else."

That intrigued Methos.  He had heard Duncan mention a Greg before.
"Tell me."

"This was a while ago, and I don't have an Immortal's sterling memory,"
she warned.  "He said Duncan was blazing passion.  Richie was colder,
but no less intense.  Certainly not weaker, by any means.  The
Highlander was the sun, Richard the gossamer moonlight.  Two versions
of the same brilliance."  Her eyes took on a wistful look.  "I'd like
to meet this Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod someday."

A pang of jealousy zipped through Methos.  "That was an interesting
comparison.  I'm sure you'd like Duncan.  A lot."  It tormented the
Immortal that after having successfully outlived the Greek gods, he was
competing with a stinking Scottish barbarian.  "He's very...appealing."

Methos had turned away from Beverly.  He didn't see her hand moving
until it rested on his arm.  "Silly.  I want to meet the person who
helped shape Richard during his formative years.  I've already seen
pictures of him.  Nice, if you go for the sturdy-as-an-ox type.  I
don't, though."

The Immortal raised an eyebrow as he placed his hand over hers.  "And
what type do you go for?  The cerebral?  Witty?  I can even do cute."
Things were coming back around.  The sympathetic contact was getting
better and better.  Until Beverly dashed his hopes with her next words.

"The mortal types," she sadly answered as she slipped her hand out of
his grasp.  There were more levels to her words than she let on. Methos
accepted the fact there would be nothing more than lively conversation
and harmless flirting between them.  "I need to check in on Pretar."

The Immortal handed off his cup to a passing waiter.  "I'll go with
you," he said with a smile.  "So, tell me.  What has our little Richie
been up to this last century?  Besides the Intrepid."  The pair briskly
walked arm in arm out the wood doors.

"Well, I first encountered the dread Professor Ryan for ethics class at
the Academy.  That was long before I met Jack...."  The doors closed on
her story, returning the deserted lounge to peace once more.



----------------



Richie wished he knew what peace was.  His tormentors had come back for
him, more sadistic than ever.  They were dragging this out.  In any
other hands, he would have broken long before now.  But it seems they
weren't after information.  Just his pain.

A hand grabbed his hair and dragged him to his feet.  His head lolled
to the side, spittle dripping down his chin.  The Immortal had stopped
caring about anything but the pain.  "I wonder if you can die from
sheer agony," the voice whispered in his ear before he was released and
his body crumpled to the floor.

He heard it then.  A sound dredged up from his memory.  The
unmistakable whine of a 'oy'naQ, a Klingon painstick.  The bright light
of the tip forced its way through his clenched eyelids as the whine
became louder.  Then the stick touched his skin and he screamed. His
universe burst into blinding white agony...



2347 A.D.  --  "Federation Embassy", Qo'noS



"I say again, I do not like this," Riva cautioned.  His voice came from
behind and left of the Immortal, but the Ramatisian was in front of
Richie, fidgeting like a schoolgirl.  "We can find another way around
this," the female Wisdom urged again.  Riva's eyes were fearful.  What
was being planned was dangerous to fully prepared Klingons.  And for a
human to try it....

Richie tried to placate him.  "I won't die, and this will only help our
cause."  The Immortal smiled.  "Besides, isn't it dangerous to not use
all the means at our disposal?"  He glanced sideways to catch Sarek
pacing across the room.

The Vulcan stopped.  "It may be logical to...reiterate one's words for
them at a later date.  It is not logical to equate the two events."
Richie raised an eyebrow.  "But then again, you are not known for your
logic."  Sarek bowed.  "I will leave you to your meditation."  With
precise steps, he left.

"I too must go," Intellect offered for Riva.  The Ramatisian also left,
followed by most of his chorus.  Richie watched them leave, knowing the
worst part was ahead of him.  Waiting.

Nostrum moved in front of him.  "They're right, Teacher.  You are not
fully prepared for this."  The young prince had spent the morning
assisting in Richie's dressing.  A specially tailored outfit had been
made for him.  He had been surprised how comfortable the Klingon
clothing had been once he had it on.  It had always been assumed that
part of the reason Klingons were so grouchy was the outfits. Especially
the boots.  He peeked down at the cumbersome pointed toes he was
currently wearing.

"I just hope no one gets a picture of me like this," Richie joked,
trying to lighten the mood.  Nostrum smiled as he reached out and
adjusted the leather overlay again.  In the last year, Richie had grown
rather fond of the young man, and he could tell this was upsetting.
"I'll be fine."



The Ascension chamber was full of smoke and heat.  A small crowd of
onlookers had already gathered in the halls surrounding the sacred
room.  K'trik glared as Richie walked past, accompanied by B'Erell and
Nostrum.  Murmurs followed along through the crowd.  It felt like the
Immortal was walking to his execution.

"Remember, the nentay is a test of your spiritual worthiness," B'Erell
instructed as they walked.  "You must reveal your innermost thoughts
while under duress.  On those, you will be judged.  You must not turn
back.  You must not show weakness."

Nostrum snorted on the other side of the Immortal.  "And dying is
definitely not acceptable," he sarcastically added.  B'Erell looked as
if she would kill the prince on the spot, but Richie stopped her.

"He's as worried as you are," Richie pointed out.  Then time ran out,
and the trio stood before the entrance.  B'Erell and Nostrum entered
and moved to the far side, where the Klingon's family would normally
wait.  Between them and Richie, two risers flanked a pathway.  Four
Klingons stood on each, all showing some degree of anticipation at the
ritual ahead.  It was Richie's task to walk the path to the other side.
He hoped it would be as simple as that.

"I have come to take the Rite of Ascension.  I am of Age.  I come to
attain a new level of enlightenment."  He stepped forward and stopped
between the first set of Klingons on either side.  With restrained
glee, they poked him with 'oy'naQ.  His skin turned red as his muscles
jumped from the agony.  Richie's arms dug into his sides, unconsciously
trying to protect himself.  A wave of nausea flowed over him.  "I am
frightened," he admitted, his voice ringing in the gloomy chamber, "but
I do what I must."  Again the first two stabbed him with the sticks,
agony pouring over him.  "I do this to stop the mindless bloodshed
between our two people."

He stumbled forward to the next set.  "Honor is not found in mindless
butchering," he began.  His scream cut off the rest of the sentence.
His face was twisted in pain, flushed and red.  His voice jumped three
steps.  "Honor is in facing your enemy and looking him in the eye.
Challenging him to fight."  His feet carried his bent body forward. He
was half way there.  "Your sword is a part of you.  A true warrior...."
The third set of sticks touched him, on shoulder and hip.  "Aaaaaaa,"
the Immortal cried as he fell to his knees.  Even that move brought no
relief; the 'oy'naQ followed him down.  When it was over, he was on the
floor, breathing heavily.

His voice was raspy as he finished his sentence.  "A...true warrior
lives by the codes of honor.  They are his refuge."  Somehow, he
managed to crawl to the final position, the last two Klingons waiting
until he stood before touching the sticks to his body.  "Death
before...."  Richie had nothing left to give.  His body jerked from the
pain as blood ran from the Immortal's tearducts.  They let him have
three tortured breaths before they touched him again.  His scream of
torment echoed savagely in the room.

Silence descended as the assemble crowd held their breath.  Richie
voice was soft and labored, but still audible in the quiet.  It was
full of gasps and wheezes.  "I do not fight...for glory or fame.  For
money or...causes.  I do not lay down...my life for others, or risk
my...existence for peace or prosperity.  I fight because...to not do so
would make me...something other than I am.  I fight to protect...my
name and my honor.  I fight so no man...will challenge my word."

It took another ten minutes for the Immortal to crawl the final meter.
No one helped.  No one left.  They waited for the man who would be
Klingon to finish what was started.  And by God, he did.  He reached
his friends at the far side and collapsed into their arms.  The pain
was over, for now.

"What name do you wish to be known among the Honorable?"  A deep
Klingon voice boomed in the chamber.

"Rich...ie," the Immortal gasped.  It was too hard to say anything
else.

"And your father's name?" the voice asked.

That question Richie wasn't prepared for.  Mentally voicing a small
prayer for forgiveness, he uttered, "MacLeod."

The voice continued.  "You are R'chIy', son of M'QlowD.  You have found
the enlightenment you have been seeking.  Behold a warrior of honor
arises today!"  And the shouts echoed in the Ascension chamber,
mirrored by shouts in the hallways and corridors.  The shouts continued
out into the streets and on into the night.  The Klingons had welcomed
R'chIy'.



"You fool!" an angry voice spat.  The painstick was dragged from
Richie's side and the Immortal heard sounds of a scuffle.  He was too
weak to open his eyes, let alone understand or answer the questions
that followed.  Someone growled nearby.  "Clean him up and let him
rest.  Then we will find out what is going on."



After a quick shower to remove the dried blood, Richie was given a work
overall two sizes too big.  They also left the manacles on his wrists
as he washed up.  Two burly Klingons stood guard at the door while he
slept.  It was amazing how much a short nap and wash could improve an
Immortal's outlook.  Good as new, Richie dryly thought.

Dinner was brought to him.  He sniffed the various bowls settling on
gagh and a little of the ro'qegh'Iwchab.  Every time he thought of it
as blood pie, he gagged.  It really was quite tasty, despite its
nauseating consistency.  "Want some of this?" Richie asked the guards,
just to antagonize them.

"Come with us," another set of guards ordered when they appeared.
Richie got his first clear look at the Klingon bird-of-prey.  An old
one, by his calculation.  Probably before they started calling them the
K'Vort class.  He figured out his location fairly quickly, surprised he
was being escorted toward the bridge.  His confusion ended when he saw
who was there.

Gowron, leader of the Klingon High Council was watching for the
Immortal's entrance.  "R'chIy'" he acknowledged, adding a small bow
used with honored elder warriors.  A few Klingons surrounding him
looked less than pleased.  Downright hateful, in fact. "Congratulations
on your anniversary."

"Chancellor," Richie replied.  He hid a small smile of his own as the
formal greeting was exchanged.  If the ruler of the Klingon people
wished a small display of ceremony, then so be it.  "The Rite of
Ascension is always a...reaffirming part of spiritual growth."

The Klingon leader got the joke.  He graced those present with a tooth-
filled grin.  "Diplomatically put."  He motioned a small cushion be
brought forth and set in front of him.  Richie moved accordingly and
knelt.  "So is the wrong end of a d'k tang, I hear."  There were hidden
meanings plainly evident in the words.  That they were even conversing
in Standard was laced with interpretations.

"I wouldn't know," Richie replied.  Despite the recent several hours,
he was beginning to enjoy the verbal sparring.  Though it seemed their
opponent had yet to enter the fray.

A large Klingon wormed his way to the open area of the bridge.  "I
demand satisfaction," he shouted as he pointed at the Immortal.  "I
have brought you here to prove this 'urwI' has dishonored himself, his
family, and even the yejquv."  The new arrival spat on the floor. "His
challenge of my father was a calculated move to dishonor my family and
shift blame from himself.  I demand my family's honor be restored and
this, this creature be naDHa'."

Gowron smiled a challenge.  "Strong words from a renegade chovnatlh.
You have done nothing to disprove the resolution of a challenge ended
over twenty years ago.  You have kidnapped an honorable warrior from
deep within an ally's territory.  You have treated him without regard
for his rank or position." The chancellor stood and stepped down off
the center dais.  "And you most certainly did not bring me here.  It is
the right of every honorable Klingon to be heard by a representative of
the High Council.  I am exercising that right for R'chIy'.  You have
yet to prove anything, K'lek, son of K'trik."

That made the other Klingon even more mad.  "That monster cannot die.
His challenge to my father was dishonorable.  There was no way my
father could beat him."

"At least you finally come to the point."  Gowron turned to Richie. "Is
this accusation true?  You cannot die?"  It looked to Richie that the
grace period had just expired.

The Immortal was loath to discuss this openly, but it seemed he had no
choice.  "I may be killed in battle.  I do not age or get sick.  But I
can die."

K'lek charged him.  It took two large crewmen to pull him back.  "You
lie, ghargh.  I have seen the blood pour from your body and yet you
still live.  How was my father suppose to be able to prove his
innocence against that?"

Gowron barked an order at K'lek, who finally stopped struggling.  "We
will find the truth to these question, K'lek.  R'chIy', how may you be
killed?"  The Immortal approached the chancellor and whispered in his
ear.  Gowron nodded when he was finished and moved back.  "I have heard
ancient legends of your kind.  You are right to keep this knowledge
hidden.  I rule...."

A loud howl erupted from K'lek.  "How do you know he speaks the truth?
I demand he prove he is capable of dying."  Richie tried hard not to
roll his eyes.  This was the epitome of Klingon logic.  Prove you can
die by going ahead and dying.  Even with all that headroom, this
species was really lacking.

The chancellor held up his hand, forestalling further outbursts. "This
warrior has nothing to prove to the High Council.  He is capable of
dying.  Just because his species is not as flimsy and weak as some
others you have known does not invalidate the challenge.  I remember
K'trik failed to inform R'chIy' of the brak'lul before they began. They
fought as uninformed equals.  Your father lost and was found guilty of
treason against the Klingon Empire.  That stands.  That shall not
change."  Angry muttering erupted like wildfire in the room. "You will
return this warrior to the place you removed him from, and you will
slink back into the night and bother us no more.  Is that clear?"
Without waiting for a reply, Gowron turned and left, followed by his
personal guard.  K'lek watched him leave, murder in his eyes.

Once only K'lek's men remained on the bridge, two guards grabbed
Richie, dragging him to the corridor.  K'lek turned back to the main
viewscreen and barked out orders.  "I will have your death," he called
out to Richie.  "And that will restore my honor."  The navigator
powered up his console.  "Set a course for Boreth!"



----------------



The conference room behind the bridge on the Enterprise was filled.
Most of that ship's senior staff was present, as well as Captain
Lorrict and Adam.  "I understand your concerns, Captain," Commander
Riker was saying as he sat at the head of the table.  "I'm sure we
could loan you some of our junior officers.  Long enough for you to
limp back to Starbase 273."

Pretar resisted the urge to grimace.  "Thank you, Commander."  He
flicked a glance at Adam across the table, who sat calmly and quietly.
"We can discuss the roster later."

"I am curious why a ship of renegade Klingons would operate this far
into Federation territory," Mr. Worf pointed out.  Even though he was a
Klingon himself, the security of the ship and Starfleet was his main
concern.  "It is unusual activity, even for misguided warriors."

One set of doors whooshed open, and both Chief Engineers entered.  The
Enterprise's Geordi LaForge strolled up to the table and set down a
small but powerful looking device.  "You wouldn't believe what we found
attached to the shield emitters...," he began.

"...a subspace transponder," Sonya Gomez finished.  They were both out
of breath, as if they hadn't stopped talking in a while.  "Not only did
it send out a subspace locator signal, but it was designed to sabotage
the shields at a critical moment."

Adam leaned forward.  "When the Klingon ship attacked.  It seemed weird
that the shields were inoperable at the time."  The Immortal thought
for a moment.  "That means they were after the Intrepid specifically."

"Ambassador K'talok," Pretar interjected.  Everyone in the room turned
and looked at him.  "He was one of the last people that toured the
ship.  It would have been easy to sneak away and plant that.  And
Richie told me he had a run-in with that bastard right after the first
test flight."

"Richie?" Worf suddenly asked.

Deanna placed a hand on Worf's arm.  "Richie.  Commander Ryan.  The
officer they took."  Pretar noticed his cousin and the Klingon were
more friendly than usual.  He hoped it was a good sign she was
interested.

"I am beginning to understand," the security officer rumbled. Everyone
seemed relieved someone had a clue.  The Klingon fidgeted under their
gaze. "I had not made the connection when I first saw the name.  Not
just Richard Ryan, but Richie Ryan.  R'chIy' Ryan."  Even though there
was a subtle difference between the two names, most of those present
didn't make the connection. Pretar looked around bewildered.  The rest
looked the same.

Commander Riker leaned forward at the end of the table, clearly
frustrated.  "And what does that mean, Mr. Worf?  Commander Ryan is a
Klingon in disguise?" he barked.  It seemed his few weeks of easy R&R
while Captain Picard was away had turned seriously sour.

Worf eyed the assemblage.  "Professor Ryan is officially a dual
citizen.  To my people he is known as R'chIy', son of M'QlowD. He was a
Federation ambassador during the Federation-Klingon Peace Talks.  He
passed the trials for Klingon adulthood, and was given the status of
warrior of the Empire.  There were...complications with the talks. I
would imagine the house of T'rak may be involved."

"Isn't he a bit young for all that?" Riker asked.  "You must be
thinking of his father...."

"I believe I understand what Mr. Worf is saying," the android Data
interjected.  Pretar had heard many stories about the officer from
Deanna.  It was great to see him in action.  "The renegade house of
T'rak may attempt to use Commander Ryan as a bargaining chip to restore
their honor.  I cannot theorize a connection, however.  There are no
detailed accounts of his exact involvement with the T'rak in any
Federation databanks."

The Klingon security officer coughed.  "That was intentional.  It was
part of the negotiations that purely internal Klingon affairs be
removed from the official transcripts released to the Federation." That
got a reaction from everybody.  "Ambassador R'chIy' accused a member of
the T'rak family of the sabotage of the Intrepid.  That is how they
lost honor."

Pretar was definitely confused.  "I thought the second Intrepid was
destroyed by an accidental warp core breech.  It was sabotaged?"

"Yes," the Klingon replied, as if all the speculation were fact.
"R'chIy' not only fought off a legion of Klingon warriors that had
boarded the ship, but somehow made his way to the planet without
transporter or escape pod.  Legend has it he fell from the sky, full of
vengeance for those who were not able to escape.  He is...well known
among my people."

Data jumped in when Worf took a breath.  "This is...fascinating. These
details are not mentioned in the Federation records.  How do you know
of them?"

The Klingon bared his teeth in a smile.  "My father was aboard the
Intrepid during the peace talks.  He considered Ambassador Ryan a
friend.  That was how he, and then later myself, learned of the true
events."

"So the Rozhenkos knew the entire story?  How did it end?" Will Riker
asked.

Worf nodded.  "The ambassador fought to determine the truth of the
accusation.  He was victorious, proving the T'rak involvement.  That
family was discommendated and the members executed."  This was all
starting to make bizarre sense to Pretar.  "Most of the honorable ones
committed suicide after the discommendation.  Others in the family were
caught and...dealt with.  But not all the family was on the Homeworld."

Will Riker nodded, cutting into the discussion.  "That would make
sense.  They're out for revenge.  This is the first time the rest of
the family has been able to get their hands on a relative of Professor
Ryan's."

"I do not believe that is correct," Data pointed out.  Commander Riker
turned to him.  He stared unfocused out the windows, his head
occasionally twitching as he said "searching..." over and over.  Then
he stopped and his eyes raked the group.  "There appears to be no other
'Richard Ryan' in any Starfleet database since 2160.  That would
indicate this 'Commander Ryan' is the same person as 'Professor Ryan'
at the Academy when I attended.  Also 'Ambassador Ryan' at both the
Khitomer Conference of 2293 and Mr. Worf's 'R'chIy' Ryan' of the
Federation-Klingon peace talks of 2346 to 2349.  We can also assume
this is the same 'Richard Ryan' that signed the Federation Constitution
in 2161."

Commander Riker found his voice first.  "Are you saying the Klingons
not only kidnapped Red Alert Ryan, but he's been around for two hundred
years?"

Data nodded.  "I believe that is what I just said.  I can confirm with
a 98.7 percent probability based on visual records that Professor Ryan
of 2341 is the exact same person as Commander Ryan of today."

"He is most certainly R'chIy'," Worf added.

Will still wasn't convinced.  He punched up Richie's current service
picture along with "Professor" Ryan's on the screen behind him and
turned around.  "That's crazy.  How can..."  He stopped when his eyes
focused on the picture.  "My god.  It's the same person.  That's not
possible."

"It is possible," Adam announced. "He was actually born in the late
1900's," the Immortal pointed out.  "Don't ask any more.  That's all I
can tell you."

Mr. Data absently nodded, if that was possible in a sentient machine.
"That explains a great deal."  Riker slowly rotated his head until he
faced the golden-hued officer.  Apparently Data recognized the
expression.  "Commander Ryan's service record is highly irregular.
There are many gaps and confidential areas.  If someone was not
conducting a comprehensive global search for all the records -- it
would be easy to not connect the other pieces.  And to assume it was a
relative.  But it is one service record."

"I'll be...," Riker quietly breathed.  "We need to alert Starfleet
Command...."

"Already done," Adam interrupted.  Pretar wondered what secret the
Immortal would reveal now.  "I've already contacted Starfleet
Intelligence.  He's probably out of Federation space by now."

That's not the whole truth, Pretar silently reminded himself.  He half
expected Richie's sharp reply before he remembered the bond had been
severed.  That ignited a whole wave of depression.  It seemed the
stimulants Dr. Crusher had given him were wearing off.  "I agree. This
is best left to the experts."  He could tell Commander Riker wasn't
happy with that answer, and Beverly and Deanna were confused. But the
wild idea he and Adam had been bandying about needed complete secrecy. 
"Commander," he said, addressing Will, "let's go ahead and discuss
those junior officers and we'll be on our way."  Riker nodded, and
everyone stood.  "Adam, coordinate with Sonya if you would.  I want to
be able to leave for Starbase 273 as soon as possible."  The Immortal
nodded and then left.  Deanna made a move around the table to join
Pretar, but he minutely shook his head.  She backed off, leaving
instead with Beverly and Worf.  The two Engineers left with Data,
talking animatedly about the last of the damage control reports.

"Coming, Captain?" Riker asked, waiting at the open door that led to
the bridge.  Pretar nodded.  He quickly turned for one last glimpse of
the stars as they sat motionless outside.

I'm coming, Richie.  Just hold on.  We're coming to save you, my
friend.  Please hear me.  We're coming.



----------------



"Mr. Lavelle, if you will take the conn," Pretar called out an hour
later.  The new junior officers were fidgeting in the back of the
bridge, waiting for their assignments.  An eager young human bounced
forward to the pilot's console.  "Mr. Sito, Ops."  A striking female
Bajoran moved across to the newly repaired station.  "Adam, would you
care to handle Tactical?"

The Immortal stood from one of the command chairs and moved toward the
back of the bridge.  The turbolift doors opened, and Danny Bird stepped
out.  "Already on it," he said, and stepped behind the console.

Pretar was too drained to argue.  "What are you doing here, cadet?"

Danny refrained from a grin.  "I'm still a field-promoted ensign.  And
nobody informed the transporter operators on the Enterprise that we
weren't suppose to be on the Intrepid."

"You didn't answer my question."

The ensign looked up from the console.  "I thought you might do
something like this.  I owe Commander Ryan, and damned if I'm gonna
stay behind."

The captain faced forward.  "Mr. Lavelle, set a course 165 mark 3. Full
impulse."  The young ensign quickly complied.  "As soon as Ops alerts
you that the Enterprise is out of sensor range, change course to 224
mark 7, Warp 9.5.  Mr. Bird.  If you read another tachyon surge, don't
wait.  Blow it out of the sky."

Sam Lavelle turned around in his chair, shocked.  "What?" he asked. The
other new officer looked equally confused from the operations console. 
"That's toward the Klingon demilitarized zone."

"You have your orders, ensign," Praetor shot back.  "Mr. Pierson, you
have the bridge."  Adam nodded as he moved back to the central command
chairs.  "I'll be in my ready room."  With purposeful strides, he
walked off the bridge.  The tremors started as the doors shut.  He knew
he was leaving behind a group of people that deserved an explanation,
but right now was not the time.  The Betazoid wondered if it would ever
be the time.  Before someone else got hurt.



----------------



Richie was having a hard time convincing his body it should be hungry.
He sat in the corner of the bare room.  His hands nervously rubbed
against the coverall cloth as he stared at the tray of food.  Not that
he disliked Klingon fare, on the contrary, he found several dishes to
be intoxicating.  No, it was....

You're terrified they're coming back, man.  His muscles were poised to
fight against the guards when they came for him.  His stomach was
already protesting the agony that would force him to regurgitate
anything he ate.  He was waiting for the torture to resume.

Despite Gowron's orders, he knew the renegades wouldn't be letting him
go so soon.  Now that he knew who was involved, the future played out
like a bad Superbowl.  K'lek, son of K'trik.  B'Erell's nephew.  Away
with his mother when his father died.  Or should that be executed? What
did the High Council deem it?

It didn't matter at this late date. The Klingon had probably figured
out he was the same man that challenged his father, not some son or
other relative.  That made the revenge much more appealing.  Only he
can't find a way to kill me.  That's a laugh.

The Immortal might have found everything so amusing, if not for the
people that had been hurt.  He never could find out what had happened
on the Intrepid after he left.  Someone at Tactical had been shot at.
Hopefully Adam.  Yeah, having a distruptor blast go off in his face.
That's a pretty picture.  Who knows what happened to George.  And the
aftermath.  A brand new ship decimated in a deserted system.  Was there
anyone near enough to rescue them?  How many died?  Richie didn't know,
except one.

Ever since his own death at the hands of K'lek, the bond with Pretar
was gone.  That could only mean one thing.  Petey wasn't lucky enough
to receive a miracle twice.  That's what they had called it, that
disastrous night when the Betazoid had gone into shock, his lover dead
from the Borg.  Richie had looked on helplessly until he felt the
stirrings.  Pretar was trying to connect with someone, anyone.  The
Immortal had reached out his hand and grasped Lorrict's in his own. And
their existence changed forever.

This time, he was surely dead.  Another in a long line of mortals that
had 'left' Richie alone in the cruel, dark universe.  The first had
been Tessa...no, Emily Ryan.  The last, Petey.  And so many in between.
So many dead.  He didn't find it odd he couldn't eat at a time such as
this.  He just leaned his head over and stared at the tray that held
food.  A cold, empty repast.  Just like his life.  When will they ever
stop dying?



2347 A.D.  --  Qo'noS



"Barely made it," Richie said as he sat down.  The prince just eyed him
across the table.  He had a right.  He had been sitting here so long in
this dive of a Klingon restaurant that he had already ordered his food.
And was happily munching away when his mentor had appeared.

Nostrum looked up from his plate.  "Oh, I hadn't noticed."  He returned
to his  food as the owner of the establishment marched up. She didn't
look too pleased.

"naDev vo' yIghoS.  qaghaHQo Soj!"

The Immortal looked up at the woman.  "Please?  Anything you have left
in the kitchen would be appreciated.  netlh tlho'.  vISopnIS."  The
owner snorted and left.  "You'd think she'd be a lot nicer, considering
how much we eat at this place."

"She's not the only one who isn't pleased with you right now.  Where
were you last night?"  Nostrum waved his fork at the Immortal.  An
angry look gleamed in his eyes.

"Last night?  B'Erell and I went to...."  Richie knew why he was in the
dog house. "Damn.  The bat'telh finals were last night.  Did you go
anyway?"  The Immortal and his student had planned for weeks to attend
the last few matches of the yearly contest.  And Richie had been
distracted by a quiet picnic B'Erell had planned.

The young man shook his head.  "They wouldn't let me in. Said something
about Klingons only."  The disappointed look on his face pained Richie.
He remembered vividly when he had been let down by people he looked up
to.

The Immortal sighed.  "I'm sorry.  Things have gotten really tight
these last few days.  When B'Erell showed up and promised a quiet
evening away from the Capitol, well, I jumped at the chance.  I forgot,
and that's inexcusable."

"And today?" Nostrum asked as he finished his food.

"I got jumped on the way out of the Council chambers.  By K'trik and
his gang.  God, that was an argument.  For a second, I thought it might
come to blows."  Richie's face was still a little flushed from all the
shouting.  That gang just didn't get it.  Words and threats weren't
going to make the Federation give up on the peace treaty.

Nostrum sat quietly and stared at his food.  The owner finally returned
and set a steaming plate in front of Richie.  "qatul voQ!" she spat.
She quickly turned and left.  The two men sat and stared at one
another.

"Look," Richie said.  "I'm sorry that things are going fast around
here, and my attention is on other things.  I'll try and make it up to
you."  The Immortal thought a bit.  "I may be able to find someone who
recorded the fights.  We could borrow it, and have our own little
analysis party.  But you got to cut me some slack right now."

The young man looked up from his empty plate.  "I guess."  His voice
didn't sound very convinced.  Strangely enough, it sounded a lot like
Richie's when he was younger.  Especially sitting across the kitchen
island in MacLeod's dojo loft.  Staring at a plate of food.

"I do know how you feel," Richie said very gently.  "I know what it's
like to sit where you are and listen to the words.  Give me a chance."
The Immortal reached over and placed his hand on his student's.  "I
have a lot of things on my mind.  But trust me, you are always on my
mind."  That got a smile.  He picked up his fork and dived into the
food.  "Mmm.  This is pretty good."  It was heavily seasoned with
something like garlic, only stronger.  "Try some of this."

The bait was swallowed hook, line and sinker.  One of the many traits
the two men shared was food.  Nostrum was still using the excuse of
being a growing boy, while Richie just ignored any comments thrown in
his direction.  To keep the musings down, they habitually snuck out to
places such as this restaurant.  Here they got stares from their
appearance, not the amount of food they consumed.  The Ramatisian eyed
the orange pile on Richie's plate.  He broke down and snaked his fork
over, digging a small sample out to taste.  "Ummm huumm.  This is
pretty decent stuff.  What is it?"

Richie had no clue. He took another bite to savor the taste.   "It's a
little like chab.  We'll have to ask next time we come in."  The gagh
was delicious, still squirming on the plate.  Nostrum reached over for
another helping of the orange stuff.  "I have a few hours open right
now.  Feel like an impromptu workout?  They always made me feel
better."

"I think Riva is helping Maggie with translations.  In that case, he's
only using Trecean."  The young man finished off his drink and settled
back in his chair.  "Sure. I just need to clear it with Riva."

That brought a small smile to Richie's lips.  "Good.  What do you want
to try?  Bat'telh?  Swords?  Wrestling?  Feel the need to rip my head
off?"  A sudden twinge in his brain made the Immortal wince.  He
pressed his fingers into his temples.  "Damn.  This may not be such a
good idea."

Nostrum looked like he agreed.  He clutched his stomach at a sudden
pain.  "You're right.  Maybe a nice, long massage...."  Richie looked
up as Nostrum drifted off.  The young man's face slumped into the table
with a loud thump.  The disorientation grew worse for the Immortal.
The room began to spin and blur.  He rose unsteadily to his feet,
keeping a grip on the table.  His legs gave way and he fell to the
floor, the limp form of his student his last sight.  Then his body
relaxed totally and darkness claimed him.



The light hurt his eyes.  Then the beeping started.  A dark shadow
crossed in front of his face and brought some relief.  "He's awake,
doctor."  The words made sense, but they were so loud.  Richie tried to
raise his hands and push whoever it was away, but his extremities felt
like lead.  His whole body felt like lead.

Another shape bent over him.  "Good.  I don't know how he did it, but
this is a positive sign."  Richie tried to talk, but his mouth was too
dry.  He blinked, trying hard to get his eyes to focus.  The face of
Commander James came into view, as well as one of the starship's
doctors.  "Stay calm, Mr. Ryan.  You're aboard the Intrepid."

"Wha...what ha...happened?" the Immortal managed to ask.  The doctor
looked at Commander James, who shook his head.  "T...Tell me."  Richie
was getting angry.  He concentrated, and managed to raise a hand high
enough to grab the First Officer's maroon jacket.  "What's happened?"

"You were found comatose in that restaurant you were visiting," the
doctor told him.  Commander James just scowled and picked off Richie's
hand.  Without another word, he turned and left.  "You had apparently
been poisoned.  We kept trying to come up with an antidote, but no
luck.  You fought the poison for two days, and this morning you finally
died.  We managed to resuscitate you two times, and you've been getting
better all day."

"Nostrum," Richie gasped.  If he had been poisoned, there was a good
chance his student had been as well.

The doctor shook his head.  "I'm sorry.  He was already dead by the
time we found you."  That news struck Richie like a bullet.  His body
went limp again, his mind furiously spinning.  Someone was doing their
best to kill him, and now innocent people were dead instead.  "We don't
think he was in very much pain..."

Richie wanted to scream, but he was too tired.  It wasn't fair.  The
universe was just un-fucking-fair.  The Immortal felt the emptiness
deepen inside of him.  He had lost another friend.  He had lived;
Nostrum had died.  So unfair.

The doctor could see the agitation.  "There's more."  Richie just
rolled his sad, bleary eyes toward the man.  "The other Ramatisians
were attacked by a mob two days ago on the way to the meetings.  Riva
and Bethly sustained minor injuries, but Trecean was killed.  The High
Council informed us they would look into it."

That made sense to the Immortal.  With two of the chorus dead, Riva was
silenced.  Richie's death virtually broke the connection to the High
Council.  Someone was doing their best to drive the peace talks into
the ground.  And drive the Federation away.  The Immortal struggled to
get up, but his body was still too weak.  He crumpled back on the
biobed.  He felt more helpless than he had felt in a very long time.



"You are awake," Sarek said when Richie opened his eyes again.  The
Vulcan had the annoying habit of stating the obvious.  "We must talk."

"So talk," Richie replied.  Even though he felt ready to crawl into a
hole, he respected the Vulcan enough to listen.  "Pardon my hostility,
it's not directed at you."

Sarek nodded and interlaced his fingers.  "Most humanoids react to pain
with anger.  I expect you will be short-tempered for a time. That is
not what we need to discuss."  The Vulcan walked over and presented a
padd for Richie's inspection.  "The diplomatic corps has granted you
full ambassadorship as of yesterday."

The news would have normally made Richie ecstatic.  He didn't feel like
celebrating.  "That's nice," he deadpanned.  If the bureaucrats back
home had done it a year ago, the talks might have been over and Nostrum
wouldn't have died.  "Too little, too late," he whispered.

"But necessary to the continued peace talks," Sarek pointed out.  For a
moment, Richie had forgotten about their superior hearing.  The pointed
ears and all that.  "Our biggest problem at this time is the situation
with Riva."  That sparked Richie's interest.  He sat up on the bed,
nervously smoothing out his medical gown.  "With two of his chorus
dead, we face losing one of our biggest assets.  The voice of Wisdom is
not enough."

Richie thought back.  "Can't you interpret for him?" he pointed out.
The Vulcan had not done so since the reception on the Intrepid when
they first met.  "You don't do that much speaking yourself during the
meetings."

"There is the same limitation he has now," Sarek replied.  "I am
incapable of assuming his warrior aspect.  Previously, that facet was
not needed, but now...."  Sarek moved closer to the biobed.  "The two
most vital keys to these talks are Riva's Warrior aspect and your
unique viewpoint.  I believe I have a solution that would satisfy our
dilemma."

Ever since the Immortal had lived on Vulcan, he had learned to watch
the usually impassive face of a Vulcan and tell their hidden emotional
state.  Sarek's eye ever so slightly twitched, a sign he was nervous.
"Go on," Richie hesitantly urged.  When a Vulcan was nervous, it meant
trouble.

"I believe it is possible for you to assume the Warrior aspect of
Riva's dialog."  If it was anyone other than the famous Sarek of
Vulcan, Richie would have laughed.  Instead, he stifled the chuckle,
but his eyes gave him away.  "I am serious, Mr. Ryan."

The Immortal broke out into a smile.  "I'm sure you are.  Just how
would such a feat be accomplished?  Doesn't it take years for an person
to learn how to be an Aspect?  Nostrum said...."  For a minute, in his
excitement, Richie forgot about his friend.  Now it all came flooding
back.

Sarek stood as stoic as a statue.  "I believe your latent telepathic
ability can be augmented.  Enough for you to receive and interpret
Riva's thoughts."

It took a moment for Richie to process that statement.  "My what?" he
asked in shock.  "What are you talking about?  I'm not telepathic."

"You most certainly are," Sarek replied evenly.  The Immortal's
emotional outburst passed him like a wave over a rock.  "You are
apparently tuned quite closely to Riva's own harmonies.  As witnessed
by your first contact."  Richie thought back to the reception, where
Riva's touch caused him to faint.  "You were receiving information
directly.  Your mind was not equipped to handle such a load, and so it
shut down."

"I'm telepathic..." Richie murmured.

Sarek nodded.  "Tell me, have you had any incidents of nervousness
about the future?  Ones that came true.  Have you ever picked up
thoughts from those close to you?  Have you ever been able to tell what
was in a container before you opened it?"

"But I always thought I was...," Richie began.  "...crazy."  He looked
at the Vulcan sheepishly, but there was no disdain or pity in his eyes.
"But rarely, like once or twice a century, yeah, I feel things."

Sarek sat on the edge of the biobed.  "Your channels are not fully
opened.  I believe I can open them with minimal damage to you.  With
resonant harmonies, you should be able to communicate quite clearly
with Riva, and serve as his Chorus.  This would also allow his input
when you speak directly to the Council."

"So what's the bad news?" Richie asked.  So far, it sounded like his
sales pitch when he was selling used cars.  He never liked the patter
then, and he certainly hated it now.  "There's a down side to this, or
we would have done it by now."

"You could go permanently insane.  Withdraw so deep into your psyche
that you would never emerge."  Sarek's voice never wavered as he
rattled off half a dozen horrible consequences.  "And this would be
something you would have to live with for the rest of your life.  You
would probably need to take extensive training to control your new
abilities.  For now, if we situate you directly to Riva, there should
be minimal problems.  Once this is over, though, you would have to
establish a deeper control to survive and live among a large
population."

Richie cracked a wry grin.  "People would blow my mind."

"Essentially, yes," Sarek replied, ignoring the double entendre.

The Immortal stood and looked the Vulcan in the eye.  "You know more
about this than me.  The risks, the dangers.  You have more experience
at diplomacy than me.  Would you risk it?"

It was a long moment before Sarek replied.  "Would you give your life
for peace?"

Richie never hesitated.  "Too many have died for this already.  Not
just the people here, but all those who have fought the Klingons in the
past.  I'd do anything to stop this madness."

"There is a good chance your determination will see you through." Sarek
moved to the head of the biobed.  "Lay down."  Richie complied, trying
to compose his thoughts.  He felt Sarek's warm fingers brush his face,
searching for the right contacts.  "Your thoughts are my thoughts," the
Vulcan whispered.  The Immortal heard them from his ears, yet his own
voice was producing it.  "Our thoughts are one."  He felt his face
under his fingers, and Sarek's ear near his mouth.  "We are one."  He
was/is Richie/Sarek.  An Immortal/Vulcan who fought/spoke for
years/centuries with other Vulcans/Immortals and Duncan/Spock and
Kirk/Miranda/Amanda/Tessa....

A window opened in Richie's mind.  It was like having lived in a dark,
sightless room for four hundred years and suddenly opening a door.  A
blinding white light exploded in his consciousness as 1.5 billion
beings, the current population of Qo'noS, were perceived
simultaneously.  The Immortal reacted like he had always done.

He screamed.  And they heard.



One and a half billion Klingons felt the cry and unconsciously looked
to the sky.  A howl for the dead some would later say.  A miracle
others would protest.  And for one, a lover's shout of help before
being swallowed by the oblivion.



----------------



Methos looked again at the closed ready room doors.  Captain Lorrict
had retreated there moments before the Intrepid had changed course
toward the Klingon Empire.  That had been ten hours ago.  So far, no
one on the bridge had commented.  Not knowing what else to do, the
Immortal had called for replacements of the three bridge posts. Another
set of new, personality-challenged faces appeared and slid into
position like gears.  That was a good and bad point.

Danny Bird had to be ordered to leave.  Methos emphasized the fact they
wouldn't reach Klingon space for another ten, possibly twelve hours.
The young man muttered something about long shifts and finally let
himself be relieved.  Right now, everything was quiet.  The perfect
time to check on the Captain.  "You, ensign."  The young woman at the
conn turned around.  "I'll be in the Captain's ready room.  You have
the bridge."

That seemed to surprise her.  "Yes, sir!" she responded, suddenly
enthused.  Another look around the bridge, and he strolled over to the
doors.  One press at the call button got no response.  Luckily, no one
was watching.  The second and third buzz failed as well.  Reluctantly,
the Immortal resorted to a childish cadence of buzzes, enough to drive
any sane person to the brink.  The doors slid open when he reached the
second chorus.

It was dark in the ready room.  The only light was brief flashes as the
stars shot by at warp.  Their multicolored streaks cast a variety of
colors around the room.  And a rather large room it was.  It took a
second to spot the Betazoid on the upper level couches, a dark mass
against an even bigger shape.

"You remind me of Richie," Pretar softly said.  There was a barest
sound as he shifted on the couch.  Methos stepped fully into the room
and let the doors close.  Instead of rushing to hover over the Captain,
the Immortal strolled across to the replicator.

"Do you want anything?" Methos asked.  The Betazoid stayed silent, lost
in his own thoughts.  Apparently not.  "Computer, mead, hot."
Surprising, the whine of it being replicated greeted him, not the usual
'the selection is not available.'  God bless Richie Ryan.  A quick
taste told him it was Darius' old recipe, aged to perfection.

"Why are you doing this?" Pretar suddenly asked.

Methos sighed and walked to the informal furniture under the huge bay
windows.  "Doing what?" he asked innocently enough.  Oh, the Immortal
had a pretty good guess where this was heading.  And for some strange
reason he was in a mellow enough mood to actually tell the truth for
once.  There was just something trustworthy about Pretar Lorrict.

The Betazoid sounded unconvinced.  "Coming with us.  Chasing after
Richie.  It would have been very easy to stay aboard the Enterprise,
and get on with your life."  Pretar shifted over, leaving room for
Methos at the other end of the couch.  Without much thought, he sat
there.

"You may find this hard to believe..." the Immortal began.  The words
stuck in his throat, as if speaking the truth was a foreign concept.
Maybe it was.  "I know Richie and I seem antagonistic toward each
other.  Part of that is my fault, a lot of it is because we don't see
very much of each other.  We're usually together with Duncan, and we
tend to put him in the middle."

Pretar nodded in the dark.  "So I've gathered.  Richie doesn't feel
comfortable about his early life.  I know he's angry and somewhat
ashamed.  About what I couldn't guess.  He's not very vocal about it."

"I guess not," Methos replied.  He took a sip of the steaming liquid to
collect his thoughts.  "There was some information about me that Duncan
knows.  A secret.  I insisted that it be kept from Richie. Maybe that
wasn't wise."  What harm could it do? Duncan had asked. Methos had seen
too many friendly guys start salivating at the thought of such a
powerful Quickening.  Perhaps Richie would have been different.  But
there was no reason to chance it.  "It drove them apart.  Richie knew
something was up, and Duncan agonized each time he couldn't tell him.
Maybe it was wrong."

The Betazoid shifted on the couch.  "And now?"

"And now," Methos replied, "it may be too late."  The Immortal emptied
the last of his ceramic cup.  "I'm not concerned about Richie for
myself.  That may seem harsh, but it's true.  I could care less if he
dies today or tomorrow.  This is for Duncan's sake.  He would have my
head if I stood by and let Richie be killed.  Especially if it has
nothing to do with the Game."



2092 A.D.  --  Paris, France, Earth



"I never should have told you that," the Highlander told him.  "I was
angry and hurt, and I voiced a doubt that should have stayed buried."
Ever since Duncan had told him about the fear that taking in Richie had
been a mistake, the older Immortal threw it back time after time.

Methos looked out the porthole, undisturbed.  "You said it.  A part of
you meant it.  But look at yourself.  You've tied yourself up in knots
wondering if he's gonna phone you.  That makes you sloppy.  And that
can get you killed."

Duncan shook his head.  It was obvious he was getting tired of Methos
reducing everything to the simple terms of kill or be killed.  "Richie
has been the brightest spot in my existence."

"Pardon me if I don't believe you," Methos snorted, wrapping the terry-
cloth robe tighter around him.  For some ungodly reason, Duncan
insisted on cooling the barge down at night.  "All I see is an unhappy
man, just because a student isn't grateful enough to send flowers on
your birthday."  Sarcasm dripped.  "What are you going to do when he
actively turns against you?  Fold up and die?"

The Highlander shuffled forward on the bed.  "Don't tell me you never
had a young one you cared about.  Someone who got underfoot and made
you madder than a hornet.  Someone you worried night and day about.
Someone who reminded you of yourself at twenty, or thirty, or god
forbid a hundred."

"Not in a very long time," Methos replied.

"Ah ha!"  Duncan's feet hit the wood floor as he sat on the edge of the
bed.  "There was one or two.  So why are you worried about me?"

Methos leaned on the back of the sofa, his bed for the last couple of
days.  "Listen well, Highlander.  I felt like you did.  For several
people.  They all died.  Every last one of them.  After a couple of
centuries, you stop beating yourself up. And eventually, it stops
hurting."  The older Immortal didn't think he could vocalize it any
better.  "Just like you want to spare Richie pain, I want to spare you
some.  He's a grown man, MacLeod.  He doesn't need you any more."

"Maybe I need him," Duncan spat back.  "Maybe he's one of the few
reasons I have to not find the closest headhunter and offer up my
neck."  It only made him angrier when Methos sadly shook his head. "Why
do I even bother arguing with you?"  The Highlander struggled with the
sheets on the bed until he was comfortable.

It was a while later before Methos settled back on the sofa.  He had
decided not to ask the Highlander about starting a fire.  The rustling
of sheets told him the other Immortal was still awake.  "Duncan, I'm
sorry.  I'll go somewhere else...."

"Just shut up about Richie.  You may not want to get close to him, but
I'm already too involved.  I've given my love and my life to that man,
and even if I may have regrets or doubts...."

"I'll try and stay out of it," Methos finished for him.

The Highlander stopped fidgeting.  "You do that."



----------------



"Captain, we're approaching the Klingon boarder," Danny informed the
bridge.  Pretar and Adam had spent a few hours dozing on the ready room
sofas.  Breakfast had been in a cup from the replicator.  Once they
crossed into Klingon territory, they needed to be alert and on their
toes.

Pretar turned and looked back at the ensign.  "Thank you Mr. Bird. Scan
for any ships in the vicinity.  All we need now is to run into a
patrol."  Methos sat beside him in the other command chair.  Lavelle
and Sito were back at their positions as well.

"Sir, I'm reading a ship just across the border.  She's just sitting
there"

"Slow to impulse, Mr. Lavelle," Pretar ordered.  A ship waiting for
them spelled trouble. "Can you identify it?"

It didn't take Danny long.  "It's a... a Vor'cha attack cruiser.  The
I.S.S. T'koh.  They're hailing us!"  The young ensign sounded
frightened, but covered it well.  After being ambushed by a small Bird-
of-Prey, a full attack cruiser could be very scary indeed.

Before Pretar could finish his command of "put it through," a grim
Klingon face graced the forward viewscreen.  "Gowron," Pretar replied,
recognizing the face.  So the leader of the High Council waited to meet
us.  Curiouser and curiouser.

·I was wondering when someone would come·

"Then you know about the abduction of Commander Ryan," Pretar asked. He
wanted to get that fact on record as soon as possible.  It might come
in handy later when he faced a full court martial.

·Yes.  I have just met with the renegades who have him.  They refused
to follow my order to return him to you, and they have headed deeper
into Klingon territory.  It is such a shame you have stumbled onto such
an unpleasant internal affair.·

Internal affair, huh.  That means we can't legally interfere.  "And
what, pray tell, are you going to do about this...unpleasant internal
affair?"  Pretar didn't hide his anger.  In fact, he seethed.  "Shall
we wait right here for word from the High Council about a resolution?"

·There is no need.  I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am that
such a valiant crew of our good friends, the Federation, was available
to help one of our most honored Klingon citizens.  Who also happens to
be a member of the Federation.  Such an outpouring of trust and common
good will can only help our two governments come to a more harmonious
understanding.·

Pretar sifted the words to their deeper meaning, searching for hidden
catches.  "You basically want us to do your dirty work for you.  Find
these renegades and get Richie back."  The Klingon on the screen
grinned.  "Probably because any action on your part will undermine your
already shaky hold on the Council."

·R'chIy' always did surround himself with insightful people.  I hope
you edit those remarks out of your 'official' report.·

"Done," Pretar agreed willingly.  "And they went...?"

·Toward Boreth for some unknown reason.  I will make sure this good
deed is welcomed in the High Council.·

"I bet you will," Pretar replied.  "I hope we meet under more pleasant
circumstances next time."

·I hope you survive long enough.  He chu' ghoS!  So'wI' chu'ta'!·

The Klingon cruiser vanished from sight before the communications link
could be broken.  Pretar leaned forward to Sam Lavelle.  "Set a course
for Boreth, best speed.  Ensign Bird, I want a full report about that
system as soon as possible.  Mr. Sito.  Sensors at maximum.  Even with
Gowron's blessing, I still don't want to be surprised."  After issuing
the orders, Pretar turned to Methos, still sitting silently beside him.
"Who wants to get a nap and shower first?"

The Immortal eyed the Captain.  "Go ahead.  I've been sleeping quite a
lot longer than you have.  Missing some now won't be a problem."

Pretar flashed him a smile.  "Good answer.  Call me when you get
tired."  With measured steps, the Betazoid left the bridge.  He stopped
briefly for a gentle reassurance to Danny.  As the turbolift doors
closed on him, he wondered if there was anybody who would reassure him.
Probably not.



----------------



Richie felt the Bird-of-Prey drop out of warp.  The minute change in
pitch, or the ghostly feeling of slowing down.  Whatever alerted him,
he guessed they were near their destination.  Maybe the ability came
from centuries of space travel.  Maybe a small part of his mental gifts
was responsible.  His gut churned as if someone was sounding his death
toll.  A strange concept for an Immortal.

The ship lurched suddenly and sent him flying from the hard bench he
was resting on.  His hands flew out in front of him to stop his fall,
the manacles digging into his wrists.  He rolled along the deck plating
until he impacted a wall.  That elicited a vocal response. But no one
was around to hear.

It wasn't hard to guess they were entering atmosphere.  That was one of
the nice abilities about the K'Vort class, to land on a planet. Only a
few Federation ships could do that.  A sudden fluctuation in the
artificial gravity sent him sliding the other way.  He watched as the
bench corner came closer.  An instinctive grab with his hands failed as
the manacles got caught under his body.  He watched helplessly in the
instant his head rushed toward his fate.  And then he felt only a brief
twinkle of pain.  It was over.



2348 A.D.  --  Qo'noS Orbit



Sleeping never came easy for an Immortal.  At least, not to Richie. He
woke up as the bed shook.  For the briefest of moments he wondered if
it was another Moonquake, until he remembered that had been two
centuries ago.  He landed on the floor with a thump and a sharp exhale
of his breath.  It was the Intrepid.  He had decided to spend the night
aboard after a particularly bloody argument with B'Erell.  Maybe that
had been a bad idea.

The ship bucked again, almost as if under attack.  Richie found that
thought crazy; they were in orbit over the Klingon Homeworld.  No race
in its right mind would dare attack a Federation ship here.  The
Immortal even dismissed the fleeting thought that the Klingons were
attacking.  That only left horrible accidents.

As if to confirm his fears, the red alert sounded.  Sharp klaxons
blared as the ugly red lights flashed.  Richie rushed into the corridor
wrapped in a sheet, unconcerned about his appearance.  Most of the crew
did likewise.  Smoke seeped from under the door to Main Engineering
only a few feet from Richie's room.  The other direction was filling
with off-duty crewmembers, most in a similar state of undress as the
Immortal.

·All hands - abandon ship.  All hands - abandon ship.·

Now that was a message Richie hadn't heard in a while.  Pulling the
sheet tighter around him, he followed the growing mass of people away
from Engineering.  A door opened suddenly to his left, a very sleepy
Sergey emerging.  "What is going on?" he asked before stifling a yawn.

"Fire drill," Richie flippantly replied as he grabbed the warp
specialist's arm.  "It's time to go."

Sergey took in the noise, the red lights.  A quick breath to clear the
cobwebs and he took in Richie's state of undress.  "You do not look
like you should be going anywhere.  I take it you are...?"

Richie blushed straight down to his navel.  "I didn't replicate
anything to sleep in.  Besides, this'll give Ensign Wildman a chance to
get a really good look."  The Immortal always put survival over
dignity.  Especially after the challenge where he ended up naked but
still with his head.  "Come on," he urged.  "We're almost to the escape
pod."

They turned the last corner and saw the emergency pod airlock.  There
was a mass of people streaming toward it, but it was a relatively calm
and orderly progression.  Richie glanced behind and urged two
stragglers into the line.  Another tremor shook the ship, but no one
panicked.  They just started moving even faster.

As they got closer, Richie could tell it would be a tight fit.  But no
one could be faulted for not trying.  By the time the last four was
within reach of the airlock, things had stalled.  The Immortal shoved
the two straggling ensigns in first.  "That's an order," he yelled to
stop any argument.  His tone of voice must have worked; he had had no
time to pin rank insignia on the sheet.

"Get in," he told Sergey.  The man looked as if he was going to argue.
"Don't," was all Richie said.  "You have a family to worry about.  And
I'm a lot sturdier than I look."  Somehow, the people crammed inside
managed to make room for him.  He looked heartbroken as Richie
initiated the launch sequence.  

The Immortal knew he was a sight; a young man with a sheet wrapped
around his waist, surrounded by smoke and sirens.  "I'll be fine," he
tried to shout through the small clear window.  And suddenly the pod
launched, and Sergey's sad face became as small as a speck of dust.

Survival instincts kicked in.  There was a small five-man pod right off
of Engineering.  Assuming the crew hadn't use it.  His feet flew as he
ran back the way he came.  He momentarily toyed with stopping for
sweats, anything to wear.  But the prospect of finding out how it felt
to be spaced changed his mind.

The doors to Engineering opened as he approached at a dead run, letting
a billowing cloud of white smoke escape.  He barely stopped, just
turned and ran toward the warp core.  It was a rather nasty surprise
when he stumbled out of the acrid smoke and into a large party of
Klingons.

"ghuy'cha'," the nearest one cursed, dropping his disruptor.  Richie
hardly flinched.  His bare foot snaked out and drove into the warrior's
gut.  Knowing he was outnumbered, Richie dove toward the warp core.
His body snaked under the railing around the cylindrical conduit and
twisted past toward the other side.  He rolled over the far railing and
backed to the far end of the room.  Luckily, this side was Klingon
free.

One of the Klingons came forward out of the group surrounding the
controls.  It was hard to see any distinguishing features, but the
Immortal knew who it was when he spoke.  "So the naked, little
toy'wI''a has come to play."  K'trik oily tones seeped around the harsh
klaxon.  "Want to learn how it's really done?"

Another Klingon came up next to B'Erell's brother.  "Enough.  We are
almost finished.  Prepare for transport."  It wasn't hard for the
Immortal to tell they were reworking the main engine controls.  But he
didn't feel foolish enough to take on the half dozen disruptors trained
on his defenseless body.  Instead, he inched closer to the escape pod
hatch.

"Please, Maghk.  He would make such a lovely pet.  And he already knows
several tricks."  The sinister begging made Richie want to vomit.  He
could guess most of it was for his benefit.  If they were trying to
cause a warp core breech or something, K'trik would probably leave the
Immortal here.

"jol yIchu'," the leader shouted.  Within seconds, orange transport
beams surrounded the invaders.  It only took a second for Richie to
tell the escape pod was already launched.  Choking down a curse, he ran
for the controls, hoping he could stop whatever they had planned. He
arrived in time for the panel to explode, sending searing sparks across
his nude torso.  This time he did curse.

In the back of his mind, he could imagine the rising whine as the anti-
matter containment field collapsed.  In a fit of desperation, he ran
toward the warp core, ripping up a trap door that opened on the deep
core well.  The area below the reactor core stretched all the way down
to the bottom of Deck Fifteen, and from there to outer space. There
might be enough seconds left to manually eject the warp core, and let
the anti-matter explode in the relatively emptiness of space.

Richie's stomach twinged as he looked down.  He never really liked
heights.  One last deep breath full of acid smoke and he dropped down
into the five story well.  Around him, emergency doors swiftly shut,
doing their best to contain the deadly explosion that would rip the
ship apart.  He barely gave any of that a thought, only focusing on the
small manual panel near the ejection hatch.

Focus, he told himself, over and over.  Focus.  He ignored the pain as
he landed, fracturing several leg bones in the process.  He dropped to
his knees and pulled himself the few feet to the hatch controls.  His
security code unlocked the door, and his hand reached for the override
button.  But it was too late.

Ten stories above him, the invisible magnetic containment field
collapsed.  A very large quantity of anti-matter suddenly and violently
met with normal matter, and annihilated each other.  The energy
released was exponentially more powerful than matter could normally
produce by itself.  And this energy expanded outward, growing ever
larger as each new bit of matter and anti-matter exploded as well.

Richie's hand hit the button, initiating the opening sequence, when he
heard the first of the explosions.  The airlock's safeties retracted a
second later, as a force not even God could control was born and grew.
Like Lot's wife, Richie's faith faltered, and he too looked back.  And
was consumed.



There was nothing but pain.  And darkness.  What was left of a man
barely lived long enough to realize he wasn't dead.  And then he was.
Twice more the panicked feeling came; the irresistible urge to draw in
a breath and hang on to life.  But even if his lungs weren't burnt into
a charred set of lumps in his chest, there was nothing to breathe.

All he felt was pain.  There was hardly enough time alive to experience
anything but blinding agony.  He just wanted it to end.  To find that
moment of everlasting peace.  But his body, or what was left of it,
fought on.

It was so cold.  How he could tell was beyond him.  But then again, how
he could exist in a vacuum, no matter the shortness.  Was God punishing
him?  Is this Hell?  An Eternity of torment one second at a time.  Over
and over, his body healed just enough to bring him from the brink.
Then the moment of panic, and he painfully died again.

There were times he thought maybe this would be it.  His lungs might
draw air, his muscles could be healed enough for a movement, something.
But he was trapped in a shell that couldn't react as fast as his mind
did, in that instant between deaths.

More times came and went, each becoming a tiny bit longer than the
last.  Enough for despair to flitter across between agony and cold
emptiness.  Charred skin flaked off.  And the vacuum steadily sucked
the ash in the lungs away.

Cold slowly changed to heat.  The pain grew worse.  His back was being
flayed alive, by nothing at all.  He could feel his skin being torn
off.  The heat advanced and dominated his gut and chest.  His skin was
red hot and liquid.  This was Hell.  Oh, God, I'm so sorry....

The heat lessened.  He was aware longer, a mixed blessing.  Cool hands
caressed his skin, it's arms cradling him like a baby.  Comfort he
missed as a child.  For the first time, his lungs briefly expanded and
drew in air.

A whine interrupted his silent universe.  Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree
tops.  His Immortality was still working away, replacing dead and dying
tissue with healthy cells.  Air was sucked in and pushed out as his
life's blood restored itself.  It was a joyous occasion as his first
squawk left his blackened lips.

For the first time, the empty death did not draw him all the way under.
His body had time to repair a little bit more.  Healthy pink skin
showed between the hardened cracks of traumatized tissue.  It was still
getting colder when he realized that thing he was seeing was sky.  And
he was seeing.  His eyes had repaired themselves as well. He
involuntarily coughed up the last of the damaged debris in his lungs,
and gulped air with a passion.  It still grew cold, and the noise was
deafening..

He was falling.  That thought intruded on his brain.  Falling, flying,
breathing, living, burning, healing.  All the -ings his mind could come
up with.  He was a bird, gliding without the chains of gravity. That's
what he was.  A bird.  That belonged with the sky.  He suddenly
realized what had happened and what he was going through now.  And what
terror he was about to experience.

As a child, he had heard about the tragic crashes of satellites when
they fell to Earth.  Watched the ghastly pictures on the television. He
was a living meteor, drawing closer to his end.  A horrifying end.

The whine grew, and with it the dread.  The waiting for it to happen.
He was in Hell.  The Devil was chuckling at him, promising him life
only to show him an even worse death.  The thought of plowing into the
Klingon soil terrified him.  And he found himself begging that death
would come sooner. He could almost feel the ground rushing toward his
back.  Coming closer and closer.  "Oh, God," were the words that came
strangled from his mouth.  Each beat of heart he thought was the last
one, each breath the final before he impacted the ground.  This was no
little ten-story fall.

"Now.  Now.  It's gotta be now.  Now."  He chanted over and over.
Surely this was it?  But another second, another second, another
second.  The howling grew louder  "Please, God, I don't want to feel
it."  When will he hit?  "Please God, I don't want to feel the pain."
When?  "Oh, God."  Howling.  "Please, I don't..."  Louder.  "I
can't...."  A blink.  "Please let me die before...."  A beat.  "Oh,
God, let me die."  A breath.  "Let me...." A scream.  "Pleaseee...."

God wasn't listening.



Richie could hear the shouting inside the building even before he
entered the doors.  He walked stiffly and hesitantly.  Even the
remembered pain was almost as bad as the actual.  Two days he had lain
in the woods.  His body had finally healed enough for him to climb out
of the deep pit his landing made.  When he stumbled across the
farmhouse, he could barely put two coherent words together.  And not
because of any physical reasons.  His body was nearly fine.  It was his
mind that had shattered.

The couple and their two children had cared for him through the day.
That night, he had found a nearby merchant that would let him ride
toward the Capitol.  A whole four days after the Intrepid's
destruction, the High Council was still fighting about the implications
and recriminations.  Well, not any more.

"Mr. Ryan."  Richie almost stumbled when he heard his name being
called.  It seemed an eternity since he was 'Richie Ryan'.  But Sarek
didn't know that.  "It is gratifying to know you were able to make it
off the ship in time."

"I didn't," the Immortal replied as he breezed past without stopping.
This wasn't quite the time to chat with the Vulcan.  He reached the
main double doors, guarded by silent warriors.  It was easy to throw
them open, but his entrance was overshadowed by the arguments inside.
The High Council was a madhouse.

It took a moment to wind his way between shouting people.  It seemed
everyone had an opinion about what was going on.  K'mpec, the current
leader of the Council, struggled to restore some semblance of order.
The pounding cut through the fierce words being bandied about, until
finally silence reigned.

K'trik took the opportunity to repeat his last remark.  "The Federation
is still trying to instigate a war.  What better excuse than to blow up
their own ship and blame it on us?  Already an armada is formed just
across our borders.  We must act now!"  The composer stalked around the
open center of the room.  Apparently, he was the main voice of the
malcontents, and had the floor.  "The treaty talks are a sham.  Ever
since Praxis, the Federation has been poised to conquer us.  And today
they have the justification."

"What better way to divert suspicion, nepwI'?" Richie shouted out
before anyone else could rebut K'trik.  The mass of Klingons let him
make his way to the open circle.  "And you were in Engineering moments
before the warp core breach, because....  Why exactly were you there?"

There was no hiding the shock on K'trik's face when he saw the
Immortal.  "This...this is impossible."  The crowd reacted as well, but
not for the same reasons.  It took K'mpec over a minute to regain
silence.

"You accuse K'trik of sabotaging the Federation starship, R'chIy'? This
is most unusual."  The grumpy leader of the High Council leaned over in
his chair, musing the accusation.  "Do you have any proof of this,
tera'ngan?"

The Immortal bowed toward the raised chair K'mpec sat in.  "Only my
word," he replied.  "I was in Engineering while he and his cronies
damaged the controls, and watched them beam away."

"He lies," K'trik countered.  "He will do anything to start a war." The
Klingon composer fairly spat on the floor in front of Richie. "Human!" 
That word brought grumbles from the gathered crowd.  It was hard to
tell if it was for or against the Federation.

K'mpec considered.  "And you, K'trik, have proof you were not there?"

"I was with companions.  They will vouch for me."  K'trik gestured to
the crowd, several men whom Richie identified as being on the Intrepid
as well.  "You would take the frothing of this ghargh over a true
Klingon?"

That brought more mutters.  The tension in the Council chamber
increased steadily.  "Your compatriots have already been charged of
being with you.  Their testimony is rendered suspect."  K'mpec leaned
forward in his chair.  "Have you no other witnesses?"

"I have need of none," K'trik angrily pointed out.  "How dare you...."

"Enough," the leader barked.  Conversation was silenced as everyone in
the room waited for a decision.  "When there is no clear evidence to
decide which party is correct, vIt yIqaD is called for.  The Challenge
of Truth.  The honorable warrior will vanquish the dishonorable. batlh
Daqawlu'taH!"

Almost instantly, the circle widened.  Richie found himself alone with
K'trik in the center.  Two males brought forth bat'telh for each.  The
Immortal's opponent sneered.  "Do you think you've played warrior with
a woman enough to fight a true Klingon, Human?"  K'trik made a half-
hearted slice and laughed as Richie jumped back.  "Let's see if you
know how to handle your weapon, little loDHom."

One of the earliest lesson Richie learned was anger had no place in
battle.  That didn't mean a little repartee at the beginning wouldn't
help.  "At least I got a chance to use it.  The only thing that hears
your poetry is your hand."  The Immortal chuckled as K'trik swiped
again, still missing.

The assembled crowd shouted too loudly to hear their words.  Some
cheered each swipe of K'trik's, but an equal number answered with
Richie's dodges.  The Immortal casually twirled his bat'telh as the
pair circled.  Someone needed to make an opening move.

The Klingon lost patience first.  With a growl, he attacked.  He came
in low, aiming for the hip.  Richie sidestepped and blocked.  With an
added push, he knocked K'trik off balance, just enough to be noticed.
That made the Klingon even angrier.  Another snarl, another attack.
K'trik tried an overhand slice that Richie blocked, his weapon raised
over his head.  But the Klingon was taller and more powerful.  It only
took seconds to drive the Immortal to his knees.

Richie waited until K'trik had barely overextended himself, and then
jerked to the side.  The Klingon's weapon crashed to the floor next to
the Immortal.  Bent over, K'trik was fair game for Richie's kick.  The
crowd shouted louder.  With the opening moves out of the way, the fight
had truly begun.

K'trik laughed as he moved again to the center of the circle.  He had a
right; he was the more powerful of the two and had a longer reach. But
Richie had the benefit of constant training, though a lack of
familiarity  with the bat'telh.  Stamina would probably be the deciding
factor.

It was time to attack, Richie decided.  He made a side slash that was
blocked, then pivoted the other end of the weapon around.  K'trik
stepped back while bringing his weapon down, lowering Richie's as well.
It was his turn to kick out and connect.  The Immortal dived to the
right in a roll.  He came up quickly, back on the defensive. K'trik
failed to press his momentary advantage.  Another clue for Richie's
strategy.

The Klingon came in low, an uppercut with the edge point.  Richie
knocked it aside with a golf swing, twisting around the opposite side
to ram an elbow in the Klingon's side.  With the weapons out of the
way, Richie kicked again, this time to the back of K'trik's leg.  That
brought a curse from him as his leg gave way.  The Immortal kicked
again, but K'trik brought the back of the bat'telh back and swiped at
Richie's leg.

"Damn," Richie spat as his kneecap was crushed.  The Immortal was
definitely better at hand to hand, but K'trik knew how to use the
weapon fully in a fight, something Richie had not yet developed. Richie
hobbled back, giving the Klingon time to regain his feet.  A bat'telh
was heavier than most weapons, and the extra weight was slowing him
down.  Not to mention wearing him out much too fast.

The fighters collided like two bulls in heat.  Their weapons clashed
with a sound that overpowered the collected spectators.  Their faces
were inches apart.  Richie smelled the hot breath of K'trik.  In a fit
of desperation, the Immortal rammed his head forward.  He had had
success with the move in centuries past, but the Klingon's skull ridge
did almost as much damage to the Immortal as K'trik.

"Won't do that again," Richie cautioned himself as they stumbled apart.
He reached his hand to his forehead.  His fingers came away wet and
bloodied.  The red coating his hand gave him an idea.  A way to quickly
end this battle.

In his practices with B'Erell, and with Nostrum, he had been careful to
never get injured.  How could he explain his miraculous healing if they
ever saw it?  Because of that, he fought conservatively.  That was
completely opposite when dealing with an Immortal.  There, one could
make deadly sacrifices that were only temporary inconveniences to an
Immortal.  Several times Richie had taken what would be a fatal blow if
it let him get close enough to decapitate his opponent.

When K'trik came at him again, from the side, Richie let the bat'telh
slip under his guard and slide into his side.  It hurt like Hell, but
Richie gritted his teeth against the pain.  His elbow came down and
trapped the blade.  His free hand sliced his weapon into the soft
stomach of K'trik, who only looked on in shock.  Warm body fluids
gushed onto Richie as he pushed the Klingon away.  The bat'telh in his
side slid out and caused even more damage and pain.  Richie found
himself on his knees, mirroring his opponent only a few feet away.

With determination, he rose unsteadily to his feet and walked over. His
bat'telh dragged on the floor with an unnerving scrape.  K'trik knelt
on the ground, vainly trying to keep his gut wound together. Richie
resisted the urge to say 'there can be only one'.  He raised his weapon
to K'trik's neck with great effort, ignoring the waves of pain from his
side.  "bIjeghbe'chungh vaj bIHegh."

The crowd grew silent as the Immortal asked for K'trik surrender.  The
Klingon knelt there, a soft growl escaping his throat.  "jegh," he
coughed.  Richie backed away, each step a source of agony.  The point
of his bat'telh fell to the ground.  There was no strength to do
anything more than hold it limply.  It was over.  K'trik had admitted
his guilt.  A Klingon who had been telling the truth would have died in
honor.  The submission was a declaration of guilt.  It was over.

Richie heard K'mpec clear his throat somewhere behind him.  He slowly
turned at the noise.  He was unaware K'trik had struggled to his feet
and drawn a hidden disruptor until the Klingon shouted at him.  "jagh
luHoHmeH Dah qachenHa'moHlaH!"  The Immortal turned and found himself
staring at a disruptor set to kill.  Without a thought, he picked up
the bat'telh and charged the Klingon.

His howl and sudden action must have spooked K'trik.  The first shot
went wide, barely grazing the Immortal's shoulder.  Despite the pain,
Richie ran forward and skewered the Klingon on the end of the bat'telh.
But he wasn't finished quite yet.  With the sudden adrenaline surge
adding valuable energy, Richie kept on.  His howl sharpened and rose in
pitch.  He pushed the Klingon backward through the crowd.  Startled
onlookers moved hastily out of the way and opened a path from the
middle of the room.  Momentum continued until they reached the wall,
made from a duranium alloy, the hardest substance known to the race of
warriors.

The bat'telh point rammed the wall with enough force to drive into the
metal.  Using the last of his strength, Richie sank the weapon deep
into the wall, pinning K'trik like a bug on a pin.  Pink liquid spurted
from the Klingon's mouth, the disruptor still clutched in the limp
hand.  The Immortal realized he was still screaming as he stepped away
and took in the sight of the dead man, the life blood draining away.
He couldn't stop himself.  He had committed himself to a course of
action and he found he could not end it so easily.  He was paying back
the pain and despair of Nostrum's death.  And the many who died on the
Intrepid.  Even Commander James.    He raised his screaming mouth to
the sky, shouting a warning to the dead souls that his friends were
coming.  To honor them as respected warriors.  His bellow finally died
in his throat as his air ran out.  Too tired to draw in more, he sank
to the floor.  It was over.

The Klingons in the room left him alone.



"Mindless death," he whispered.  No one had moved.  Everyone waited
with held breath for what was to happen next.  Richie didn't know if he
had rested there a minute, or an hour, or even a day.  Time had ceased
to mean anything.  "We kill, they kill."  Nothing meant anything.  "We
squabble over land that has no value.  We harry and tease each other
into needless action."  There was no meaning.

Richie suddenly stood, a man reborn in the eyes of the Klingons.  He
turned and faced the gathered crowd, High Council and citizens alike.
"Without honor, death has no meaning.  Do we fight each other for
honor?  Hardly."  He looked over the crowd and saw only confusion. "We
fight because we are jealous, or unhappy.  We beat each other up
because we are bored.  We brandish our weapons at each other to prove
we are strong.  To prove we are worthy.  All we prove is how unworthy
we are."

The assembled parted like the Red Sea as he moved forward.  "Do we
fight to protect our lives?" he shouted.  "Do we fight for food or land
to sustain us?"  Once again he reached the middle circle.  "No! We
fight because we are not like you.  And we assume that there is no
honor among aliens."  He laughed, a sharp bark born of sorrow.  "There
is honor, but we are too blind to see it."

He lunged forward, watching as those nearest jerk back.  "Twenty
thousand died in the last three years.  For what?  Brave warriors and
innocents alike.  Is there any honor?  Do we bicker and kill one
another until there is nothing left of either one of us?  Is that
honor?"  Spittle was flung out of his mouth as he shouted, but he
didn't care.  "I struggled to learn and understand you, and what do I
find?" His hand jerked and pointed to the wall where K'trik was still
pinned.  "Klingons angry enough to shoot an honorable warrior in the
back, JUST TO KEEP FIGHTING!  Just to keep the hatred!  That's honor?"

Richie found himself before K'mpec.  "Dying serves no purpose! Killing
serves no purpose!  Are we warriors?  Do we want blood or honor?  What
are we striving for, searching for?  What do we want to be remembered
for?  What will they sing of us in Sto-Vo-Kor?  Blood or honor?"

The Immortal found himself in a place of no concern, no worry.  No
need.  His head felt like it would explode into a million pieces.  But
he couldn't stop.  Not when he was so close.  "Peace does not bring
dishonor.  A treaty does not end the glory.  The battles are never
over.  You will not give up yourselves by saying 'no more' to the
mindless bloodshed.  The enemy is not each other, it's losing sight of
what you are striving for.  Give honor to those who have passed on. Let
them know they died for something.  True glory is not just winning.
It's winning an honorable fight.  And knowing it, in here." His fist
pounded his chest.  His blood covered hand.  "It's time to decide who
you are, and what you are.  And what you will be.  Be remembered for.
It is time to decide the purpose of your race."

He limped away from the circle, dragging an aching leg behind him. His
breathing was labored and his side was on fire.  He looked neither
right nor left as he walked.  Only silence followed him.  Richie was
drained.  There was nothing left inside of him.  The double doors were
opened, and no one waited on the other side.  He didn't know if he
wanted anyone there.  The Immortal was so tired.  Tired enough to call
it quits.  Empty enough to give up.  He had no more to offer right now.
Richie hoped it had been enough.



Two hours later, the T'rak family was stripped of their lands, titles,
and wealth for treason against the Empire.  B'Erell committed ritual
suicide minutes later, assuring herself honor in the next life.  Sarek
had come to inform him of the news, and quickly left once he had done
so.  Ten hours after that, the peace treaty was signed.  Richie waited
outside the door until it was done, never moving from the spot. K'mpec
came personally and told him, delivering the signed accord to the
Immortal.  

"They say you fell from the sky, son of M'QlowD," the ancient warrior
stated.  He eyed the Immortal critically.  "They are already telling
stories about you in hushed tones, fearful that you might hear and be
displeased enough to eat them whole.  But I see before me that same
Human that shuffled nervously the first day, looking so frightened by
all the strange people, lost even among your own kind. Not Klingon, not
Human.  What, then, are you?"

R'chIy', son of M'QlowD walked away slowly and never looked back.



The Bird-of-Prey landed with a jolt.  Richie's head was bounced on the
deck.  He groaned as he realized he had been on the floor for a while.
But they weren't moving any more.  Show time, the Immortal thought.



The two Klingon guards dragged him down the corridor.  He had long ago
used up most of his patter, and this time stumbled along in silence.
The manacles still dug into his wrists, and the pair seemed to gain
delight in throwing him around.  The Immortal was too used to it to
care.

They turned right instead of left, and headed for the rear of the
craft.  That was the location of the outer hatch and the ramp that led
down to the surface.  "So we're going out for a walk," Richie dryly
noted.  The guards just grunted.

As they jerked him down the plank, Richie was assailed by the
unmistakable presence of another Immortal.  For the barest instance he
hoped it was Adam, or by a bizarre twist Duncan, come to rescue him.
That bubble burst when he realized there was no fighting, no weapons
fire.  Whoever was here on the planet was a friend of these renegade
Klingons.  And probably his enemy.

There were two other ships nearby.  A smaller Bird-of-Prey, of the
B'rel class, and a rather decrepit freighter finished up the
contingent.  Groups from all three converged in the middle.  Richie
finally had the presence to struggle, but it was futile.  The guards
just barked and dragged him on.  OK, Ryan, now's the time to panic.

He quickly scanned the assembling crowd to try and find a human among
the mass of Klingons.  No luck.  But if the other Immortal wasn't in
the closer ranks, the taller Klingons would block them.  Most just
stared at him, a few glaring balefully.  Probably some of the T'rak
family, Richie thought.

K'lek grabbed the chain connecting his manacles and dragged him
forward, toward a rather short Klingon.  This one's hair was decidedly
brown, and the glint in his eye truly mad.  "Here is the ghargh, like
we agreed," K'lek announced.  The other Klingon advanced and slowly
walked around Richie.  It was an obvious once over.

"I did not think there were any jubwI' among the Humans," the newcomer
spat.  He gave Richie another appraising look.  "This will be
interesting."

K'lek jerked the chain and was rewarded by Richie's stumble.  "And you
can kill him?" he asked.  The other just silently nodded.  It took the
Federation officer a moment to comprehend the Immortal he felt was in
front of him.  Not a human, but a Klingon Immortal.

"Damn," Richie cursed under his breath.

The newcomer laughed, a bellowing, frightful sound.  With ease, he
plucked the manacle chain from K'lek hands.  "Yes, son of K'trik.  I
can kill him.  Now go, your work is done, QIpwI'.  Go!"

K'lek spat in rage.  "How dare you order me to leave?  I have brought
you to do my...."  The sentence was never completed.  K'lek looked down
at the d'k tang plunged in his stomach.  A slice through internal
organs and another through both vertebrae in the spine killed the
renegade swiftly and painlessly.  K'lek fell dead to the desert ground.

"And now, Human...," the newcomer began.  With a jerk, he pulled Richie
toward the other Bird-of-Prey.  Not able to do anything but follow,
Richie looked around.  He was on a featureless plateau.  In the
distance, he could see large mountains that shimmered in the heat. The
desert wind brought no smell of water or life.  It was apparently a
dead planet.

A few outcroppings of rocks were closer, barely higher than a small
hut.  Just past the edge of the plateau, a small island of land was
seen.  A rope bridge connected the two.  It looked to have been a part
of the ridge once, but the area between it and the plateau now had
fallen away.  In the center of small area, another outcropping of rock.
That's probably why it hasn't fallen.  It's supported by a rigid pillar
of rock.  The whole area smacked of ceremony.  As they moved closer,
Richie noticed the plateau overlooked a sea of molten lava, gurgling
far below.  Not a very nice place.

Once to the smaller Bird-of-Prey, his new captor reached for a
bat'telh.  Richie stood his ground as the blade swung toward him. With
a clank, the weapon severed the chain connecting his manacles. He was
relatively free.  Richie stared at his hands and then looked to the
Klingon.  He noticed they were alone, the rest having moved a
respectful distance away.  "Why?" Richie asked.

"You are jubwI'," the Klingon answered.  When Richie failed to
understand, the word was translated into Standard.  "Immortal.  You
cannot die, except...."  The Klingon trailed off with a laugh.

Richie just stood there.  "You are too.  I can feel it!"  This was so
strange.  He had never met another Immortal who hadn't been human. "So
what do we do now?  Are you rescuing me?"

That brought another laugh.  "We fight, tera'ngan.  Is that not our
way?"

Deep do-do, Richie realized.  "Uh, yes," he admitted.  "But there are
rules...."

Richie was interrupted by the Klingon's bark.  "Of course.  One to one.
Until the death.  We are ritual beings, are we not?"

That gave Richie a measure of peace.  "We are at that.  So...do we do
this now?"

The Klingon scowled.  "Of course not!"  His face screwed into surprise.
"We will fight in the morning, at first light.  After our loSpa'
tonight."  He waited a moment for Richie to comment.  "We will spend
tonight in meditation, and prepare for tomorrow.  You do not keep the
Vigil?"

Richie shook his head.  "Our kind issues a Challenge to one another,
where we state our names and our intention to fight.  Then we find
someplace private, with no interference."  A quick look around showed
the private part was unattainable.

The Klingon correctly interpreted his glance.  "They will remain inside
while we fight.  So, I challenge you, Human, to a fight to the death.
I am Kahless."

It was an interesting feeling Richie was experiencing.  He could have
sworn his eyes were popping out of his head.  Kahless? he wanted to
scream.  Instead, he stammered, "Richie Ryan," somewhat at a loss.

"Untrue," Kahless barked.  "You are R'chIy', son of M'QlowD.  I have
studied the records."  The Klingon laughed, and patted Richie on the
back.  Enough to cause the human to cough.  "You seem surprised.  I did
promise to return."

"I just never thought...."  But it all made sense to the Federation
officer.  Kahless?  It seemed better to focus on the aspects he could
fathom.  Like the impending challenge.  "So what else is there besides
this vigil?  We've satisfied my requirements."

Kahless nodded solemnly, once more attuned to the business at hand. "We
will fight at dawn. For as long as need be, until one of us is dead.
That may be an hour, or days.  There was one fight that lasted twelve. 
But he was a special opponent.  You...."  Richie didn't appreciate the
way the word trailed off.

"So am I free?  Or are you going to throw me into another cell until
dawn?"

"You are free," Kahless answered.  "Are we not already bound by a
common purpose, you and I?  Older than perhaps the stars themselves?
Will your honor remain intact if you run and hide?"  He chuckled as
Richie shook his head and gestured toward the gangplank of his ship. "I
even prepared for this by 'acquiring' your weapon of choice." Richie
followed the gesture.  He didn't know if he was more surprised by
seeing Ambassador K'talok or his Toledo rapier in the ambassador's
hands.

K'talok bowed as he offered the blade to the human.  "A little research
indicated this was your favorite," he smirked.  "It is unfortunate that
your young friend put up such a struggle when I went to obtain it.
Such a pitiful waste.  It was a handsome dwelling."

"What?" Richie asked.

"There was a young man at your house, a cadet, I believe.  He would not
let me enter your abode.  I had to kill him....  And then destroy the
evidence."  The ambassador added another chuckle as he moved away.
Richie suddenly lunged for him, but was stopped by Kahless.

"Tomorrow," the Klingon spat.  "We will fight each other tomorrow.
Leave the jubbe' alone.  Is that not also your way?"

It was true Immortals didn't drag mortals into their fights.  But
revenge was another matter entirely.  "Just wait," Richie yelled after
the departing ambassador.  "You'll get yours!  In spades, you bastard!"
With a jerk, he freed his arm from Kahless' grasp.  "Fine. I'll leave
him alone -- for now."  He looked around, taking in the deserted plain,
the rapier once again in his hand.  The blade sparkled in the light, an
almost forgotten sight.  It had been so long since it was last in his
hand.  So long since...



2194 A.D. - Outside of Starbase 3, Alpha Centauri



The katana clashed against his rapier, a loud sound in the quiet
outdoors.  "Fight, damn it," Duncan urged again, his voice unable to
contain the anger.  Richie did nothing besides holding the rapier out.

"Mac..." the younger Immortal pleaded.  "I can't!"

The Highlander sliced across Richie's chest, cutting through the gold
Starfleet shirt and into the skin.  Blood seeped from the cut and
stained the cloth.  "Giving up is not something I taught you."

The blond blocked the next cut, deflecting the katana.  Duncan swung
around and came from the other side, also blocked.  Richie felt the
wound on his pectoral, ancient memories mixing with the current scene.
Two more attacks were parried.  "I quit," Richie called, turning his
back on MacLeod.

He had barely taken a step when the katana blade sprouted from his
chest, gushing blood mixing with the overwhelming agony and the younger
Immortal fell to his knees.  "Jamison won't let you walk away, and
neither will I," the Scottish baritone whispered in his ear.

It was bad enough that a psychotic Immortal was after Richie's head,
but when Duncan decided Richie needed 'saving', it was almost too much
to bear.  The pair had barely spoken since their last disastrous
encounter on Earth.  And then MacLeod shows up out of the blue, to warn
his former student about Jamison.

The katana was jerked out of him, the bloody blade coming to rest
against his neck.  "You can sometimes be so pig-headed.  He wants your
head!  Unless you defend yourself, he'll take it."

"Why is everyone so convinced I can't take care of myself?  Why, Mac?"
He had sworn, long ago, if the Highlander ever put a sword to his neck,
it would be the last time.  "Do you still see the frightened kid that
broke into your store one dark night?"  His breathing was coming in
gasps as adrenaline pumped into his system.  "Or a trembling young
Immortal who thought he was safe with you?"  That cut made the
Highlander wince.  "Fuck you, Duncan MacLeod.  I don't put up with that
shit from anybody anymore."

The rapier sliced through the air, knocking the katana blade away from
the naked flesh as Richie stepped back.  Already attacking before
Duncan could recover, he managed to score a small cut along the off
arm.  The Highlander grunted, but managed to parry the next attack.
Then they traded blows back and forth, until MacLeod misstepped on the
uneven ground.

The Scot fell heavily, but managed to roll away from Richie's downward
attack.  He got a kick in his side before he got away from the younger
Immortal, who was already following.  The Highlander resorted to a few
martial arts moves, but Richie had him at a disadvantage.

Duncan acted like he was going to say something, but he turned and
kicked, driving his boot into Richie's side.  With a cry, the blond
used an elbow to shatter the ankle, before pushing the limb away.  The
Highlander hobbled back, defending with his katana.  Richie pushed
until Duncan was backed to a sharp rise.

It was a race to try and keep Richie back as the ankle fully healed.
Duncan took several cuts to the arms and sides while he balanced
carefully to keep pressure off the broken joint.  The younger Immortal
slid easily into a new combination move, but an unexpected left from
the Highlander's fist stopped him.

Richie felt his jaw break, and his vision flashed red with pain.  With
a growl that was more animal that human, he stabbed, managing to catch
Duncan in the chest.  The Highlander went down, his katana landing
within inches of his hand.  He twisted over, reaching for his sword,
but Richie pinned the hand to the ground with his foot.  Duncan managed
to look up with glazing eyes as the sword came down, heading for his
unprotected neck...





The gagh was dead.  And Richie had had better heart of tang from a
replicator.  Still, it was edible.  "And that was how I defeated the
last of the other jubwI' on Praxis.  It was glorious."

The human remembered reading the reports of the disaster.  Apparently
the Quickening had ignited the energy supply on the moon, causing a
chain reaction.  Seventy-eight percent of the planetary body was blown
into space.  And the reaction wave spread for several hundred
lightyears in all directions.  Glorious seemed an understatement.  "So
did you find out what the Prize was?"

"tev?" Kahless asked.  "The only prize was to be the One.  The wa'neH.
As I was destined to be!"  The Klingon had insisted on telling Richie
every single battle he had fought since the day he had Awakened, over
fifteen centuries ago.  But now it was very late, and Richie only
wanted to be alone.  He rose to his feet.  "Will you not tell me your
glories, R'chIy'?"

"Sorry," the human replied.  "I think I want to be alone.  Do you
mind?"  It only seemed fair to check with his host about that.  Lord
knows he didn't want to break some Klingon Immortal rule or ritual and
make Kahless mad.  That would be...worse than this already is.  If
that's possible.

Kahless gestured around him.  "As long as you meet me at dawn.  And do
not 'accidentally' fall into the lava.  I will have a toy'wI' follow
you, to wake you at the proper time."  With reverence, he lifted the
rapier to Richie's hands.  "I look forward to our challenge tomorrow."
The Klingon said it with such joy and honor, it made Richie sick.

He quickly fled the ship, after deciding he wanted to be away from any
Klingon.  He didn't quite know what he wanted to do, or accomplish, but
it was a relief to leave behind the strangeness of his captors. God,
this is turning into a Twilight Zone episode.  Except it was four
hundred years too late.

It was later, when the lone moon barely shown through the upper
atmospheric cover, that Richie found himself near the bridge.  There
was something comforting about the little piece of land, cut off from
the rest of the world, surrounded by ever moving magma.  And the view
was spectacular.  The faint moonlight almost sparkled from the far
mountain range as it shimmered through the heat waves.  Probably
something reflective in the rocks.  It made Richie think of stars, the
real ones unseen from the hazy cloud cover.

There was a cozy little nook in the rock outcropping where he could
lean back and rest against it.  His legs stretched out to the edge of
the ground, only a few feet away.  Richie sat and watched the
shimmering spectacle across the world from him.  Everything seemed
across the world from him.

This wasn't what he had expected.  There were times he had run across a
particularly accomplished Immortal.  But you still gave your name,
raised your sword, and wham-bam, it was over.  This vigil was only
making him worry about winning.  Living, he corrected himself.  And for
once, he dwelled on it.  Living.  Do I really want to go on living?
Should I worry about what happens after tomorrow?  Would I feel better
if this was it?  Would I be able to finally rest?

"So you want to give up and die?" the man's voice asked softly behind
him.  With a start, Richie turned.  He couldn't believe his eyes. Just
down the rock was Gil, an old friend from the Plymouth colony on the
Moon.  A person who had died in 2012 A.D.  "Even when we were trapped
in that cave-in, you fought to survive.  Why give up now?"

This couldn't be happening, Richie thought.  He's dead.  "You're dead!"

Gil shrugged his shoulders, a very uncharacteristic move.  "We all have
our crosses to bear, Dickie.  When did you set down yours?"

Richie shook his head.  "So you think I'm just giving up?"  Richie
blushed in anger.  This was so like Gil.  They had argued about
everything.  There probably wasn't another mortal in the galaxy, past
or present, who frustrated Richie so.  "You know me better than that.
It just may be time to move on."

"Die," Gil countered with a grin.

"Whatever," Richie countered.  "That was several hundred years ago,
Gil.  Don't you think I might have changed?"  The Immortal couldn't
believe he was still arguing with this phantasm.  "Why do I bother?"

A discreet cough made Richie turn the other way.  "Why do you bother?"
Jack Crusher asked, another dead phantasm.  He was wearing the black
silk shirt Richie had bought him for his eighteenth birthday, which the
young man had promptly gone out, got drunk, and threw up on.  They
always had a good laugh whenever he wore it afterwards.

"Do you have to ask that, Jack?"  Richie forced the lump in his throat
away.  It had been the worst night of his life in recent years, when
they told him Jack had died.  The commanding officer, Picard, had
looked haggard during the call.  "I remember when your father let me
hold you, there at Starfleet Medical, the day you were born.  You
looked up at me, and smiled...."  Jack had been such a very small baby.
"I would do anything to get you to smile like that again."

Jack beamed.  "And you did.  That was the best part.  You didn't try to
be my father, didn't try and mold me.  But you were there to hold my
hand, and listen to me, and sometimes yell at me when I was doing
something stupid."  The corners of Richie's mouth twitched at the
memories.

"You always were a handful, especially once you started at the
Academy," Richie pointed out.  His young ward had gotten into more
trouble since...well, names failed him.  "And there I was, having to be
stern and disapproving...."

"That's why I had to get into so much trouble," Jack pointed out.  "I
had the reputation of Red Alert Ryan to live up too.  The strict,
loathsome professor...."

Richie laughed and raised his hand.  "You can stop that right now,
young man.  Don't blame me for your lack of discretion.

Jack came closer and laid a hand on Richie's arm.  The Immortal gasped
a breath at the contact.  It was a familiar gesture, and one he had
missed.  "So, tell me, why do you bother?"  Richie struggled for an
answer.  He shook his head, not able to express the words.  "No, Rich,"
Jack interrupted.  "Not just me.  Everyone.  All of us.  Why do you
bother?  To teach for so long you become an institution.  To turn back
around and serve on another ship and another ship.  To fight for the
idea of the Federation, and peace.  Why?"

There was no cognizant answer Richie could give.  "I don't know," he
whispered, wishing more than anything this wasn't a dream.  One more
moment with Jack again, even if it was only his imagination, was almost
so joyous it was painful.  Especially tonight.  "I'm sorry."

A new voice sounded.  "Sorry about caring?  Devoting your life to an
idea?  Or because you don't know yourself well enough to answer?"
Boothby's voice jerked Richie back around.  The caretaker's face was in
Richie's own.  "Because you're almost four hundred, and you know
yourself less than we do?"

The Immortal was at a loss for words.  "And how am I suppose to find
out who I am?  I've searched the known galaxy and haven't found
anything like an answer!"  He felt angry now.  He had devoted his life
to Starfleet and gotten little in return.  He still was no closer to
understanding himself than when he pushed a broom across a dojo floor
and pretended to manage it. 

"Richie," Boothby uttered with sadness in his eyes.  "Searching every
planet in the quadrant won't get you any closer to the truth."  The
white haired man chuckled.  "The truth isn't out there.  Your search
hasn't even begun."  Before the Immortal could explode from
frustration, Boothby moved to place his hand on Richie's chest.  "It's
in here," he simply said as palm touched cloth.

The world shifted, and Riva stood before him.  The Ramatisian smiled,
as if the Immortal already had found his answer.  It was getting too
confusing to Richie.  He felt lost and helpless.  A soft, feminine
whisper enveloped him completely.  "But that's the way you are, my
love."  Her golden voice caressed his ear.  The Immortal was afraid to
turn, afraid to see her again with his own eyes.  Afraid if she was
next to him, he would never voluntarily leave.

"Miranda," he whispered as he turned.  Her dark black hair cascaded
down to her shoulders as she smiled, a sunlit flash that melted
Richie's heart.  "I can't bear to see you again."  He felt the tears
falling down his cheek, but he had no will to stop them.

"Hush," she replied as she wiped them away.  "You feel the pain because
you don't know how to move on. Or move back."  She kissed him gently on
the nose.  "You never knew what you truly wanted, or why you wanted
it."  Her hands felt warm on his skin.  "And until you do, you will
never be whole."

Richie didn't want to understand what was going on, he only wanted her
to stay forever.  But in the end, she left, like everyone else.  "I
love you," he whispered, holding her in his arms, shivering from the
need and the remembered pain of her loss.

"Shhh," she urged.  "We knew what we were getting into.  At least I
did."  She looked into his eyes and smiled.  "It's not our love that
haunts you, bothers you.  Our life together isn't the obstruction in
your way.  I am an important part, but not the key."

He was confused, and hurt.  "You were all I ever needed, Mir.  You made
me complete."

The pain in her eyes almost destroyed him.  "You know that's not true.
Don't keep hiding from the truth."  There was an urgency in her eyes.
"You must go back there again, or all is lost, my love."  She ran her
hands over his face, brushing his hair.  "We will all be with you,
forever, darling."

"No," Richie begged.  "I don't understand...."  He stopped when he felt
the new hand rest on his shoulder.  Miranda vanished from his grasp and
he let go a small cry of pain.  "Noo."  And then he turned and melted
into the embrace of the person behind him.  Something he wanted to do
when his wife had died for real, but his anger and distance had
prevented.  "Noo."

The Highlander held him for a moment, then gently released him.  They
stood there for a while, just contemplating each other.  Richie opened
his mouth, but choked on the name.  He tried again.  "Mac?"

Duncan MacLeod smiled as he looked down on his friend.  "Because I'm
the one person you're not at peace with," he replied to the unspoken
question.  Richie blushed, preparing to protest.  "Don't start lying to
me.  Not now.  Not here."

Richie felt a weight lift from his body.  A tenseness that had been
with him for so long he had forgotten it was there.  "I won't," he
promised, more to himself than to MacLeod.

"We are so much alike," Duncan said. "We both have been alone and
rejected.  Yet we're hardly the same. We can't agree on anything.  But
that just makes the friendship more special."

The younger Immortal could see his point.  There were just too many
differences to overcome.  "But all we do is argue.  I don't like that.
We hurt each other, again and again.  I almost...."  He knew the tears
flowed freely, but couldn't stop.  "Sometimes I think the pain is so
great my heart will burst.  And I throw up walls...."  His voice was a
whisper, no louder than the breeze.  "I come back, because I can't bear
being alone.  I think that this time it will work.  But things fall
apart and all I do is hurt again...."

The Highlander gently framed Richie's face with his strong hands and
raised his friend's eyes until he could look into their depths.  "Our
bodies heal overnight, Rich.  Our hearts, they take a while longer. But
building walls won't help them heal.  Show me your pain."

"I can't," Richie interjected, pulling away.  He struggled briefly, too
drained to break Duncan's hold.  "I can't...."

MacLeod let him go.  "Then we will spend the rest of our lives in the
hell we've created, Rich.  We belong together, tough guy.  Back to back
against the world.  Not fighting each other.  We shouldn't be fighting
each other."  

"THEN LEAVE!" Richie shouted through is tears.  He stumbled to his
knees, too tired to stand.  "That's all you ever wanted, was to be rid
of me.  Now's your chance!"  The walls had cracked open finally, and
all he felt was the pain and the loneliness he had bottled up inside.
"Go live your life.   Without me.  It would be safer."

"Never," Duncan replied as he knelt, pulling him into another hug.
"Sometimes, Rich, you are the most aggravating, annoying person in the
universe.  But I wouldn't trade you for anything in the world." MacLeod
backed away enough to raise Richie's face so they made eye contact.
"You're stuck with me forever, my friend."

"I wish I could believe that," Richie sighed.  "But this isn't real.
You're not real.  This is just a dream the night before I die."

The Highlander graced him with a small, knowing smile.  "You could
always talk your way out of anything, you little thief."  Duncan
reached out and grabbed Richie's limp hand.  The younger Immortal
didn't resist as MacLeod placed it on his own chest.  "This is my
heart, Rich.  This is my soul.  Let the walls go and I will be there
for you."

The younger Immortal sadly shook his head.  "It still can't be
happening."

Duncan winked at him.  "You've shown me your pain, my friend.  Give me
the chance to show you my joy.  Just give me the chance.  Please." And
for a brief second, despite his brain, the young Immortal believed his
friend.  With all his heart.  That if he only showed up, Duncan would
be waiting with a smile and open arms.  It was a nice thought.

"Mac," Richie began, feeling this was a perfect moment to ask something
that had been bothering him for ages.  He stopped, though. The old
fears had never truly gone away.  His doubts had hung on for centuries.

Duncan gave him a small smile.  "Go ahead, Rich," he said in a soft
voice.  "You can ask me.  You can ask me anything.  Always."

The younger Immortal gathered his courage and took a deep breath.  It
was only two words, but they had haunted him forever.  And overcoming
the fear of centuries was not something easily done.  "Mac...."  The
Highlander waited patiently.  "Why me?" he finished in a small voice.
He held his breath, terrified of the answer.

"I remember the first time I saw you, in the shop."  It was a night
neither of them was likely to forget.  "There you were, sword in hand.
'En guard' you said.  I mistook you for an Immortal, for a lot of
different reasons.  And later...."  Duncan seemed to be having trouble
answering the question.  "When I found out you weren't even
eighteen...well, your face had seen too much to be eighteen.  I was
sad...."

Richie jerked away.  "You felt pity."

Duncan wasn't about to let him go that easily.  "I've found several
pre-Immortals.  And I've helped them have a normal, happy childhood.
Made sure they realized whatever potential as a mortal they could.
You...."  Duncan looked at Richie with saddened eyes.  "I was too late
with you, Richie."

"Mac...," Richie whispered.

"I knew what I had to do.  But I couldn't...."  It was Duncan's turn
for a deep breath.  "I'm sorry.  So, so sorry that I wasn't there for
you."

It felt strange to Richie, Duncan apologizing.  "You came when I needed
you.  Gave me everything I could want or ask for.  Taught me, sheltered
me.  Even let me go and make my own mistakes.  You were there when I
came running back.  You have nothing to apologize.  I'm the one...."
His voice caught in his throat.  "I'm the one who almost killed
you...."



2194 A.D. - Outside of Starbase 3, Alpha Centauri



Richie knelt carefully in the dirt, afraid to breathe.  He tried to
stop his shaking hands as they gently, so gently slid the rapier from
the deep cut in Duncan's neck.  Somehow he had managed to turn the
blade as it cut through the flesh, so it sank into the shoulder.  The
bone stopped it from totally slicing through.  But it had been close.

The blood-coated blade came free.  The younger Immortal placed it at
his side, staring at the gaping wound that he had caused.  He could see
the spinal cord, severed.  The broken bones and blood vessels still
pumping red liquid over the corpse.  A head with eyes open in shock,
seeing only nothing, feeling nothing.

He held his breath, hoping beyond hope the brief flashes of energy
around the body of the Highlander were not the start of a Quickening.
He prayed over and over that his friend was healing, and not forever
dead.

The vision he had seen over and over, almost every time he closed his
eyes, was not a warning about Adam, but a prophecy about himself.  But
he had been so deluded that he never considered himself to be a threat.
Even after watching a Dark Quickening turn brother against brother, he
had never envisioned he could harm MacLeod.  Not even to save his own
life.  But he had been wrong.  Oh so wrong.

He stumbled to his feet somehow, afraid to be there when Duncan finally
opened his eyes.  Eyes that would hate.  A gaze that would condemn him
to eternal punishment for what he had done.  The tenuous bond that had
stretched and strained was finally broken, shattered beyond repair.

Stunned, he found his rapier in his hand, still dripping red with
MacLeod's blood.  The urge to throw it away was overwhelming.  To get
rid of it, so that Duncan would be safe forever.  He felt numb all over
his body.  His mind would only scream that he should leave, and the
sight of his blade slicing into the neck, over and over.  It was not
finished.  He would kill the Highlander if he held onto the sword. If
he continued to fight.  Today had just shown him he could.

There were stares as he limped into the Starbase living quarters. Gasps
of shock and confusion.  His bags were packed by the time he mentally
composed his resignation.  He transcribed it to the computer and rented
a berth on the next shuttle.  Anything to get him off planet as fast as
possible.

The whispers followed him as he made good time getting to the shuttle
bay.  All he could see was the blood on his hands, a ghostly image that
no water or soap could ever remove.  And the sickening sound of a blade
cutting into flesh.  He made it to the ship as the airlock was closing,
finally able to stop a moment and breathe.  As oxygen entered his
lungs, he felt the other Immortal.  On impulse, he turned and looked
out the airlock window.

Duncan stood there, stunned, seeing Richie's face in the window.  The
look of confusion and helplessness tore apart what was left of Richie's
broken heart.  "I love you," he mouthed as the tears threatened, unsure
if Duncan could make anything out through the meteor-pitted plexiglass.
"I love you," he repeated more to himself, as the blade sliced down
again and again in his mind.



There were tears in Duncan's eyes.  "Have you ever thought...just
once...that the visions were what gave you the power to stop from
killing me?"  His voice was deep and soft, with a faint tremor.  "That
it wasn't a warning that you would take my head, but someday, you'd
need the strength not to?"  A callused hand brushed the hair out of
Richie's face, and he saw the hurt on MacLeod's face.  "Immortal
friendships are never easy.  There's always that voice that says 'one
day, they may kill me.'  The chasm always between any Immortals."

The Highlander's voice broke, and it took a moment for him to recover.
During that time, he kept a firm grip on his student, his friend. "That
night, with Garrick, you told me you could never kill me.  I believed
you.  I still do.  There's no voice in my head warning me about you.
That's the greatest gift you could ever give me.  I just wish...I wish
I could say the same.  Let you know the joy of having a true friend.
But I can't.  I...Why did you leave?  Why did you take the joy?  The
hope?"

Richie found himself unable to reply.  He licked his lips, tasting the
salty tears that ran down his face.  "I...I never wanted to leave. But
I couldn't bear the thought of you dying.  Not because of me." Not
knowing why, he clutched at his teacher with all his strength. "I'm the
one who's sorry, Mac.  Sorry for ever thinking I could harm you.  Sorry
for making you suffer for my cowardice.  I...forgive me."

The last two words just spilled out unbidden.  Even as he said them,
Richie realized he had never asked the Highlander that.  Always he
apologized, saying how sorry he was, but he had never asked for
forgiveness.  Never let his friend be the one to grant absolution. And
how selfish that was.

Duncan squeezed him tighter.  "There is nothing you have done, or felt,
that needs my forgiveness."  Richie hadn't expected to get off that
easily.  The Highlander let him go, and moved a hand to his cheek.  A
very un-Duncan move.  "But there is someone you need to forgive, Rich."

The Scot's callused hand gently turned his head to the side.  There,
against the rocks, was a frightened, scared boy, barely eighteen.
Terrified of what he had witnessed, unsure about what was going to
happen next.  Afraid that the offer of a home and a job was another
trick played on him.  Scared of letting down his guard, and the walls,
for fear of being hurt again.  Never again.  The elder Richie nodded
his understanding, unsure of his voice.  He felt Duncan's thumb brush
the sudden tears off his cheek.

The Highlander guided his gaze again in the other direction.  "There's
one more thing," he whispered.  Richie saw Adam just standing there,
waiting.  "Since you feel so magnanimous...."

The younger Immortal found his voice.  "I can't," he said.  Duncan's
touch disappeared as Richie shook his head.  "I just can't."  It was
hard to tell if he felt worse because he had no compassion for the man
he viewed as his competition, or because he let Duncan down.  "I
can't," he repeated as he doubled over.  Richie knew tears were falling
again.  His stomach was tied in knots.  "Please, don't ask me to...."

A hand brushed his shaking shoulder, lighter than the Highlander's.
"Shh, Richie," Tessa urged.  Her French lilt whispered in his ear.
"It's not the end of the world."  Richie knew he had disappointed
Tessa, letting her die.  And he would have moved heaven and earth for
her, but this was too hard.  He felt anguish that his heart was too
small to embrace Adam.

"I know I should," he replied through tears.  "I don't want to.  I
don't want to give up that anger."

"Hush," Tessa urged quietly.  "Duncan has needs you can't fulfill.  We
all do."  Richie kept his face buried in his hands, unable to face her.
"It's not a reflection of you, or what you offer.  Duncan has to
have...many different things.  Just like you, just like me."  Her arms
enfolded the crying Immortal.  "I was hurt when he asked if you could
move in.  I wanted to be his everything.  But I was wrong.  You came
into our lives, and made it so much better."

Richie wished she would never leave him.  He almost agreed.  Anything
so she would stay with him.  But his voice was silent and his body
still.

"Give Adam the same chance.  Maybe he's the answer to some of your
needs."  Tessa's artist hand gently rubbed Richie's back.  "Duncan
deserves you both.  Don't desert him because of your jealousy."

"No," Richie replied.  It was such a short, simple word.

Tessa sighed as she let go.  "Then all is lost."



By the time Richie raised his head from his hands, she was gone.  They
all were.  He was alone.



----------------



The Intrepid lay nestled in the shadow on the lone moon surrounding the
second planet from the star.  Not only were there several ion trails
leading toward the planet, one of which they had been following from
the border, but the trigemic vapors in the upper atmosphere kept
sensors from scanning the surface.  Perfect to hide out on.

It had taken Methos a while to convince Captain Lorrict that a shuttle
used for reconnaissance would be best.  He had failed to mention the
irresistible feeling that an Immortal of great power was on the
surface.  He could sense it.  It made the short hairs on the back of
his neck stand.  And most likely, Richie was down there as well.  If he
wasn't being spoken to, he would have shaken his head in frustration.

"I still don't like the idea of you piloting a shuttle down there,
alone."  Pretar was on the verge of exploding.  The Immortal could
tell.  "Even though you've had SI training, and are the best we have,
I'm still not comfortable with this."

Methos casually shrugged.  "We could wait around for a while to see if
a window opens up in the cloud cover, hope it lasts long enough for a
sensor scan to spot a single human on the planet and beam him out."
That could take hours in his estimation.  "And anything could happen
while we wait.  Richie could lose his head, an arm, get thrown in a vat
of acid...."

"You didn't by any chance watch the Perils of Pauline, or anything?"
Pretar inquired.  "Fine.  Do this your way.  We'll play cavalry.  How
will we know if you need rescuing?  The communicators won't work."

"I'll give you a signal."  Pretar looked ready to argue.  "I don't
know," Methos replied to the unspoken question.  "I'll think of
something."  The Betazoid eyed him again.  "Trust me."

Pretar snorted.  "Famous last words.  All right.  Lorrict to Shuttlebay
Two.  Ready a shuttle for Mr. Pierson."

·Aye, sir·

Methos stood as Pretar did the same.  The Betazoid held out his hand.
"Good luck, Adam.  Bring both yourselves back in one piece."

The Immortal smiled.  "I always do."



1463 B.C. - Gaza, Egypt



It was hot.  The stifling breeze caused by the recklessly driven
chariot threw up dust that clotted Methos' throat.  Two days or
constant riding, the unconscious body of his friend at his feet,
bouncing against his bare skin each time the chariot lurched.  The
Immortal could no longer yell commands at the tired horse, just grunt
and whip the reins as they drove over the arid land.

He was almost at his destination, the house of his captain, almost dead
in the floor of the chariot.  By the gods, he wanted to rest. But he
had a duty to perform, a task yet unfulfilled.  And he was loathed to
give up so close to the finish, even though all he wanted to do was lay
down and die.  But so many were already dead.

There, just ahead.  The rugged rock jutting from the sand that always
brought a smile to his lips, the landmark that signified he was almost
at the place they insisted he call home as well.  There he could rest.
Just a little bit farther.

The servants rushed out as Methos stopped in the middle of the  road,
gently lifting the unconscious Ephranis out of the dirty chariot. One
man calmed the horse, running a hand over the heaving flank of the
roan.  Another slave approached the Immortal with a jug of water,
letting him drink his fill.  Having his thirst finally slacked helped
him regain his voice.  And he would need it.  The Captain's wife
approached, and she would probably expect a full report.  Not much her
husband did escaped her touch.

"What happened?" she asked coldly, giving Ephranis' limp form a quick
glance.

Methos stumbled out of the chariot to the ground, glad his feet were on
stationary rock.  "It was a massacre...."

"How did a meager bunch of slaves manage to decimate Pharaoh's...."

Her words faltered as Methos laughed, long and hard.  His joviality was
not appreciated.  "Slaves?  They did nothing.  Only somehow managed to
make a strip of dry land appear magically across the sea so they could
cross on foot."  The Immortal frowned when the woman did not look
convinced.  "Do not scoff.  I watched the walls of water come crashing
down on us as we gave chase.  It was worse than another plague.  So
many dead...."

"You survived...as did my husband."

Methos looked her in the eye.  "I was favored by the gods, and suffered
me to save the Captain as well.  We made it to shore, somehow, and I
salvaged this chariot.  Not many others were as lucky."

The woman absently fingered his lieutenant's torque around his neck.
"You always look out for him, Methos."  Her voice dropped to a whisper,
now that they were alone on the road.  "And me," she added, her painted
lips brushing his.

"I always do...."



Methos stepped into the turbolift, surprised when Danny Bird was also
in the car.  "Shuttlebay," he told the computer as the doors shut.  He
eyed the ensign.  "Coincidence?" he asked, already guessing the answer.

"You need backup," the young man simply stated.

The Immortal took it in stride.  "One, you do everything exactly as I
tell you, when I tell you.  Two, you stay out of the way.  Three, he
who hesitates is lost.  Got it?"  At this point and time, Methos didn't
feel like tiptoeing around.

"Yes, sir," Danny replied, with no hint of sarcasm.



----------------



The Klingon servant found Richie the next morning deep in
concentration.  The Immortal moved through his special kata, melding
mind and body into a single unit.  The walls had finally been cracked.
All the emotions buried inside steadied him, not overwhelmed him.  The
forms flowed together without hesitation.  Duncan would have been
proud.



"Is it always like that?"  Richie asked.

Kahless understood.  The Klingon didn't seem surprised the Vigil had
affected the human.  "Sometimes better.  Sometimes worse.  It all rests
on the ghost one must appease before facing death.  Are you ready?"

They were alone on the plateau, surrounded by three silent ships.  The
Klingon had a bat'telh in hand.  Richie had no weapon.  The human
easily settled into a defensive stance, hands upraised.  "Yes."

"No weapon?" Kahless inquired.  His head quirked to the side as he
examined the human Immortal.  "You will behead me with your bare
hands?"

Richie smiled as he bounced on his feet.  He also quickly jabbed out
with his hands to keep limber, like Charlie had taught him. "Something
like that."

A grin broke out on Kahless' face.  It appeared he respected even
foolish bravery.  "It is a good day to die," he announced as he brought
his weapon up.

"I wouldn't know," Richie replied.  Ever since he awoke this morning,
from whatever he experienced the night before, he had known he would
not break his vow.  He would not raise his sword against Kahless -- or
any other Immortal.  He would win this without it.

Richie was far from defenseless.  His mind seemed to race at a hundred
miles per second, his awareness sharp enough for the most microscopic
event.  Each move he made felt almost too slow, too languid.  He was
not going to die.

Kahless howled during his first attack.  It was pathetically slow.
Richie easily danced to the side, watching the Klingon pass by him, a
blurry after image following.  Another growl, another attack.  This
only took a head duck to evade.  The third strike was a head slice from
the side.  Richie avoided it and used the back of his arm to force the
bat'telh into a follow through, putting Kahless way out of position.
With effort, Richie kicked out at the exposed side, but his feet moved
to slow.  The Klingon was able to bring his arm back and block.

Apparently Richie was moving as slow as Kahless, but his awareness was
still hyperactive.  The human saw the upper slice in plenty of time to
roll out of the way.  Then Kahless was after him, ramming the bat'telh
down at him.  Three more turns, and three more stabs, then Richie
managed to catch the Klingon with a kick finally.  His opponent flew
backwards through the air very slowly.

Richie quickly stood, dropping back to a defensive position.  "You are
very...are very good...good," Kahless said, his words slurring like a
bad Japanese movie.  The Klingon charged him, waving his bat'telh in
front of him like a scythe.  The human repeatedly jumped back to avoid
the sharp blade.  On the fourth swing, he let the sword bite into his
side, using his arm to trap it while punching out with his free hand.
Kahless turned his head and the human's palm rammed into the Klingon's
cheek.  Kahless brought a knee up while Richie was distracted, and used
the momentary pain to push the human back and free the blade.

The sharp slice into his side began to burn, answered by another ache
in his head, at the base of the neck.  Richie could feel the blood
flowing down his side, staining the coverall.  He turned to place that
side in back to protect it while it healed.

Kahless came at him again.  Another side swing that Richie ducked,
grabbing the Klingon's weapon wrist as it passed over him.  A quick
twist, and the Klingon was forced to pivot on around, until Richie had
the arm trapped behind the Klingon's back.  Since it was the hand that
held the weapon, that was neutralized as well.  Kahless gave the
bat'telh a little toss and caught it with his other hand, jerking the
weapon over his head and driving the handle grips into Richie's head.

That made the human's brain throb with pain.  He let go of the Klingon
and fell on his rump.  Somewhat stunned that he had been unable to
avoid the blow, he was still able to kick out with both feet and
planted them on Kahless' butt.  With a shove, the opponents parted far
enough to regroup and recover somewhat.

"Very good," Kahless laughed.  Richie noticed that even as his head
hurt more, time seemed to speed up.  Things were almost running at
normal speed.  The Klingon took a quick swipe, just to get Richie to
jump.  That brought another chuckle.  "Dance for me, Human?"

Angry now, Richie sprang forward with a simple, straight out
roundhouse.  It connected with the Klingon's chin and sent his head
spinning.  Everything jumped back into slow motion and sharp clarity.
Pink blood mixed with spittle flew out of the Kahless' mouth.  Richie
came back with a left hook that also connected.  And surprisingly, so
did an uppercut.

This time, Richie was on the receiving end of a headbutt.  The pointed
ridges drove into the human's cranium, causing more agony.  Richie's
hand flew absently to rub his forehead.  He never saw the attack, but
he dove to the side anyway.  His head was on fire.  He knew he was on
the ground, he could feel the dirt under his hands.  Blood poured into
his eyes, blinding him.  A boot kicked him in the stomach and sent him
off the ground.  Everything hurt even worse when he landed a second
later.  Another kick, another laugh.  The cut on his side had opened
again.  Everywhere was blood.

He couldn't see.  Instead, he felt.  No, he knew the Klingon's fist
would be here and now, enough that he was prepared to grab it, and jerk
Kahless forward.  As his opponent stumbled by him, there was time to
drive his fist into the Klingon's gut.  A grunt was his reward and then
he lost contact with the Klingon.

Quietly the two circled.  It was still difficult for Richie to see, and
worse that his head was about to explode.  He heard the whistling of
the bat'telh blade slicing the air.  Instinctively, he ducked to the
right.  The weapon sailed passed him.  It was the same on the return
stroke.  Richie almost started laughing, but his head hurt too much.
So much he could barely concentrate.  So much he hardly recognized the
new sensation of another Immortal nearby.

A large hand grasped him by the throat.  The strength of fifteen
hundred years lifted him off the ground.  Richie couldn't see Kahless'
gloating face, nor the bat'telh being reared back for the decapitating
blow.  He still knew both were happening somehow, through the blinding
pain.  He couldn't breathe.  It didn't matter really.  Nothing really
mattered any more.

"I thought you might have been a challenge, Human," Kahless added,
squeezing Richie's throat tighter and crushing the windpipe.  "We'll
see if whoever has come to help you is any better."  With a growl, the
Klingon prepared to strike.



"Shit," Methos cursed at the scene he saw in the binoculars.  The word
drew a confused look from Ensign Bird.  The Immortal knew there was
trouble when he heard the sounds of fighting as they crested this last
outcropping of rock.  Big trouble when he saw Richie going up against a
Klingon.  Horrible trouble when that Klingon had Richie by the throat
and was prepared for the final blow.  Deep shit.

Unfortunately, Danny saw the scene as well, and while unable to
interpret the hidden meanings, knew what was obviously going on.  The
young man quickly drew his phaser and aimed.

The Immortal placed a hand over the weapon.  "Stop," he ordered. Danny
jerked the phaser away and turned to argue.  But something in Methos'
face reminded the ensign of the earlier conditions.  "We can't
interfere," he added, knowing Danny wouldn't be able to understand what
was going on.  Methos wondered if he did himself.



Time slowed down another notch.  The bat'telh slid forward, aimed at
Richie's unprotected neck.  Kahless' growl made him sound on drugs.
There was plenty of seconds for the human to reach out and grasp the
d'k tang dagger in the Klingon's belt.  It was easy to slowly plunge it
into the unprotected stomach before the bat'telh blade came too close. 
The sudden pain in the gut made Kahless release Richie, enough so the
human could duck under the still moving blade.  With a kick to the
Klingon's front, Kahless fell backward, Richie watching/feeling/knowing
his opponent was falling.  No effort was needed to keep the bat'telh in
motion, now that the human was unhindered.  A chop to the Klingon's
elbow made the joint unlock, pivoting the arm in a different
trajectory.  One that would intersect where Kahless' neck would be in
two seconds.  The Klingon bounced off the ground, his head flying
slowly up as the blade made contact.  And easily sliced through the
skin, bone, cartilage, and both spinal columns.

Richie stood in shock, unaware what had just occurred, played out in
slow motion on the movie screen in his mind.  He still couldn't
breathe.  His brain felt five times larger than normal; his skull a
shrunken nut shell ready to crack.  Kahless' head bounced slowly along
the ground, spitting up small clouds of dust as it hit.  Each thud was
deafening to Richie, who wanted so badly to cover his ears.  He
stumbled mindlessly in a circle.  One step to one bounce of his
opponent's head.  It was over.

Before he could feel any emotion, the head rolled to a stop.  A deathly
silence descended, as if even gods had paused to watch. Richie couldn't
see with all the blood on his face.  He was too tired to howl a warning
that his opponent was joining the other Immortals in Hell, or Sto-Vo-
Kor, or wherever.  He just wanted it to be over.  But as the first
thread of energy sparkled toward him, still taking forever to cross the
distance, he knew it had only begun.



"Danny," Methos called as he pulled the ensign behind the rock cover.
"Listen to me, and listen well.  When I give the signal, we're going
out there.  Grab Richie's body while I cover you.  We need to get back
to the shuttle as quickly as possible."  The young man nodded solemnly.
"And forget what you're about to see."



It began the same.  Energy caroused between victor and vanquished.
Richie had never enjoyed a Quickening, there was too much going on and
frankly, it scared him.  His body jerked as the electrical discharges
found a new home, each one causing its own brand of suffering.  His
throat was still too damaged to scream.  He writhed in silence as his
form danced like a puppet.

He fell to his knees when the pain dwarfed his pounding skull, but the
energy yanked him back up.  He tried to go limp, anything to find rest.
The Quickening was relentless.  Richie's eyes felt on fire, ready to
burst out of his sockets.  Tears poured down his cheeks as the
convulsions became stronger.

The energy was pure white, coursing around the plateau in all
directions.  On some level, the Immortal registered the frightened
Klingons stumbling out of the ships, staring at the fireworks display.
But his world was swiftly being reduced to blinding white torment.

If any part of his mind retained sanity, it would have been startled as
his feet were lifted off the ground.  The powerful bolt of energy
rammed his battered body and tore the coverall.  His arms were flung
wide as he helplessly twisted for unseen masters.  There was too much
going on to even plead for rest.

White energy sped toward Adam, twirling around the Immortal as if to
examine him.  Richie recognized him on an animal level, the anger
adding a new fire in his belly.  He finally shouted in pain as his
throat healed enough for sound, then another energy bolt shot down his
mouth, filling his guts with power.

All around the storm, the Klingons watched in amazement.  No one moved
closer to the epicenter.  They saw Richie's torn body lifted higher as
each discharge wracked him.  The white tendrils were everywhere,
stretching even to the upper cloud layer.  A storm more powerful than
any being had ever seen.  And Richie was at its center.



"What the hell is that?" Sam Lavelle suddenly asked from the conn.
Everyone on the Intrepid bridge turned and looked at the viewscreen.
There, in the murky cloud cover, a thunderstorm had broken out.  It was
centralized, a swirl of white lightning revolving in a perfect circle. 
"Is that the signal?" he asked incredulously.

"It's some sort of electromagnetic disturbance," the Bajoran ensign
pointed out from Ops.  "I'm reading a massive energy surge.  No known
cause.  Our sensors can't penetrate the cloud cover."

"A Quickening," Pretar corrected under his breath.  And that made him
very, very worried.  "Helm," he shouted.  "Prepare for atmospheric
travel.  Ensign Bird to the Bridge.  Ensign Sito, red alert."  The
lights on the bridge darkened as the red lights flashed.  Everyone
became surprisingly busy.  "Bridge to Engineering.  We're going to try
to enter the atmosphere.  Let me know when you're ready."

·Roger, Bridge. Engineering out.·

"Mr. Lavelle," Pretar continued, "augment thrusters and strengthen the
Structural Integrity Fields for the hull and warp nacelles."  The
Betazoid punched another button on his console, activating a private
channel.  "Transporter Room.  Prepare to lock onto any Starfleet
combadges and any humans with them at a moment's notice."  Without
waiting for an answer, he punched the line closed.

·Bridge, we are go for atmospheric flight.·

"Take us in, Mr. Lavelle," Pretar ordered.  He just hoped he was in
time.  Silently, the large ship slid out of the small moon's shadow,
and sped toward the swirling mass of clouds in the planet's atmosphere
below.



Richie wasn't sure who, or what he was.  Every time he took a breath,
another discharge rammed into him.  He knew he was floating helplessly
above the ground.  And all around him were tendrils of the Quickening,
playing tag with his puny body.  He didn't think there were any bones
connected to each other, and nerves that weren't screaming from
overload.

His mind was filled with words, ideas, actions and intents.  He
imagined he could sense what Laura Benteen was doing on Earth right at
this moment.  That Adam and Danny were cowering behind those rocks.
That K'talok was slowly advancing and reaching out a hand.

The white lightning bit, scorching the ambassador's fingers.  Richie
would have laughed if he didn't feel so much pain/pleasure.  Another
large tendril circled his chest, making itself at home like a coiled
serpent.  He was past the point of caring.  Now all he wanted was for
it to end.



Methos felt the first stirrings of abatement from the maelstrom that
surrounded Richie.  With a pat on the shoulder, he alerted Danny.  It
was still too noisy to talk, but a head jerk in the general direction
was enough.  Ensign Bird nodded and slowly crept with the Immortal to
the edge of the outcropping.  Once Methos saw the gathered crowd, he
pulled Danny back.  "We won't have much time.  Don't waste any." Danny
nodded and they prepared to run.



The Intrepid bucked as it hit the atmosphere.  The artificial gravity
couldn't compensate quickly enough, so the crew was jostled at their
posts.  It was almost like the ship was fighting the course.  "Hold her
steady," Pretar called out unnecessarily.  Still, it made him feel
marginally better.

Ensign Sito yelped as one of her wall panels exploded.  She moved back
to her displays once it was over.  "There's a plasma fire in the main
conduit," she called out over the bridge noise.  "Attempting to purge."

Another wild bucking almost threw Pretar from the Captain's seat.  He
held on, knowing the fate of his ship was in the hands of her crew. And
hoped all the design work paid off.  "Or we're gonna be toast in the
dirt," he added under his breath.



Fading out with a few small explosions of energy, the Quickening ended.
Methos and Danny were already running toward the center as Richie's
body fell to the ground.  He landed so hard anything not already broken
was snapped in two.  The battered Immortal just lay there in the dust. 
Methos angled toward the ships as he opened fire. The assembled
Klingons were too stunned to act for the moment.  Lucky us, the
Immortal wryly thought.

It took less than a minute for Danny to hoist the unconscious Richie
into a fireman's carry.  Methos shot randomly as he eyed the
reinforcements streaming from the ships.  Those already outside awoke
from their stupor and pulled weapons themselves.  "Run!" Methos shouted
as he stepped up his shots.

A quick glance back the way they had come revealed a squad of guards
blocking their retreat.  And the front lines were cautiously advancing.
With a battle like this in the open, he who fires most keeps his head. 
He tried to spot Danny peripherally and found the ensign struggling
toward a bridge that led to a small outcropping of rock.  Good a place
as any for a final stand.

The Immortal kept firing, trying to give as much time to the ensign as
possible.  But time ran out as the power cell failed, leaving Methos
pushing a useless button.  He threw the weapon away and stared at his
enemies.  Surprised at the situation, they stared back.

Like a frightened rabbit, Methos jerked around and began running as
fast as his feet would carry him.  He was not fearful; that emotion he
had outlived millennia ago.  He was somewhat worried about his
continued existence as he felt the assembled host start after him.

It took a second for them to start firing.  The Immortal weaved right
and left, making a more difficult target to hit.  It was almost like a
deadly game of tag.  He poured more energy into his legs and deepened
his strides.  The race was on....



490 B.C.  --  Greece, Earth



Methos could barely breathe anymore.  All he had done was run.  All
morning.  But the news was too important to stop for any reason.  He
chuckled giddily.  He might even die momentarily and keep on running.
He had abandoned his sandals earlier and ran on bare feet.  The leather
had torn soon after he left for Athens.

He felt his leg muscles protest the treatment, but still he refused to
stop.  His dark brown curls were matted against his head.  Both lungs
ached, each gasp for a quick breath caused agony in his chest.  But he
could not stop.

Because of his Immortality, he was in top form.  It was almost required
for every man in Greece to be a warrior, and athletically inclined.
The battles fought between Immortals were the stuff legends were made
of.  Sports were revered here, and it was easy to remain active.
Methos tended to run, but he was also accomplished at wrestling, where
his lithe form and determination gave him an edge. That's why he was
chosen to be the bearer of the news.  Once he got to Athens, he would
be a hero.

That appealed to him.  It seemed every five hundred years or so he felt
like doing something that made him special.  All that praise.  It
wasn't enough to kill a hundred Immortals in a year.  That brought no
fame.  Telling the world that Greece had beaten the Persians would make
him as close to a god as he dared aspire.  This century.  One day the
world may delve back into the darkness, and Methos could play savior
again to the frightened, huddle masses.

His heart pounded in his chest as he recognized the valley he was
passing through.  A house by the road looked familiar as well.  Almost
there.  He could taste the feast already.  Chapped lips were moistened
with the last of his saliva.  Ragged breaths escaped his open mouth.
Almost.  With the last of his strength, he picked up his sprint.  A
small part of his mind recognized he would be dead by the time he
reached the city gates.  He would have to leave and move on after that.
But they would remember his name.  At least the one he was using now.
That was enough, this time.  And what a way to leave.



Methos judged the distance to the bridge.  Twenty meters.  Danny had
made it across with Richie and was laying him down behind the rocks.
That meant he would be able to return fire any second now.  That was
good.  Disruptor shots dogged his feet, but no shot hit dead on.  He
knew he would have to hit the bridge at a dead run, and prayed it would
hold up.  The Immortal almost cried out as a stray blast hit one of the
rope rails, severing it.  The other could not hold the load. It snapped
from the weight, leaving no way to cross to safety.  I'm screwed,
Methos mentally cursed.

There was no time to stop.  No time to turn back.  His speed had
already committed him to his course.  And that course was straight down
into the boiling lava.  Lovely.  Without thinking, he poured the last
of his energy into his stride. It was easy to count the steps remaining
toward the edge.  On the last one, he closed his eyes and jumped....



1600 B.C.  --  Island of Crete, Earth



He looked down, marveling at the rolling seas below his feet. The salty
Mediterranean air blew across his happy face.  He was amazed at the
feeling, the giddy delight of flight.  The two contraptions on his arms
that Icarus had smuggled from his father's workroom were amazing. It
took a bit to learn how to control them, how to guide yourself along.

The Immortal's arms grew tired as he glided along.  It was hard work
fighting the wind.  But the rewards were well worth it.  One eye on the
beach nearby left the other to watch his friend, Icarus, laughing as
the young mortal swooped and dived, chasing the gulls.  Apparently, his
father had allowed him to do this before, but he wanted to share the
joy with a friend this time.  Methos didn't have the heart to chastise
the young man.  Besides, this was a remarkable experience.

Out of breath, Methos angled for the expanse of sand.  He aimed for the
rolling surf, close enough to shore so not to drown.  Or get pulled out
to sea by the large wings on his arms.  Once he was down, the Immortal
decided landing was the worst part.  There would have to be a better
way to get down if this was going to work.

He looked out to sea, watching Icarus swoop and dive.  That one had the
upper body strength to pull it off.  Methos was a leg man.  He waved
when he thought Icarus could see him, and sure enough the human bird
glided nearer.  "Why did you stop?" the mortal shouted.

"I'm tired," Methos shouted back, afraid he wasn't going to be heard
over the surf.  "I'm also hungry.  Come down and let's find some
fruit."  Icarus just laughed and circled farther out to sea.

"I'm not coming down," he yelled back.  "I'm going to fly up and touch
the sun."  The graceful form of the young man began beating the
artificial wings, rising higher and higher into the sky.

Methos cupped his eyes with his hands.  "Come back," he shouted
futilely.  Icarus soon became a dot, blotted out by the sun.  Methos
wondered if he would touch Apollo's chariot.  And would the god take
him to Olympus for dinner.  Suddenly the Immortal felt left behind.
"Icarus," he shouted, hoping to catch his friend's attention.

The reply started softly, but soon increased into a steady yell. Methos
watched as the object dived below the sun, a dark form against the
light sky.  But the dive continued, and the Immortal watched the body
plummet into the sea.  "Nooo," he shouted, diving into the surf. His
swam as far as his tired arms could carry him, but only found one of
the wings, torn into debris.  That was all he found.



Methos knew he was falling.  With his eyes closed, he hoped not to
witness his demise.  But his fingers stretched another impossible inch,
and he grasped the edge of the far precipice.  His heart almost jumped
out of his chest.  He dug his fingernails into the ground and tried to
mold himself into the cliff wall.  He felt so relieved he almost
shouted.  Then the lip gave way and he was falling....



"We're free of the cloud cover," Sam announced to the bridge.  The
viewscreen cleared and everyone saw the acrid, dry landscape.
Turbulence still rocked the ship and caused all sorts of problems, but
at least they were no longer flying blind.

Pretar hung on to his chair's armrests.  "Scan for lifesigns," he
called out to Ensign Sito.  When Security had found the note Danny had
left, explaining about his absence, the Betazoid just about spit.  One
of the relief crew manned the Tactical station.

"Twenty klicks, bearing 145," Sito yelled out over the din.  Ensign
Lavelle adjusted course without an order.  The landscape swerved to the
right, making the captain's stomach queasy.  This was certainly going
down in his personal annuals as the worst little jaunt of his life.

He risked letting go of the chair to open a channel to the transporter
room.  "Twenty and closing, Gehbor.  You only get one shot.  Make it
good."  The reply was drowned out as the whine increased on the bridge.
"If we last that long," he added.  It was too noisy for anyone else to
hear.



Methos closed his eyes, ready for the plunge into the magma.  His heart
skipped at beat as a hand roughly clasped his wrist.  Quickly, the
Immortal thrust out his other hand, making contact.  He opened his eyes
and looked down.  The sight of the superheated lava was terrifying.  He
looked up, grateful for Danny's timely rescue.  And stared into the
baby blues of Richie Ryan.

He was so shocked he almost let go.  But there was no humor, no
sadistic glee in the young Immortal's face.  Just dogged determination.
With a grimace of pain.  "Thanks," he gasped, unable to quiet the
chuckle that slipped through.  Richie's face broke out into a sweat as
they struggled to keep hold of each other.  Then suddenly, disruptor
fire broke out around him.  Small pieces of dirt were dislodged as the
shots riddled the cliff wall.

One managed to strike just below a knee.  Methos yelped in pain.  The
unmistakable whine of a phaser sounded as it returned fire.  That gave
him a brief respite.  He focused on Richie again.  The other Immortal
struggled to lift him up.  But it looked impossible.

Each time there was progress, Richie slipped a little bit further over
the edge.  Methos tried to help by using his feet to find a purchase,
but only succeeded in dislodging more dirt.  Fumes surrounded them,
making it harder to breathe.  And Richie was strained to his limit.

An unlucky shot struck Methos in the shoulder, causing a surge of pain
on that side of his body.  His hand faltered, and he found himself
swinging by one arm.  Richie grunted at the added stress.  The young
Immortal's face was screwed in determination, but the best laid plans
could still fail.

Somewhere above, another shot sounded, followed by the unmistakable
scream of the ensign.  More disruptor fire dotted the cliff wall, a few
shots striking Methos.  Every part of his body was in agony.  He was
tired.  He hurt.  One last look into Richie's eyes, and the millennia
old man made the instant, irrevocable decision.  He let go.



·Trying to get a lock, Bridge.  Three humans.  They're being fired
on....·

"Sensors are reading three ships: two warbirds and a freighter," Ensign
Sito called out.  "Targeting scanners are unable to lock onto...."

Pretar didn't wait for either to finish.  "Screw the lock--fire
phasers!"  The new ensign at Tactical struggled to follow the orders,
but it still took valuable time for him to respond.  Lorrict's lungs
felt they would burst before the familiar rattle of the phaser banks
sounded. A single orange beam shot ahead of their erratic course,
striking the ground the ship was aimed for.  Please let us be fast
enough, Pretar begged.



Richie felt Adam's remaining hand slip away.  His sweaty palm grasped
at empty air.  The other Immortal was gone.  He was ashamed of the wave
of satisfaction that shot through his body.  But it wasn't as uplifting
as he had imagined.  His problems with Duncan weren't magically swept
away.  Nothing had changed.

He had felt that way for the first eighteen years of his life.  All the
hopes and dreams the foster parents, the social workers had promised
him.  "This time will be different," they had said.  But still things
failed, and he was left flailing his arms out, crying for someone to
catch him.  No one did.

Until one dark night, and his grasping hands found a pair of strong
arms that held on.  And raised him up to stable ground.  That's when
his life had truly started.  He remembered the panic before and prayed
he never felt that way again..

But one person did feel that way--here and now.  And Richie could not
stand by.  Just like in the past when Duncan could not stand by. There
was no hesitation as Richie scrambled forward, leaning his body over
the edge.  His hand flew out and gripped the slender wrist that was
still upraised.  Richie experienced the surprise and shock Adam felt
when he looked up into the unwavering, unflinching eyes.

"Because I can do no less," Richie added, mainly to himself.  His grip
was solid.  A hand that had grasped a sword for four hundred years,
trained to never let go of his lifeline, now encircled another kind of
lifeline.  There was no longer any room for hate, or jealousy.  An
amazing thing happened as he purged the bad and unproductive emotions
he had harbored for Adam.  Somewhere deep inside there was a place in
his heart, to step aside and let go of his exclusive claim on the
Highlander's friendship.

Richie knew there were no regrets in his eyes.  No hesitation or
remorse.  There was no chance he would ever let go again.  This was not
something he would decide was wrong at a later date.  There was no
going back, only forward.  And strangely enough, it all was reflected
in Adam's brown eyes.

The extra weight dragged Richie's body closer over the edge.  He tried
to dig his feet into the ground, anything to stop his movement.  He had
gone too far, though, and there was no way to stop the inevitable pull
over the cliff.  They would go down together.  Die in the lava
together.  That was one thing Richie was sure of.  He felt himself
being hauled closer.

But like all happy endings, the transporter got to them first.



----------------



"Beam Mr. Bird to Sickbay," Methos ordered once he got the younger
Immortal off the transporter pad.  Danny was still crumpled in a heap
and needed immediate medical attention.  Richie had said nothing.  It
was easy to walk him toward the door and out into the corridor. Methos
had a brief quandary about what to do until Richie coughed out
"bridge!"  Not one to argue during an emergency, the older Immortal
moved them toward the nearest turbo lift.

"Who's in command?" Richie asked, his voice still shaky.  The words
hissed through clenched teeth as the Immortals hobbled along.

Methos felt a twinge of surprise.  Surely Richie knew.  "Captain
Lorrict...."

The other Immortal stopped suddenly, almost wrenching Methos' arm off.
"Oh, God," Richie breathed, his voice rising.  Methos managed to lower
the younger man to the deck as his legs gave out.  "He's still
alive...."

It was pure habit that made Methos wrap his arms around the crying
pilot, offer comfort to a man he barely knew.  The tears, of joy he
hoped, soaked his shirt.  "Yes, Pretar's alive, and well.  And waiting
for you on the Bridge."

The one word made Richie stop instantly.  "I've got to get to the
Bridge," he said, only a trace of emotion in his voice.  Using Methos
as a brace, he managed to make it to his feet, and the pair moved off
to the nearest turbolift.  "We're not out of the woods yet, Adam."

By the time they had reached the bridge, Richie was mostly himself.
"Out of my chair," the Immortal spat when he saw Ensign Lavelle at the
conn.  Sam jumped up with a start, staring as Richie slid into the
pilot's seat.  It wasn't hard to looked shocked.  The Intrepid's First
Officer was a mess.  Blood, cuts, dirt all marked him and his clothing.
His face was screwed into a horrible scowl as he swiftly altered course
and began the assent.

Sam looked around helplessly until the Captain suggested he take over
the Engineering console on the bridge.  "Alert Engineering we'll need
best speed once we climb out of the atmosphere," Pretar added.  He sat
in the Captain's chair, gesturing for Methos to take the seat beside
him.  Then another tense ten minutes occurred as the ship shook and
rattled its way out of the clouds.  Methos was glad he missed the ride
in.

Suddenly, they were free of the atmosphere.  Richie rolled the ship and
headed her toward Federation space before Pretar could get a word out. 
The Intrepid shot to Warp 9 in a flash.  "All three ships are lifting
off," the pilot said cryptically.  "Only two will follow; the Birds-of-
Prey."

"Confirmed," Sito called out from Ops.  "Two Klingon ships have just
left orbit and are following us."  A quick check and she added more
information.  "Their top speed is around Warp 8.2.  We're out running
them."

Pretar visibly relaxed at that news.  "Good.  Mr. Pierson, well done."
Methos interpreted the amused look in the Captain's eye as a desire to
read the 'official' report.  It was unspoken that an informal briefing
would be held as soon as possible.  "Your first reward is time out to
take a shower.  Then come back and relieve me.  And try to find a
uniform, this time."  The tone of his voice brooked no argument.  And
he got none.  Methos found a perverse sense of irony at being included
in the crew.

Well, it has been a long time since I did pull a stint.  This might be
fun.  "Aye, aye, Captain," the Immortal replied with a twinkle in his
eye.  That caused Pretar to raise one of his eyebrows in return.  I
like this guy.

"Mr. Ryan," Captain Lorrict continued as he stood.  "Be so kind as to
turn your station over to Mr. Lavelle and report to Sickbay for a
detailed examination."  Methos stayed in his seat, expecting some
interesting reaction.  After the fireworks down on the planet, this
should be a doozy.

Mentally, the ancient Immortal ran through all the excuses he could
come up with while Richie turned around in his seat.  I'm an Immortal;
I'm fine.  Not tonight, I have a headache.  What, and let that imbecile
drive the Porsche?  He minutely shook his head.  No, not sarcastic
enough for the Richmeister.

"Yes, sir," Richie curtly replied, as if he had no more energy to
fight.  It took a bit for the Immortal to stand.  It was a weary person
who stepped aside and let the young ensign take the conn.  And the
weariness continued as Richie headed toward the side steps to the
turbolift.

Richie stopped, halfway to the stairs, and turned to Pretar.  He
shuffled over to the command chairs, and wrapped his arms around the
Captain, pulling the Betazoid tightly against him.  The strain made his
bare forearms stand out as the two stood there, trapped in a hug, for
what seemed an eternity.

They had no need to share words, the communication of eyes, and face,
and emotions were enough.  "Sickbay," the Captain reminded his First
Officer, gently disentangling his arms.  "And then rest.  I'll call you
if you're needed."  The younger Immortal nodded and slowly walked to
the turbolift.

Pretar kept an eye on his friend while he gently got Methos' attention.
"Go with him," the Betazoid mouthed silently.  Methos nodded and stood,
reaching out for a quick grasp of the Captain's shoulder.  That gesture
surprised him.  He hadn't felt so compassionate in a long time.  Then
again, it had been awhile since he was hanging off the side of a cliff
as well.  A firm nod and Methos turned to his newest assignment.

"Wait up, Rich," he called as he ran after the pilot.  The turbolift
doors remained open until both Immortals were in the lift.  "So,"
Methos began as the doors whooshed shut.  "Who was that guy?"  He tried
to use a casual tone of voice.  It was easy.  After five thousand
years, everything was easy.  Except trust.



----------------



Three hours later, the Intrepid was halfway to the border.  Pretar had
waited until Richie left Sickbay before strolling down there for a pow-
wow with Dr. Simmons.  Adam had long since returned to the bridge, 

decked out in a black and maroon jumpsuit with full Commander's pips.
And carrying himself like a very confidant officer.

"So, Jarvis," Pretar said as he pulled up a chair in the medical
office.  "What's the verdict?"

The doctor pointed out the window at the sleeping form on the bed. "Mr.
Bird has had a traumatic experience, but nothing that won't heal. Only
minor tissue and muscle damage, mostly from Klingon disruptors. He'll
be fine, but sore.  And he's decided to keep a rather small scar on his
shoulder as a souvenir."

"For the ladies and gents," Pretar happily replied with a knowing
smile.  "I'm glad that's all the scars he's taking with him."  Some
things do work out.  "And our ever surprising First Officer?"

Dr. Simmons made sure Julia was out of earshot before continuing.
"Well, physically, he's as healthy as a horse.  Most of the main damage
had healed by the time he got down here.  There still a few long-term
problems that should sort themselves out in a few days, given his rate
of healing."

Pretar nodded.  He had expected something like that.  "So what are you
not telling me?"

The doctor wheeled the desk viewscreen around for the Captain to look
at.  "Based on his regrowth, we can theorize a little of what went on."
A display lighted with a human form; Richie's.  Having graduated
Starfleet Medical, the Captain had a good idea what the readings meant,
but he waited for the doctor to fill in the details.  "He was certainly
beaten, tortured and brutalized.  See the bone growth lines here, and
here?"

"Uh, huh," Pretar replied.  He focused on a side panel.  "Looks like
he's also malnourished and physically exhausted."  The Captain pointed
out several enzyme readings.  "He's also had severe neurological trauma
in this area."

Jarvis sat back.  "I cross referenced that with our medical databanks.
Similar readings have been detected after a Klingon Rite of Ascension."

Pretar was stunned.  "Painsticks?" he asked.  The doctor nodded a
confirmation.  "Jeeze."  If the Immortal wasn't telling them about
painsticks, what else could he be holding back?  "How was his emotional
state?"

"I'll let you be the judge of that," Simmons replied.  "But on the
surface, he's not controlling anything, although he want's you to
believe that's what he's doing.  He's clamped a lid on it and the
pressure's building."

That was worse than the physical reports.  "He's a pressure cooker. If
he doesn't do something about it soon...."

"BOOM," Jarvis finished, adding hand motions.  "That's why I was
wondering if you would talk to him.  Get him to express some of his
feelings.  You know him better that anyone else on the ship, plus your
background in counseling.  He's in the mess hall.  I just checked."

The Betazoid shook his head.  "He's projecting like a fireball.  I
noticed that when he stepped onto the bridge.  I probably couldn't get
within ten feet of him."  It hurt twice over because the intimacy of
the link was gone.  Now there was just crude, raw power radiating like
a flame from the Immortal.  Even being on the same ship was giving
Pretar a headache.  "Could we do something for him?  Medically shut
down his mental telepathy."

"I wouldn't suggest it.  Not this soon."  The doctor shook his head.
"There must be some way for him to open up...."

A bizarre idea flashed into Pretar's head.  "I know just the person.
I'll go relieve him on the bridge, and send him down to the mess hall."
The Captain stood and started to leave.  He stuck his head back into
the room.  "If that doesn't get a reaction, I don't know what will."



----------------



Methos stood outside the mess hall doors, absently smoothing his
uniform.  He couldn't believe he was...nervous.  He hadn't felt this
way since a dark bar and beautiful blond.  This was completely
different.  And totally the same, he reminded himself.  Richie accepted
him as Adam, the Buttinsky.  Can he handle Methos the Legend? No time
like the present.

One deep breath, and Methos strolled into the room, giving the crowd a
practiced once over.  It wasn't difficult to spot Richie.  He sat alone
in the far corner, radiating an aura of distance.  Even as the Immortal
watched, a table nearby suddenly moved farther away.  Each crewman gave
the pilot a tense look as they left.

Peanut butter cookies, Methos suddenly thought.  He ambled over to the
replicators.  "Peanut butter cookies, a dozen.  Milk, one glass, cold."
Nothing like comfort food to face a very grownup boy.  The machine
whirred as his order was materialized, and then his stalling was over. 
Another deep breath, and he walked over to Richie's table.

The other Immortal looked up as he neared.  It wouldn't have been too
terribly hard to guess who was approaching.  "Do you want to talk about
it?"  There was no reply, no response at all.  "Fine by me. This seat
taken?" Methos asked, waving his plate at the chair across from Richie.
The boy mumbled something as he gestured with his hand. Methos took
that as a 'yes' and sat.  He set his food in front of him. "What is
that?" he asked when he saw what Richie was eating.  Or not eating, he
corrected himself.

Richie mentioned something vaguely Deltan and looked up.  His eyes met
Methos', but not before he managed to take in the outfit.  The boy's
face grew cold as he finally stared at the other Immortal.  "No
phaser?"

Methos laughed, and instantly regretted it.  Richie's blue eyes
darkened almost to black as he glanced at the uniform again.  The older
Immortal got the picture.  I'm encroaching on another of his
territories, and he's threatened.  Time to defuse that one.  "I can
take it off, you know."  In a fit of cussedness, Methos reached for the
fastener and opened the jumpsuit down to his waist.  "I did live
through a time or two when nudity wasn't frowned upon."  With a wiggle,
the jumpsuit was off his shoulders.  He had started lifting the gray
undershirt before Richie spoke and stopped him.

"No, it's fine."  With a grimace, Richie pushed his plate to the side
and leaned back in his chair.  Methos waited, leaving the next
conversational gambit in Richie's court.  "It looks good on you.  I'm
just surprised."

"Oh, really?" Methos asked as he shrugged back into the uniform.  "Why
do I feel like I just leapt over a hurdle?"

Richie blushed at that.  "Sorry.  I just meant I never took you for the
official uniform type.  All that spy and SI business."  Unseen pictures
were added in the boy's eyes, ones Methos could guess at. But that
wasn't all.  His eyes kept trailing down to the cookies.

"Have one," Methos insisted as he shoved the plate into the center of
the table.  Never liked peanut butter anyway.  He added his best
disarming smile.  "So, would you rather see me in a tuxedo and doing my
James Bond impression?  I'm better than Duncan, by the way."

The older Immortal was surprised when Richie didn't flinch at MacLeod's
name.  Instead, he reached out and grabbed a cookie.  "I'm sure," was
all he said.  By this time Methos had expected some big reaction.
Anger, hatred.  Gratitude.  Pretar had been right, it's all bottled up
inside.  The boy must have caught some hint of the concern. "Look,
Adam, I'm tired and exhausted.  We still have several hours before
we're in Federation space, and another who-knows-how-long before we're
safe.  No games.  What kind of trouble are you about to get me into?"

"The good kind," Methos replied.

Richie snorted at that.  "I'm not interested any more."  With a sigh,
he reached across and grabbed his still-full plate then started to
rise.  Methos quickly placed a hand over his and stopped him.

"My real name is Methos.  I was born so long ago I can't even remember
when, or where.  The earliest thing I do remember is taking my first
head, over five thousand five hundred years ago.  I am the oldest
living Immortal that I know of.  And we have kept that secret from you
for far too long."  Richie sat back down, never taking his eyes off of
the other Immortal.  "I like rock and roll, blondes in all shapes and
sizes, and beer.  That was a good invention, beer.  I've seen
civilizations rise and fall, seen Immortals come and go...."  Methos
was interrupted as the klaxon sounded.

·Red alert.  All hands to battle stations.  Red alert.  All hands to
battle station....·

Richie sprang from his chair when the Red Alert sounded.  Methos should
have expected as much.  But the ancient Immortal still had one thing
left to say, and God and the universe could wait.  He had to stretch to
grab Richie's wrist as the younger Immortal blew past the table.  By
the time Richie swung around, Methos was standing and projecting as
hard as he could.

"He loves you more than life itself, Richard Ryan," Methos breathed,
his voice low and soft.  Somehow the klaxon and noise vanished,
replaced by quiet calm and poised expectations.  "What you are doing is
killing you both.  As sure as any blade ever could.  Don't throw
everything away without a fight.  He taught you better than that." His
words finished, he released the stunned Immortal and headed for the
nearest turbolift.



----------------



"Report," Pretar heard Richie call out as the turbolift doors opened.
It sounded like some of the old Richie was back.  Ensign Lavelle turned
the conn over smoothly and then stalked over to the Engineering
console, as if daring anyone to tell him to leave.

The Captain turned back to his First Officer as Adam took over at
Tactical.  "We've dropped down to Warp 4.  The chief engineer needs to
take the warp engines off line to repair a microfracture in the
dilithium cradle.  She estimates it will take two hours.  Klingon
warbirds will be here...."  His voice trailed off as he turned sideways
to look at Ensign Sito.

"Thirty minutes," the Bajoran at Ops answered.  "With the warp engines
off line, there won't be enough power for shields and phasers."  She
tried to stop a nervous gulp without success.  "We'll be sitting
ducks...."

Richie scooted down to the end of his console.  He called up some
information on the display then hit his combadge.  "Ryan to Gomez. How
much for two hours, minimal interference?"

·What?·

The Immortal shook his head.  "Two hours with the warp core off-line,
minor shaking.  I'll need one crewmember from Engineering.  What will
you give me?"

·Is this a damn bet?·

Pretar was having a hard time with this as well.  Richie almost hit the
console with his fist.  "Yes!  How much?"  The Immortal slid his chair
to the other side of the small horseshoe shaped console.  "And it
better be good."

·One bottle of Romulan Ale.  And a full two hours, not a second less.
All right people, you heard the man....·

"Done," Richie yelped.  The sound of bedlam erupted from the channel to
Engineering.  "Have a crewman meet me at the shield emitters in five
minutes, with a full toolbox.  Two hours will start sometime in the
next thirty minutes.  Richie out."  A slap to his chest closed the
line.  Before anyone could argue, he was out of his chair.  As he ran
by the Engineering console, he pointed at the still spinning chair.
"You," he said as he looked at Ensign Lavelle.  "Find me a G-type star
in a fifteen minute radius.  Smaller if you have too."  Then the
Immortal jumped into the turbolift.



----------------



"Hand me another phase modulator," Richie called out to the Vulcan
crewman assisting him.  Most of the Immortal's body was stuck inside
the shield emitter's inner core. His hand appeared and waved around.

The Vulcan calmly handed the module over.  "I do not understand the
necessity of modifying the emitters at this time.  It is more logical
that some form of surrender be initiated."  The Immortal's hand
appeared again, this time holding a spanner.  The tool was banged
against Taurik's leg rather hard.  He did not respond in any way.

Richie's head surfaced from a small hatch.  "Now why would we go and do
that?  I just spent seventy-two hours with them.  I don't want to go
back.  I need that power coupling over there."

"Then I can understand your hesitation to do the logical thing."  He
handed over the coupling as the Immortal disappeared again.  "May I ask
the purpose of these modifications?  I may be able to assist you."

Mumbled words erupted from the emitter.  "You know anything about
subspace properties in relation to radiation and temperature?" Another
spare part tumbled from the core opening and the Vulcan bent to
retrieve it.

"No, sir, I do not....."

A disembodied hand appeared and searched around for the display panel.
Richie's voice followed it.  "Then I don't think you can be much help."
The hand found it's goal and activated a power relay.  The emitter lit
up and sparks erupted from the hatch.  "Damn!"

"...but my father's sister is a subspace expert at the Vulcan Science
Academy," the Vulcan finished without a hint of smugness.  "You have
not modulated the power frequency yet, Commander."

Richie's head popped out again.  "Uh, thanks.  She wouldn't be Dr.
T'Pan by any chance?"  The Immortal cocked his head and pointed to the
modulator he needed for the power relay.

Taurik handed it over.  "You are correct.  My senior thesis was
interstellar dynamics in regards to high frequency atomic reactions."
There had been only two professors at the Academy who could understand
his work.  The choice had been...logical.

"Good," Richie replied.  "I'm trying to modify the shields to filter
out high frequency radiation...."

The Vulcan finished for him.  "Such as that found in a G-type or lesser
star's corona.  A metaphasic shield. Dr. Reyga, I believe?" Taurik
nodded when he finally understood the modifications being done. "You
are attempting to modify the shield frequency notation to include
higher temperatures and broader radiation signatures.  By hiding in a
star's corona, that will give Chief Engineer Gomez enough time to
repair the cradle.  Fascinating."

"You get a gold star for homework.  I love it when I don't have to
explain everything," Richie beamed as his grinning head loomed.  "Hand
me that sonic screwdriver, will you?"



----------------



"We there yet?" Richie called out as the turbolift doors opened on the
bridge.  Pretar turned where he stood in the middle of the bridge, his
arms across his chest.  The Immortal moved past Adam and ended up
standing next to Pretar.  Sam moved to get up, but Richie waved him
off.  The Betazoid watched a Vulcan slide into the Engineering console.

Sam relaxed.  "Felantra 238 in ten minutes.  Just on the border of type
G.  Will that do?"  He turned around and smiled, but Pretar was eyeing
Richie.  The Immortal hadn't changed since his modifications, and he
was still sweaty and greasy from his work.

You know, a shower....  Pretar's thought trailed off when he realized
Richie couldn't hear him over the cacophony in his friend's mind.  All
the finesse they had been used to had disappeared, replaced by raw
power in the Immortal's case.  Captain Lorrict was still sensitive to
the emotions, and direct thoughts of the Immortal when he put his mind
to it, but the underlying link was gone.  Gone for good.  "So what have
you got up your sleeve," he vocalized instead.

Richie turned to face him and let loose a wide smile.  "Give us time.
Ops, ETA on the Klingons?"  The Immortal walked around Pretar to face
the Bajoran.  It was almost like having the old, confidant Richie back.
A mentally screaming Richie.

"Ten minutes," Sito replied.

"Taurik, activate the metaphasic shields," Richie called out to the
Vulcan at Engineering.  A subtle whine started, then settled into
place.  "Helm, head for the star's corona."  Sam turned to argue, but
the look on the Immortal's face stopped the ensign. "Weapon systems,"
he called to Adam.  The other Immortal just nodded an affirmative.
"Bridge to Engineering.  Countdown in ten minutes."  Out of breath,
Richie looked at Pretar and raised his eyebrow.  The Betazoid didn't
need telepathy to understand.  Richie wanted to know if there was
anything else, and if he should handle it.

Pretar calmly sat in his seat.  Maybe everything would be fine without
the bond.  They still knew each other well enough, and having to
vocalize wouldn't destroy their friendship.  Oh, sure, all the nice
little asides would have to wait until they could be alone.  But
hundreds of Captains and First Officers worked that way.  We can too,
Pretar vowed.  "Take us in, Mr. Lavelle," the Captain ordered.



"Actually, his name is Methos," Richie whispered to Pretar over the
command console.  They were sitting in the two command chairs in the
center of the bridge.  They leaned toward each other for a private
conference, one that the Betazoid was starting to wish had been in the
Ready Room.  It was much more private.  "He's past fifty-five hundred."

Pretar resisted a chuckle.  "Doesn't look a day over a thousand."  He
caught himself starting to turn and look at the Immortal standing at
the Tactical console.  In fact, he had found himself looking a lot.

"You know...," Richie interrupted.  The Betazoid turned back around.
The smirk on Richie's face informed him the Immortal knew exactly what
was on his mind.  "I'll bet you stand a chance, Petey."  Captain
Lorrict knew his eyebrows shot up at that remark.  "I told you I was
still feeling things.  And since he told me who he really was, I'm
getting...."  What Richie got was a far off look in his eyes.  "Hard to
port!" he suddenly shouted out.

The helmsman had no time to react before the ship shook from a torpedo
explosion.  Alarms went off and an automatic red alert activated.
"Explosion off the starboard bow," Methos called out as he brought the
weapon systems to full readiness.

"Trying to flush us out," Pretar theorized aloud.  "Can we tell where
it came from?"

Ensign Sito cleared her throat as she worked.  "No, sir."  Her hands
flew over the console again.  "Sensors are still unable to function in
the corona.  Metaphasic shielding is holding at sixty-seven percent.
Outside temperature...8000 and rising."

Pretar saw Richie look down at the chronometer.  He still had twenty-
five more minutes for the bet.  "Helm, full reverse.  If they're
tracking us, that should throw them off momentarily."  Another
explosion rocked the ship.  This time ahead of them.

The Betazoid turned to ask Richie for ideas and found the Immortal deep
in concentration.  "He's unsure where we are," Richie informed them.
"But he seems to be following...a...wave displacement pattern."

Methos chimed in on that one.  "We may be causing a fluctuation in the
background patterns as we move through the corona.  If that's true, he
can get a general idea of our location, and take potshots."  For some
perverse reason, he felt the need to continue.  "Odds are he'll hit us,
and soon."

"Thank you, Mr., ah, Pierson," Pretar responded.  No wonder he never
made Captain.  He turned and checked to see if Richie was still in a
trance.  "Ideas?" he called out to the bridge at large.

"Yeah," Richie replied.  His voice had gotten softer and his forehead
was beginning to bead with sweat.  "Torpedo One, heading 456 mark 2.
Speed, twenty percent."  Pretar turned to Tactical and saw Methos'
shrug as he inputted the commands.  "Fire," Richie called out.  The
torpedo shot out of the bay, a glittering mote against the fiery
backdrop.



Richie screwed his face into another grimace.  He didn't notice it, he
was trying to concentrate harder on the blob in his head that
represented one of the Klingon ships and the sudden ball that shot away
from him.  His mind overlaid a shining trail of the torpedo's past and
future path on the mental image.  All Richie had to do was guess what
the Klingon would do.  And with three other torpedoes, that was a sure
bet.

The Immortal rattled off another set of commands, sensing Methos'
acceptance and intrigue.  Then another ball, another trail, and fewer
options for the Klingon captain to follow.  That was what he was doing,
trying to limit the opponent's choices, until the playing field
resembled a pool table and the Bird-of-Prey the eight ball.  Corner
pocket.  Still more instructions and then the third torpedo was fired.

With a little more effort, he could project the immediate future.
Including the Klingon's moves.  He didn't realize his heart was
pounding twice as fast and he was sweating more than he even had
before.  He was unaware of Pretar next to him, or Taurik scanning him
with a medical tricorder from the emergency kit.  One hastily rattled
command, and the final torpedo was away.

The sun was a clear globe with one glowing mass, the Klingon ship, and
four fiery trails circling the sun.  All he had to do was wait another
minute and the Klingon would...  The mass changed course, but in a
different direction.

"Noooo!" Richie screamed out, suddenly standing on the bridge.  The
shock caused everyone to move away from the Immortal, afraid of what
was going to happen.  He felt the fear, felt the concern.  And deep
down, felt the growing satisfaction of the Klingon captain as he
located the Intrepid.

Despite the pain, the overwhelming agony the Immortal was ignoring, he
reached.  It was something like grabbing for one's sword, the learned
ability to know where the hilt was and that by closing your hand here,
you would grasp it.  He grasped the satisfaction, and with it the
Klingon.  Left, he thought.  Left.  So hard blood began to pour from
his ears.  LEFT, GOD DAMN YOU!

The Klingon ordered left, still feeling the excitement of catching his
prey.  A subordinate on the Bird-of-Prey shouted a warning, but Richie
had complete control of the Captain's mind.  The Klingon was still
smiling as the first torpedo ripped into the hull.  The second crippled
the ship beyond immediate repair.  The third drove the Bird-of-Prey too
close to the star's corona.  The metal hull began to burn, sending
tendrils of liquid duranium out like feelers.



Pretar cradled Richie's unconscious body as it lay on the deck. Someone
was trying to tell him the metaphasic shield was weakening. The
temperature was rising.  The Betazoid heard and understood, but his
hands would not let go.  He rocked gently as he felt his friend's
overly warm body in his arms.  Someone laid a hand on his shoulder,
pulling him away.  "I'll watch him," Methos said, speaking slowly.
Pretar nodded and relinquished his burden.

"Engineering, time's up.  Get those engines on-line."  The Betazoid's
voice was loud and harsh.

·Just finished up.  Warp speed at you discretion.·

Captain Lorrict absently rubbed his hand.  "Helm, begin ascent.  Once
we clear the corona, I want Warp 9.5 all the way to the border."  Sam
acknowledged the order and began laying in the course.  "Sito, there's
still one more warbird out there.  Ready phasers and the last tricobalt
device.  Fire if you see anything."

"Beginning ascent," Sam called out.  On the viewscreen, the fiery
curtain shifted as they rose closer to the edge.  The orange haze grew
flimsier.  Temperatures dropped back to acceptable levels.  And the
screen finally cleared.  "Oh, shit," Ensign Lavelle cursed.

The final Klingon Bird-of-Prey loomed across the screen, on a direct
collision course.  It was too late to stop or slow down, and by the
looks of things, the Klingon was firing their disruptors.  "Helm...."

Everything happened at once.  Phaser fire erupted from the Intrepid's
hull, one searing bright beam stabbing at the Klingon's shields.  As
the front shields sparked and drew power to them, the last photon
torpedo, still spinning around the star, crept in silently behind the
warbird.  A single tricobalt device, the last, shot toward the front
shields, easily penetrating the heavily damaged area, to slam into the
Klingon ship.  The Bird-of-Prey's forward bridge suddenly erupted in
fire, followed by an explosion in the rear.  Deflector beams scattered
the remaining debris as Sam pivoted the ship to slip through an opening
in the middle.  And Richie coughed.

"K'talok.  Blew his brains out.  Boom."  The Immortal was mumbling as
Methos carefully picked him up and carried him to the turbolift. Richie
was laughing hysterically and repeating himself as the doors shut.
"Ship go boom!"  Pretar turned at looked at the viewscreen. Clear,
black night full of stars.  No ships following, all hands aboard.  In
two hours, at their maximum warp, they would be safe in Federation
territory.  It was over.  Finally.



----------------



"Welcome back."

Those were the first words Richie heard as his eyelids fluttered. What
made it worse was they were in Adam's cheery accent.  His name is
Methos...God, I've been such a dupe.

"I always thought that was the stupidest line ever uttered by an
Immortal.  But I never could come up with something better."  The
oldest living man chuckled.  "Then again, I haven't really tried...."

Richie managed to turn over in the biobed.  "Would you please go away?"

Methos continued as if Richie hadn't spoken.  "It just sounds so lame
when talking to a god."  His eyes finally met Richie's, with such an
intense stare the younger Immortal couldn't look away.

"God?"

The other moved from his chair to sit on the side of the biobed. "Worf,
son of Mog, told us a few of the 'legends' regarding R'chIy'. I wrote
them off as superstitious prattle.  A death howl an entire planet
heard?  And then the one you are most famous for.  Surviving a warp
core breech, and re-entry, walking for days to the Capitol, fighting a
true Klingon warrior and defeating him not once, but twice, while being
mostly dead yourself.  Then single-handedly winning the entire High
Council over to peace."

There was nothing Richie could say to that.  "I mean, really," Methos
continued.  "You are supposedly right up there next to Kahless the
Invincible."

"Actually, I think I just took his place," Richie muttered.

"Then I watched you receive the most powerful Quickening I've ever
seen, drive a starship into a sun's corona, and then play 3-D chess
with a Klingon battlecruiser using four missiles and a star."  Methos
stopped for a breath.

Richie tried to muster as much sarcasm as he could muster.  "And this
is leading...?"

"Are you a god?" Methos asked, straight-faced.  In fact, if Richie
wasn't hallucinating, the old one looked slightly in awe.  As if he
wanted to believe Richie was some kind of superbeing.

"No," Richie replied, deciding to tell the truth.  Me, a god?  I don't
think I could lie that much to myself.

The awe and wonder slipped away from Methos' face like water, to be
replaced by the serious stare Richie had come to fear.  "Good.  I was
wondering if you were immature enough to delude yourself into believing
you were."

Something snapped inside the Starfleet pilot.  "God damn it!  What the
Hell are you doing?"  Richie's shrill voice brought Dr. Simmons to the
Sickbay door, but the doctor didn't enter.

Methos shrugged.  "Take it from me, godhood is not all it's cracked up
to be.  It invariably makes you feel invincible, until some young
Immortal comes along and takes off your head."

Richie's first reaction was anger and sarcasm, but something inside him
settled into place, and he heard the meanings behind the words Methos
was using.  "You've been there.  You thought you were a god."

"It's a real nice racket, until another Immortal shows up," Methos
acknowledged.  "Then things usually fell apart.  I'm sure you know how
the Klingons dealt with their 'gods.'  Killed them all.  Sometimes
playing god was necessary, to help us survive.  But the time for that
is over."

"Nice to know I'm just a regular guy," Richie admitted as he turned
over on his side, presenting his back to Methos.  He buried his head in
his pillow.  "Since I'm no longer Superman, I'd like to get some
sleep," he mumbled.

Methos' hand gently rested on the young Immortal's side.  "But I'll
admit, Richie, I don't think I know another person who could go through
what you have and survive.  Duncan couldn't, and neither could I."

"Thanks," Richie muttered.  "Now what do you really want?"

The older Immortal's voice trembled slightly.  "I think I may have made
a mistake all those years ago.  And maybe it's just too late...." His
voice trailed off.  "I'd like to get to know you, Richie Ryan. And let
you know me.  The 'Methos' me."

Richie turned back around, examining the older Immortal's face for any
trace of guile or deceit.  He couldn't find any, but he was unsure of
Methos' sincerity.  "I don't know."  There was a brief flash of
something across the pale features of the other Immortal.  Pain? Loss? 
That I won't play this game, or something else?  Can I afford to turn
him down?  No.  "But I'm willing to give it a shot, and see what
develops.  I can't promise anything, though."

Methos smiled, and for once Richie saw nothing other than happiness.
"That's all we can do, Richie.  Try.  And hope for the best."  The
ancient Immortal's hand reached out, slipping into his for a firm
grasp, that lasted longer than a mere 'hello.'

Richie blinked, surprised to find his eyes watering.  He
felt...honored.  And relieved.  "Thank you...for rescuing me."

"I believe that makes us even, youngling."  Methos' other hand snaked
out and ruffled Richie's dirty blond curls.

He let go of Methos' hand and slumped back on the bed.  "Oh, man. Don't
even start.  I'm almost four hundred and I still can't get any
respect."

Methos' hand dropped from Richie's hair to his shoulder for a gentle
squeeze.  "You have my respect, young one.  And I get to call everyone
that.  Amanda, even Duncan."

It was difficult to imagine Duncan being called young.  "Yeah, but I
bet you don't ruffle his hair...."

The ancient Immortal looked sad.  "Sometimes we all need to feel that
way again, if only for a moment."  The look passed as Methos examined
the wall monitors.  "I promised Captain Lorrict I'd relieve him on the
bride as soon as you woke.  He's chomping at the bit to come see you."

Not ready to press the earlier comment, Richie let it pass.  "I can
believe he is."  The other Immortal stood and made his way to the
Sickbay door.  "Methos?"  The ancient one turned and waited.  "Come
back when you can, if you want.  I'd like to talk some more."

A wry grin crossed Methos lips as he bowed formally, his hand cupped to
his breast.  "As you wish, O Mighty One."  The doors barely shut before
the biobed pillow sailed through the space his head had recently
occupied.



----------------



Pretar Lorrict leaned over the railing of the shuttlebay's viewing
platform.  Down below, the last of the Intrepid's shuttlecraft was
being loaded.  The Surak.  The technician next to him cleared his
throat.  "Colorado, you are now clear for landing.  Welcome home,
Commander."

He's here, Pretar thought.  Only gone two weeks and I feel like a bride
before the wedding.  Stretching tired muscles in his back, he stood
straight.  The large runabout easily glided into position in the tiny
bay.  It would take a moment to shut off power, enough to let Pretar
get down to the main floor.

The Betazoid was waiting as the side airlock opened.  There Richie Ryan
stood, duffel bag in hand.  "Hello, sailor," Pretar called out. He was
rewarded by a rather tight hug.  It took a moment before the Immortal
would let go.  "Well, you should go away more often."

Richie smiled.  "First time I'd been away for a long time.  Especially
without...."  He made a motion between them.  Pretar nodded.  "God, I
missed you all.  Two weeks?  Seemed like two years."

"We missed you too," The Betazoid replied.  The words made Richie smile
even wider.  Must have needed to hear that, Pretar speculated. "So,
while we've been busting our tails getting this ship back together,
you've been loafing around the Enterprise."  Richie had chosen to
escort the junior officers and Methos back to the flagship. But the
Captain was surprised the Immortal had returned with the runabout.

Pretar's glance at the Colorado was enough for Richie to pick up.
"Methos and Beverly pulled a few strings.  They think I should drop by
Duncan MacLeod's for an extended visit."  The Betazoid fixed a steady
gaze on his friend.  "I don't know if I can," Richie whispered.  "Not
yet.  I've got some things I needed to work through.  And it still
hurts...in here."  His hand rose to his chest.  "I don't think it will
ever go away."

Captain Lorrict gave Richie his best smile, trying to convey all the
nuances they were used to.  "You built walls for the last two hundred
years, Rich.  They just don't disappear overnight.  But you have time.
You both do.  And I'll help however I can."

Richie nodded, more for his own benefit than the Betazoid's.  "Thanks.
Come on, let's get out of here.  If I never see that runabout...."

"I thought you would enjoy yourself," Pretar pointed out as they walked
side by side to the main airlock.  Richie slung the duffel bag over his
shoulder.  "Old home week for you and your kinfolk."

The Immortal chuckled.  "Well, we still haven't told Jean-Luc I'm the
same Richie Ryan.  It's been real funny.  He thinks I'm a son.  And
tried to tell me every story he knows about my 'father'."  Pretar
pointed left at a corridor, indicating the way to Engineering.  Richie
turned without missing a beat.  "It was nice to talk to Bev again. And
all...Methos and I did was talk on the trip out there.  About a lot of
things.  After locking those junior peabrains in the aft compartment
and taking over the forward for ourselves."

"Hey, those junior peabrains saved your skin."  A turn through a door
and they found themselves on the upper level of Main Engineering. Below
them, the normal crew was scurrying about at their work.  The pair took
a moment to watch.  "Sonya found a couple of cute ensigns among them."

Richie acted casual.  "Oh, yeah, and you didn't have your eye on a
certain dashing helmsman?"

Pretar threw Richie a look.  "Did not."  The Betazoid didn't need a
bond to tell when he was being teased.  He led the way down a flight of
stairs until they appeared on the main floor.  A few of the new crew
froze, wondering what was going on.  "Besides," Pretar added in a
whisper, "I'm keeping myself available for a certain artifact."  Just
then, a lieutenant appeared, asking if there was anything he could help
them with.  "Commander Gomez, please."

"Ah, she left about ten minutes ago," the man stammered and pointed out
a door.  "Dr. Simmons was with her, I believe."

"Thanks," Richie replied.  They scooted out the door and headed down
the corridor.  "Don't keep holding your breath.  He and Beverly seem to
be hitting it off."  Pretar audibly exhaled in mock protest.  That
brought a laugh to both their lips.  "Besides, look on the bright
side."

The Betazoid thought a moment.  "And what, oh wise one, is the bright
side?"

An arm snaked around the Captain's neck from behind, and Richie pulled
him closer.  "I dunno.  I was hoping you could tell me.  Where are all
the women who are gonna throw themselves at my feet?"  They paused at
an intersection, looking all four ways.  When the coast was clear, they
resumed their casual walk.

"I think Ensign Bird worships the ground you walk on," Pretar pointed
out.  "He hasn't stopped talking about you since you left."  The overly
active ensign was still on board.  Captain Lorrict had arranged for the
Hood to meet them in Sector 221 to transport the errant cadet back to
the Academy.  A month late, but with a firm commitment for a spot on
the Geronimo after graduation.

Just then, a breathless ensign appeared as they turned a corner.  He
quickly jerked into the start of a salute, then froze.  "Uh, Captain?"
To say the boy was nervous was an understatement.  The muscles were
tense and shaking and his jaw was probably locked.  His face was
turning positively white.  "I'm supposed to report for duty?" he asked
weakly.  "Ensign Ruppert?"

Pretar made an exaggerated gasp of recognition.  "Oh, yes."  The
Betazoid reached out a hand and pumped the ensign's thoroughly.
"Welcome aboard.  What can I do for you?"

"I think I'm lost," came the hesitant reply.

The Captain looked around until he spotted another ensign down the
corridor.  "Ensign," he shouted.  The woman looked up and started
walking toward them.  "Take Ensign...Ruppert, here, and show him
around."  A shove got the man started toward the woman.  "Carry on,"
Pretar added before he and Richie sped around the corner and sprinted
toward the turbolift.

"Oh, God," Richie laughed once the doors were closed.  "I though I was
about to die."  Pretar groaned at the pun.  "No, really."

"Deck Two," Pretar gasped as he held his sides.  "Were we ever that
young?"  He made eye contact with the Immortal and both started
laughing again.  "I am so glad you're back."  The turbolift doors
opened and the pair walked down the hall, still chuckling.

Richie paused, as if the sudden thought took all his concentration.
"What did you put in your report?" he asked.

"No Immortals.  No Quickening the size of a planet.  Just a bargaining
chip and renegade Klingons at the border."  His hand gave Richie's
shoulder a comforting squeeze.  "No big "K", either."

The Immortal weakly smiled.  "Good enough.  If word ever got out about
Klingon Immortals, let alone I defeated Kahless....  God, I still can't
believe it."

Pretar grew concerned.  "I thought you and Methos were going to talk
about that?"

"We did," Richie confirmed.  "He was a lot of help.  But it's still
overwhelming.  All it seems I've done is talk, but I really just want
to do something.  Anything."  Under the Betazoid's gentle urging, they
resumed their walk.  "It's like I've got all this energy just waiting
inside me, and I don't know what to do with it.  All this power...."

"I can feel it," Pretar confirmed, his hand still on Richie's back.

"I talked to Beverly and Deanna," Richie suddenly announced very
quietly.  Pretar stopped and turned as the Immortal continued.  "They
both verify I'm dead as a doornail, psychically speaking.  I burned
everything out, and it doesn't look like it's gonna heal."  The
Betazoid nodded with understanding in his heart.

"It's fine, Rich," he said.  "We just go back to the way things were."

The Immortal looked at his feet.  "I miss it, Petey."

Pretar silently nodded as he gently urged Richie down the corridor. The
main doors to the forward mess hall parted as they approached. Inside,
it was dark and quiet.  Everyone was currently on duty in an effort to
get everything ship shape.  The next meal time was two hours away, and
today, there were no stragglers.

Two shapes were already waiting near a table, drinks in hand.  Richie
slipped in next to Sonya, who leaned in and gave him a kiss.  "Welcome
home," she said, handing over a shot of whiskey.  Dr. Simmons added his
own smile as he handed a tall glass of Saurian brandy to the captain.

The foursome looked out at the stars and the planet below them. Pretar
tapped his combadge in the silence.  "Mr. Whitmore.  Set a course for
the Farion system.  Warp three.  Take us out of orbit as soon as
Engineering is ready."  The Captain looked at the assembled group.
"And make it good," he added.

·Yes, sir.  Bridge out.·

Pretar Lorrict lifted his glass toward the starfield.  "Once more," he
said.  The feelings and the meanings were his alone, and he had never
shared them.

The clear glass in Jarvis' hand rose next.  "Forward, ever forward," he
whispered.  A tear was running down his cheek, but no one needed to
ask.  This was the first posting the doctor had taken since his wife
died.

"For George," Sonya quietly added.  She was too young to have found her
saying.  But in this group, that was all right.  The Engineer was just
starting her career, and everyone assured her not to rush picking one
out.

Richie was last.  His glass rose forward, meeting the other three. Ever
since he was a little boy, and he had snuck out to the orphanage roof
to watch the stars, he had dreamed of being out here.  And here he was.
He felt his journey was just beginning as well.  "To space," he
offered.

The glasses clinked and the four swallowed their liquids of choice. The
view rotated as the ship got under way.  The star pirouetted until they
were oriented in the right direction.  The ship slid ahead, the
pinpricks of light moving to the sides as they advanced.  The Intrepid
picked up speed, the stars tumbling by.  Then everything exploded as
the ship and her crew jumped forward.  Forward, ever forward, once more
to space.



We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

        --T.S. Eliot, Earth Poet (1888-1965)







EPILOGUE



2371 A.D. -- Stardate 48410.5 -- Somewhere on the far side of the Gamma
Quadrant



Richie Ryan lay on the ground, his head propped up by a small rock,
taking in the stars that filled the night sky on this unnamed planet.
He had excused himself right after supper, wanting to get away from
Duncan's morbid humor and Jono's sullen stare.  The sunset had been
terrific.  And now, far enough away from the runabout's lights, there
was nothing to stop him from looking and wondering at the majesty
sprawled out above him.

He heard the footsteps approach after he felt the intruder.  "I thought
you might need this," Duncan told him as a heavy folded blanket landed
on his legs.

"Thanks, Dad," Richie replied, too late to stop the automatic tone of
voice he used when he felt mothered.  The younger Immortal winced. "I'm
sorry, Mac.  Old habit.  Thanks."  He unfurled the blanket and let it
settle over his legs.  He had been feeling chill, but loathed to leave
this little bit of paradise.

Sounds of the Highlander shuffling around drew him up to his elbows. He
had fully expected Duncan to either leave, or join him in his
stargazing.  But MacLeod was moving about the area, gathering items and
dumping them into a pile.  A campfire.

Duncan was crouched down, arranging the wood as Richie thought that.
The Scot's head came up almost at the same time, as if the Highlander
had heard the comment, and the once-upon-a-time student could sense his
mentor's gaze in the dark.  Just like Petey....

For a brief moment, Richie longed to share the same close rapport with
Duncan, the intimate knowing and being that came from a bond.  Maybe
the past pain could have been avoided.  The common misunderstandings
resolved and not left to simmer and fester.  What would have become of
us, if we had stayed together?

I probably wouldn't have joined Starfleet, Richie realized.  Nor met
Petey.  No Intrepid.  No R'chIy'.  Possibly no treaty with the
Klingons.  Was Mac the price of peace for the galaxy?  Could one person
make that much of a difference?

"What are you thinking?" Duncan asked in the dark.  The baritone voice
caught Richie off-guard.

"Might-have-beens."

The Highlander fired his phaser into the pile of wood, the dried plants
catching fire and illuminating Duncan's face in a golden glow. It was a
sad face at the moment.  His eyes darted all around before settling on
Richie.  He nodded minutely, in either understanding or acknowledgment.

For a brief second, Richie wished he knew MacLeod better, to be able
offer support.  Killing Jharris had been solely about him, and his
unwillingness to do the job himself.  Duncan had played executioner on
Richie's behalf, and the younger Immortal wanted to ease the blame. He
patted the ground next to him, in invitation.

The Highlander looked back at the fire, as if searching for answers.
But the flickering flames held none.  Duncan slowly stood, and eyed the
spot next to Richie.  With almost a resigned air, he settled next to
the blond.  "You always did have a thing for stars," MacLeod pointed
out as he shuffled in an effort to get comfortable.  "All those nights
you climbed to the dojo roof."

"Best seat in the house," Richie added with a chuckle.  "You'd come up
after a couple of hours with some coffee or hot chocolate.  We'd
talk....  It always felt we were on, like, a different planet for a
while."

"Did you know...back then...?"  Duncan's voice trailed off.

"That I'd fly among the stars?" Richie finished for him.  The younger
Immortal wiggled further under the blanket.  It was getting colder.
"Yeah.  I guess I did."

It sounded like the breath caught in MacLeod's throat.  When he finally
did speak, his voice was ragged and barely above a whisper. "And I
didn't believe."

Richie tried to think of a helpful reply.  A brief comment from one of
their arguments over movies surfaced, about how the times they had
grown up in affect the rest of their long lives.  "How could you, Mac?
I grew up in a time when space travel was a reality.  The Moon, the
stars, that was possible.  You lived in a time where people believed
the night sky was a black curtain...and everything revolved around the
Earth!"

The Highlander managed a small chuckle.  "I'm not as backwards as all
that, Rich.  Not anymore."

"Aren't you?" Richie shot back.  The younger Immortal turned and raised
his head to his hand, propping it up with his elbow.  "Aren't you the
same honor-driven, over-protective Highlander that Debra What's-her-
name fell for all those centuries ago? Or Amanda, or Tessa...."

Duncan eyed his former protégé sideways.  "So, you think I'm bull-
headed, stubborn, unwashed...."

"And we love you for it," Richie broke in to add.  It wasn't until the
words had left his mouth that he realized he had included himself.  

The teasing mood disappeared, replaced by a reflective silence.  "I
wondered," Duncan finally said after a long sigh.

"I did too, at times," Richie added.  "I heard Methos, that night on
your barge.  Your birthday...."

"I thought as much," Duncan replied, his voice flat and empty.  "I was
surprised you didn't go ahead and come to the door.  Leaving the gift
in the car was out of character."  MacLeod shifted uncomfortably.  "Is
that why you left, on Alpha Centauri?  Because you thought I...."

"No," Richie cut in.  The Highlander waited for him to continue, but
the younger Immortal lay back on the ground, unable to face MacLeod.

It was Duncan's turn to look over, sizing up the man next to him.  "It
was the night you called me in Seacouver, said you were going after
Felicia Martins.  I worried, I agonized.  Methos finally sat me down
and told me to let go.  But I couldn't."

The Highlander's eyes unfocused, the reflected flames dancing in their
brown depths, giving the impression of a scene unfolding in his soul.
"I told him it had been a mistake for me to train you.  I saw how good
you could be, one day.  I could teach you how to fight...how to win.
But you needed so much more then I could give you.  And I could see how
it was holding you back....  If you had had a proper mentor, you
wouldn't have been afraid of the Game.  You'd be fighting your way
closer to the Prize."

"Mac," Richie said, resting his hand on Duncan's.  "Stop it."

"You needed someone to tell you all the things a boy should hear, and
know.  To tell you how special you were.  Someone to make up for all
those years you were growing up, alone and unwanted..."

"Duncan."  Maybe it was the use of his first name, or the gentle
squeeze of his hand that stopped the Highlander.  He looked at Richie
with tear-filled eyes.  "Just because you couldn't say the words,
didn't mean I never felt them.  I know I was much, much more then just
a student.  I could see it in your eyes."  The younger Immortal's hand
reached out, drying the tears from the chiseled, olive skinned cheeks.
"You gave me a home, a life, even a set of morals I didn't think I
could follow.  You guided me, and worried about me, and loved me.  You
were exactly what I needed.  And wanted."

"Then why did you leave?"  The tone of MacLeod's voice broke Richie's
heart.  For after reaffirming Duncan's importance, he would have to
bare his own unworthiness.  His hand fell away from the face of his
teacher and he turned over, his back to MacLeod, breaking all contact
with the Highlander.

He couldn't stop the sobs that escaped his mouth, the tremors that
shook his body.  To think all these years the Highlander thought he was
the one who had failed.  But Richie was the failure.  The buried memory
and the years of visions came flooding back, showing him over and over
again how despicable he was.  The white trash street punk, for all
eternity.  Scum that would kill the most important person in his life.

A hand rested on his shoulder, the soft whispers of Duncan's accent
trying to calm him.  "Shhh, Richie.  It's okay."

How in the Hell could it be okay?  "I left...because I found out I
could kill you...." Another sob wracked his body.  "I came this close
to taking your head.  That was the last thing in the world I wanted."

"Rich..."

The younger Immortal turned over, finding himself face to face with the
Highlander.  "I wanted to kill you, Mac.  I could taste your Quickening
on my lips."

"But you didn't...."

Why won't he understand?  "But I wanted to!  I still want to!  Right
now!   God, Mac, why are you so dense?"  Richie was truly angry, almost
screaming at MacLeod.

Duncan paused a moment, letting his hand reach out and brush the short
curls out of Richie's face to cover the silence.  The Highlander's eyes
were sad and full of concern.  "I used to think the scars from your
childhood had healed.  But there's a lot of that frightened teenager
that came to live with me still with you."

Richie pushed MacLeod's hand away in disgust as he lay down on his
back.  "You don't know what you're talking about."

MacLeod grabbed Richie's hand and lowered it to his stomach.  "Tell me,
Richard, was I ever not the enemy?"

Even Pretar had never been that insightful.  In a heartbeat, all the
walls and defenses were identified and named for Richie's inspection.
Things he never could figure out alone became clear in one shining
moment.  "No," he found his voice admitting, watching helplessly at the
pain his admission caused Duncan.

"Even so, can you kill me?" Duncan asked as he slid closer, his brown
eyes holding the young Immortal fast, caught in a web of lies he had
lived all his life, unknown to even himself.

"No," Richie whispered, feeling the truthfulness of the word
reverberating through him.  "I....  I think that's why I found the
visions so disturbing.  I thought I was seeing myself kill you.  Over
and over again.  That I'd someday hate you so much...."

Duncan lay back down, the movement causing his hand to slip off Richie.
The younger Immortal was surprised to realize their fingers had still
been intertwined.  "I know how horrible that can be," the Highlander
quietly admitted as he looked up at the sky, then fell silent.

"Mac?" Richie prompted.

MacLeod shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his stomach.  "I
don't think a week has passed in almost four hundred years I don't see
you kneeling on the dojo floor, scared, defeated, waiting.  I can still
feel the pleasure.  If Joe hadn't...."

"Are we back to might-have-beens again, Mac?"

The Highlander literally squirmed at the question.  "No.  I stopped
tormenting myself about almost killing you a long time ago.  But it
still hurts to think I could do it...."

Richie turned over on his stomach and propped himself on his elbows,
uncomfortably close to the Highlander.  "It's yours, you know."  He
almost choked on the words, it was so hard for him to admit what he
felt he owed MacLeod.  "My head.  My life.  Anything you want.  You
gave it all to me, Mac."

Duncan found the courage to look at Richie.  "All I ever wanted was
your friendship.  Your company.  And some indication you were concerned
with your own life, your own worth."

It was a rare grin that Richie gave him; happy and playful, with just a
hint of mischief at the corners.  "Seems like I did okay.  I've lived
this long, haven't I?"

That got Duncan to chuckle.  "Yes, you have.  Quite well in fact.  Not
many people, Immortal or not, can say they've terrorized an entire
galaxy."  

Richie responded with his most innocent 'who, me?' look, before his
features turned serious again.  "What do we do, now?" he asked, almost
a whisper.  The words didn't need to travel far, it was almost like the
two existed in their own private world.  "Where do we go from here?"

"I want you to be a part of my life, Rich.  I want you to show up on my
doorstep in the middle of the night, bringing all kinds of havoc with
you.  I want to help you when you hurt, and celebrate when you succeed.
I want you to tell me when I'm being pig-headed, stubborn, and
unreasonable."  MacLeod turned his head, so he could see the younger
Immortal.  "I want you to brighten my life like you did all those years
ago, my friend."

It was all Richie had wanted.  "Done, my friend.  Done."  He turned
over on his back again, but towards the Highlander.  His head brushed
against MacLeod's arm, his neck forced to an odd angle.  But the
contact was worth it.  It was nice to feel Duncan, to know he was
actually there.  "But you have to promise not to worry about me...."

"Sorry, comes with the job."

Richie snorted.  ""You've got to stop telling me what to do...."

Duncan shrugged, "I was born that way."

"I don't want to hear another story about how you know better...."

"But I do, Rich."

The younger Immortal rose up on his elbows, the better to glare at
MacLeod.  "What exactly am I getting out of this arrangement?"

With a grin, Duncan raised up and pulled the younger Immortal back
down, letting Richie's head rest on the broad Scottish shoulder.  "You
get to eat my cooking."

Richie laughed.  "I knew there was a reason I wanted to live with
you...."  The pair lapsed into silence, content to watch the stars and
just experience being together.



It was much later, after the fire had died down, that Duncan spoke. "I
wished I had brought some cognac.  We're overdue for our 250 year
anniversary."  Richie murmured something into the Highlander's neck,
having apparently given up on stargazing a long time ago.  "What was
that?"

The younger Immortal shifted around until his mouth was clear.  "I said
'I'm glad you didn't'.  Cognac always gave me gas.  Right now, I'd like
a steaming mug of cider."

"We could go back to the runabout..." Duncan began but Richie nodded
against his shoulder.

"I'm too content where I am."

So am I, Duncan silently added, surprised at how easy their
reconciliation had been.  But I guess we had both wanted it for so
long, we'd welcome any excuse.

Richie scrunched closer to MacLeod, burrowing further under the blanket
that covered them both.  "Mac?  Do you think we'll ever get back home?"

Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod, looked at the stars again, so
strange and different, and yet so totally the same.  It wasn't hard to
imagine they were once again on top of the dojo loft, a thermos of hot
cocoa at their elbows, just lying in that languid peace of good
friends.  Or even their lazy nights on the island shore, listening to
the animals and insects as the fire died down, having shared more about
themselves than they had with any other person.  "We are home, Rich.
We already are."


A Dish Served Cold...
7/15/96
Kevin H. Robnett 

END