The Quantum Theory of Immortality
mln

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DISCLAIMER:  Duncan, Methos, Joe, and Anne belong to the creators of
Highlander; Quinn, Wade, Arturo, and Rembrandt belong to the creators of
Sliders.  I am only borrowing them for a little cyberfun, and - TRUST me - I
make NO money from it.

For the readers:  this crossover tale proposes a theory to explain the
origins of immortals, but it is *only* a theory, an idea, an exercise, a
flight of fancy brought on by too many reruns and too much time on my hands.
I have tried to weave in enough Slider canon to make it accessible to those
readers who don't know Sliders without boring those that do.  Whether I
succeeded remains to be seen.

The Quantum Theory of Immortality
by mln

"I am immortal.
  I have inside me blood of kings."
     Queen, "Princes of the Universe"

PART ONE

Clang and spark, clang and spark, over and over the blades strike, high and
low, left and right, in a terrible choreography of dark men and bright
swords.

From a shadowed canopy of trees, a man watches, hypnotized like the
audience at a tennis match by the seemingly endless exchange, back and
forth, thrust and counter, lunge and parry, blade to blade.

He is not supposed to care who wins this match.  He is only supposed to
observe and record.  After all, it is but one game in a set that reaches
back millennia and stretches ahead to a time unknown when the final match
will be played and the winner crowned with an unknown prize.

But he is human, and one of those dark men swinging bright swords is his
friend.  With his eyes, he observes; with his mind, he records; with his
heart, Joe Dawson prays.

His friend is the taller one, the one with the dashing hair and a sword like
a thin, elegant knife.  The other one, the enemy, has an oiled head, a
dripping mustache, and a sword as broad as a scythe.  He lacks the graceful
discipline of Joe's friend, but he makes up for it with trickery and brute
force, maneuvering his opponent back toward the edge of the clearing, not
far from the canopy of trees under which Joe anxiously waits.

In a moment, Joe understands:  there is a boulder behind his friend, in the
path of his friend's dancing feet.  It takes all Joe's training not to cry
out a warning, and all of his self-control not to run interference as his
friend tumbles backward, the elegant sword clattering to the ground.

The enemy leaps onto the boulder, his sword like a giant silver parenthesis
above his slick, moonlit head.  Joe wants to close his eyes, as if not to
see is to prevent the blow, as if not to witness is to preclude the event
from history.

But there is something else, something strange, something beyond strange
happening in the air beyond the dark men.

It begins with lightning, or the clap and flash of lightning without the
bolt.  A quick wind kicks up, and the air begins to waver.  The waver
strengthens until, suddenly, it opens up, like a violent waterfall, round
and blue, while the wind whips the autumn leaves into a frenzy.

>From the ground, Joe's friend knows only that there is a disturbance, and
he takes advantage of the enemy's distraction to snatch his sword and roll
to his feet.  Upright, he sees the whirlwind and, like the other men,
freezes in amazement.

A loud pop startles them all.  The slick-haired man jumps off the boulder as
a large body hurtles from the vortex, landing hard on the ground between the
two opponents.

It is a man.  An older man, portly and bearded.  He emits a sound like an
"oof."

They hardly have time to process this incredulous event when two more bodies
shoot from the blue circle.  They are younger, mid twenties, a man and a
woman.  The young woman drops short and nimbly rolls to the side.  The young
man lands with unintentional accuracy on the stout stomach of the bearded
man, who pushes him off with an impatient cry:   "Mr. Mallory, I am not your
personal air mattress!"

The whirlwind is still vibrating, and in its pulsating blue glow the enemy
has seen the girl.  He advances on her voraciously, his broad sword gripped
in both hands.

A fourth body cuts him off, bursting from the blue whirlwind and knocking
him to the ground.   The enemy jumps to his feet, enraged.  With a roar, he
lifts his sword to bring it down on the black man who felled him.

There is a whoosh and then a clang, as Joe's friend leaps forward to block
the enemy's strike.  Caught by surprise, the enemy's grip is jarred loose,
and the broad sword is knocked from his grasp.

"It's over, Khan!" the tall dark man yells against the wind.  He raises his
sword -

But again, they are distracted, as the strange blue circle suddenly closes
in on itself, like the picture on a television set contracting into a
minuscule point.

The enemy scrambles for his weapon.  He whirls toward Joe's friend, who is
staring, dumbfounded, at the empty air.  "I don't know what kind of trick
this is, MacLeod," the enemy snarls, "but you'll not get away with it!"

With one last impotent swing, he runs for the trees, disappearing into the
night.

The newcomers stare at the man left behind, and then at the sword in his
hand.

"Oh, great!" the girl cries, jumping to her feet.  She is a small thing, but
she speaks with fire and spirit.  "You see that?  We slid right back to
Head-Chopping World!  I knew we couldn't trust that damn Monitor!"

With a weary sigh, the bearded man gets to his feet and brushes off his
suit.  "Now, Miss Welles -"

He is cut off by the young man who landed on him.  Resting his lanky arms
over his knees, he sputters at the girl.   "You knew?!  You knew?!  Who was
the one who kept saying, `We have to trust someone, Quinn'?  Who kept
saying, `He's got a kind face' -- "

"I never said that!" the girl counters fiercely.  "I said he was the only
one in the whole world who didn't try to chop our heads off!"

"Oh, yeah, right."  The young man, all legs and arms, stands with surprising
ease.  "We all know he was only interested in your head, not your --"

"MISTER MALLORY!"

The squabbling young people break off, fuming, as the bearded man intervenes
with raised hands.  "Might I suggest," he says, enunciating with the metered
precision of a Shakespearean actor, "that we refrain from discussing the
potential loss of our heads in the presence of a man with a sword?"

They turn, as one, to the tall dark man, who stands as still as a tree, his
mouth agape.  Seeing their eyes on him, he puts away his sword and finds his
voice:  "Who are you?"

Before they can answer, Joe interrupts, walking with difficult speed across
the grass.  "MacLeod!" he calls, stopping briefly to wave his cane.

The three quarrelsome newcomers draw together instinctively.  "He's got a
*cane,*" the girl whispers.  "Might be a sword in disguise," her friend
responds.

Breathing hard from his struggle to reach them quickly, Joe gestures to the
last member of the group to hurtle from the whirlwind.  "I think that one's
hurt," he says.

They all realize at once that the man on the ground hasn't moved since he
landed.

The girl reaches him first.  "Rembrandt?" she says worriedly, kneeling
beside him.  Her companions look over her shoulder, while Joe and his friend
crowd around on the other side.  Gently, she eases the prone man onto his
back.

Blood spreads down the front of his shirt.  "He's been stabbed!" she cries.

"We've got to get him to a hospital," says the dark man called MacLeod.

The newcomers stare at him, at each other, and then back at him.  "You've
got a HOSPITAL?!" they cry in unison.

* * * * *

Dr. Anne Lindsey stands in the doorway of the waiting room, observing the
two worried, disheveled groups awaiting news of her patient.

One of the groups she watches with affection and not a little irritation.
She notes that Duncan has not removed his coat, despite the warmth of the
room.  She notes that Joe has positioned himself by the window and is
staring outside with intent.

Her instinct and her history with the two men, one a former lover and the
other a dear friend, prompts her to join them, but her obligation is to the
other group, the friends of her patient, who are huddled together in serious
conference on the other side of the room.

The older man rises to greet her.  "Doctor," he says, "how is Rembrandt?"

She knows his name, or the improbable name he gave to the admitting clerk:
Maximilian Arturo.  But she can't quite figure out his relationship to the
young people at his side, or the man she has just been tending.   Their age
differences argue against their being friends, and their differing names
against their being family - her patient's name is Brown, and the young man
people here introduced themselves as Quinn Mallory and Wade Welles.   Still,
she senses a bond between these four people, one that goes beyond friends
and family.

"Mr. Brown is fine," she tells them, with her best reassuring-doctor smile.
"There's no internal bleeding, and no damage to any major organs.  He'll
need some stitches, but that's all."

The young man, Quinn, interjects:  "But he was unconscious -"

"Not from the stab wound.  Apparently, he hit the ground pretty hard when he
fell and has a minor concussion as a result.  We'll need to keep him
overnight for observation."

Their relief is obvious.  "Excellent news," the older man declares.

Anne continues: "There is one problem.  We need Mr. Brown's signature on the
admission forms and he's refusing to sign anything without talking to you
first."  She looks from one to the other, trying to read their expressions.
"Something about wanting to make sure you'll still be here when he wakes
up?"

They exchange looks.  Wade is the one who answers.  "You can tell Rembrandt
we'll *definitely* be here. In fact, we'll be here for at least -"  she
pauses, and then finishes with a strange flourish.  "Six months!"

"He won't believe it," Quinn comments in an undertone.

Anne gestures to the door.  "Well, then, why don't you tell him yourself?
He's just down the hall, the third cubicle on the right."

The young people head immediately out with quick "thanks."  The older man
stays a moment longer to shake Anne's hand.  "Our deepest gratitude,
Doctor," he says with a gallant bow of his head.

As soon as he has left, Anne marches with purpose to the other side of the
room, where Duncan and Joe have been waiting with undisguised impatience.

"How is he?" Duncan asks straightaway.

"He's fine," Anne says shortly.  "He has fairly deep laceration and a mild
concussion.  But I gather from the fact that he is still bleeding that he's
not part of - you know --  *the game.*"

"No, he's not," Duncan replies, cutting Joe a look.  "He just sort of got in
the way."

Exasperated, Anne forgets to lower her voice. "Duncan, what were you
thinking?  How can you let an innocent bystander get in the middle of one of
your fights?"

"It's not Mac's fault," Joe intercedes.  "The guy came out of nowhere."

"Literally," Duncan adds with feeling.

"And what does that mean?" Anne demands.

"Trust me," her former lover assures her. "If I told you, you wouldn't
believe it."

"Oh, yeah?"  She pats the side of his coat.  "I think I'm pretty good at
believing unbelievable things."

Instinctively, Duncan pulls the coat closed and crosses his arms.  "Well,
this particular thing I myself am finding impossible to believe."

"That makes two of us."  Joe shifts his weight forward.  "Anne, did the guy
say anything about who he was or where he came from?"

"All I know is his name is Rembrandt Brown -"

"Rembrandt Brown?"  Joe breaks into a smile of recognition.  "Of course.  I
knew he looked familiar."

"You know him?" Duncan says, surprised.

"Sure.  Rembrandt Brown," Joe says.  "You remember - the Cryin' Man.  The
Spinning Topps."

Duncan stares at Joe as if he has suddenly started speaking Martian.

Impatiently, Joe explains, "Rembrandt Brown was the lead singer of a group
called The Spinning Topps that was big back in the `70s.  He left the group
to go solo after their first big hit.  They kept cranking out gold records,
but he just fell off the planet."   He shakes his head.  "It was a shame,
really.  He was good.  He just needed someone to give him the right
material."

"You're serious?" Duncan says.  "You really know this man?"

"And what possible reason would I have to lie about this, MacLeod?"

Anne's pager buzzes.  She ignores it for a moment and then, sighing, snaps
it off her belt and reads the message.  "I have to go," she says.  "But I'm
not finished asking questions."

"Anne, if I had any answers, I'd give them to you."

She holds Duncan's gaze for a long moment, and then relents.  "All right, I
trust you.  But, look, I'm on the graveyard shift, so I'll be here all night
if you need anything."

Duncan thanks her with a kiss on the cheek, and then watches her leave.
When she is safely out of earshot, he turns toward his companion.  "I'm not
crazy, am I, Joe?"

"If you're crazy, I must be completely whacked."

"What the hell was that thing?"

"I don't know.  It looked like a whirlpool or something."

"A whirlpool that materialized out of thin air."  His dark eyes narrow.
"Did you hear what that girl said?"

Joe looks out the window, down at the parking lot.  "I heard."

"I don't like this at all."

"Yeah, well, you're not going to like this any better.  Take a look at who's
waiting for us outside."

Duncan peers down at the parking lot.  In the far corner sits a late-model
black Porsche, a dark figure in the driver's seat.

"Khan. Damn it."  He jerks away from the window angrily.  "He'll try for the
girl."

"That would be his usual M.O.," Joe agrees.  "But then again, he was as
spooked as we were by what happened.  Maybe even enough to stay away from
her -"

"No," Duncan says grimly.  "He's got his back up now.  She and her friends
stopped him from killing me.   He'll go after her as much for revenge as for
-  fun."  He nearly spits out the final word.  "We have to get her out of
here without him knowing."

Following him to the door of the waiting room, Joe says helpfully,  "Hey,
maybe she can jump back into one of those whirlpool things."

"She better not," Duncan retorts.  "Not until I get some answers."

The curtains are pulled around the third cubicle on the right, but three
sets of legs are visible underneath.  Motioning for Joe to keep quiet,
Duncan steps up to within eavesdropping distance.

Wade is talking.  " . . . nurse said we're in Seacouver."

"Seacouver?"  Duncan recognizes the voice as that of the young man, Quinn.
"In Washington state?  That's not possible.  That's hundreds of miles north
of our sliding radius."

"Oh, man," an unfamiliar voice grumbles.  Duncan assumes it's the injured
singer, Rembrandt.  "I really hoped we'd get home this time."

"We might very well *be* home," Arturo says.  "Enlarging our slide radius
might be one of the factors that enabled the Monitor to pinpoint our world."

"That doesn't work, Professor," Quinn says.  "If anything, enlarging the
radius would make it twice as difficult to hone in on the correct
coordinates."

"Perhaps he didn't enlarge it.  Perhaps he shifted it -"

Engrossed by the conversation, Duncan and Joe do not hear the footsteps
behind them.

"Excuse me," Anne says pointedly.

Duncan starts, bumping into Joe, who wobbles before catching his balance.

Giving them a look, Anne moves around them and pulls the curtain back.  "I'm
sorry to interrupt," she tells the patient and his visitors, "but Mr. Brown
really does need his rest."  She picks up his wrist to check his pulse, but
she looks around at the three standing by the bed.  "As do the rest of you,
from the look of it."

Wade smiles gratefully.  "We are pretty wiped out."

"That's putting it mildly," Quinn says.  His gaze falls on the two men
standing beyond her.  Without taking his eyes off them, he asks Anne, "Could
you recommend a good hotel close by?"

"Make that a cheap hotel," Wade says.

Joe steps forward, his gentle blue eyes smiling.  "Maybe I can help.  My
place isn't far from here -"

"Joe, your place is a bar," Anne says.

"I've got cots set up in some of the back rooms, you know, for when the band
gets stuck there late at night."   Joe smiles at the patient.  "It's not up
to the standards of the Cryin' Man, but it'll do for the night."

"Well," Quinn says hesitantly, "thanks, but -"

A delighted Rembrandt interrupts:  "Hey, you're a fan of the Cryin' Man?"

Joe answers with a croon:  "`I'm gonna cry like a man, hard as I can -'"

Rembrandt joins in:  "`And if you had a heart, maybe you'd start, to
understand.' Well, all right!"  He finishes with a laugh and a slapshake of
Joe's hand, and then groans and clutches his side.

"Now I know we're not home," Quinn murmurs to Wade.

"Seriously," Joe says.  "My place is clean and warm and, most important -"
He glances at MacLeod.  "Safe."

"My dear sir," Arturo says, "are you implying that we are in need of
safekeeping?"

Duncan answers him.  "Not you, sir."  He looks at Wade.  "She is."

Anne grabs his arm.  A long, intimate, information-filled look passes
between them.

"You can take my car," she offers.

* * * * *

The staff parking lot is at the rear of the hospital, beyond
immortal-sensing distance and conveniently supplied with its own exit road.
With surprisingly little trouble, Duncan, Joe, and the strange threesome
slip away from the hospital unnoticed by the man in the black Porsche.

The drive through the city is quiet.  Every once in a while Duncan checks
the rear view mirror, and each time he finds the eyes of the young man Quinn
on him.  The look is not friendly.

They reach the bar at midnight.  It is empty of customers.  After sending
the bored bartender home, Joe explains sheepishly,  "Business is slow on
weeknights."

"That's fine with me," Wade says shortly.  She plops onto a barstool.  "No
crowds for any immortal serial rapist killers to hide in."

"Miss Welles --" the professor begins, but then breaks off, as if unsure
what to warn her of.

In the awkward silence, Duncan shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the rack
by the door.   Conscious of all eyes on him, he slips behind the bar and
selects a bottle of bourbon.  Carefully pouring himself a shot, he says to
the girl, "So you do know about immortals."

Wade shifts uncomfortably.  "A little," she admits.

"May I ask how?"

Quinn steps behind Wade protectively. "We've met a few immortals in our
travels."

"Your travels."  Duncan frowns into his drink and then downs it in a single
gulp.  "I'd like to hear about your travels."

"I'll bet you would."

Surprised by the belligerence in the young man's voice, Duncan sets the
glass down with a thunk.

"Quinn," Wade says, placatingly, "I don't think he wants to hurt us.  He
saved Rembrandt's life."

"I know that," her protector responds, stone-faced.  "What I don't know is
*why.*"

Duncan has to smile.  The kid equals him in height, but little else - except
maybe guts.

Maybe it's the bourbon, but all of a sudden Duncan likes him.  He likes the
girl, too, and their pompous professor.  "It's a fair question," he says
reasonably, stopping the bourbon bottle.  "What do you say we talk about it
over dinner?  Hey, Joe - you have anything to eat in this joint beside beer
nuts?"

Joe shrugs.   "I have the number of an all-night pizza place that delivers."

Wade looks up at Quinn, appealing.  "Please, Quinn?  I'm starving. We
haven't eaten since - since a long time ago."

Still locked in a staredown with Duncan, a muscle in Quinn's cheek twitches.
"All right.  But no anchovies."

Duncan's polite smile fades.  "Half anchovies."

Quinn's blue eyes narrow.  "Half anchovies, extra cheese."

The beer tap drips loudly in the silence.

Duncan blinks.  "Deal," he says.

* * * * *

Two hours and three pizzas later, the five of them settle back in their
chairs, sated by good food courtesy of Joe and a good story courtesy of
Duncan.

"Truly remarkable, Mr. MacLeod," the professor declares.  "To have lived in
the time of Shakespeare and Lincoln and Edison.  To have fought on the
fields of Culloden and Waterloo and Passchendaele.  It is truly a remarkable
achievement."

"I don't know about that," Duncan says.  "I can't take much credit for my
longevity.  Khan has lived even longer and seen even more."

"Yes, but you have spent your time here much more wisely.  Instead of
gratifying your baser urges, you have sought to improve your mind with
learning, to fortify your soul with acts of compassion."

Duncan passes off the compliment with a shrug and looks across the table to
Wade. "You've been very quiet," he comments.

She pulls her legs up and wraps her arms around them.  "I'm trying to
process it all," she says.  "It's not every day I learn that I'm the target
of the actual *Genghis Khan.*"

"What I don't understand," Quinn says, "is how the guy could go from
conquering the world to raping and killing young women."

"It's not something you'll find in the history books," Duncan replies, "but
Khan actually died the first time when a young slave girl slipped into his
tent and stabbed him with a knife.  He lost everything in that moment -- his
position, his armies, his power, and he's spent the last eight centuries
getting revenge."

"If you think about it," Arturo says, "there might not be much difference
between the desire to rape a continent and rape a woman."

Seeing the queasiness on Wade's face, Quinn tries to lighten the mood.
"Hey, cheer up," he says, patting her arm.  "It could be worse."

"Yeah?" she says glumly.  "How?"

"Genghis Khan could be a Kromagg."

She rolls her eyes.  "Not even funny, Quinn."

"OK," Joe says.  "I'll bite.  What's a Kromagg?"

Wade looks at Quinn who looks at the professor.  "I think," Arturo says
slowly, "it's time we repaid the hospitality of our hosts by explaining
something of how we came to interfere with their lives.  Don't you agree,
Miss Welles?"

Wade nods.

"Mr. Mallory?"

Quinn shrugs.

"Very well."  Removing the napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt, the
professor folds it carefully and sets it on the table.  He sits forward in
his chair and clasps his hands together.  "Gentlemen," he pronounces like a
man calling a meeting to order.   "Like Mr. MacLeod here, my young friends
and I are embarked on a remarkable journey, during which we have encountered
many extraordinary people and stood witness to many astonishing events.
Unlike Mr. MacLeod, however, our journey has not been through the passages
of time but through the currents of space.  You see, the four of us are -
how shall I put this -"

Quinn leans forward. "Sliders."

"Sliders?"  Duncan repeats blankly.

Quinn nods.  "Sliders."

"That's what we call it," Wade explains.

Irritated, the professor expounds:  "A convenient if somewhat indeterminate
term for our mode of travel.  It is perhaps more accurate to say that we are
interdimensional voyagers."

"Oh, yeah," Joe says.  "That clears it up."

The young people laugh, quickly stifling it on a look from the professor.
"You see," Quinn continues the explanation, "a few years ago, I constructed
a device that allows us to slide from one dimension to another -"

Duncan interrupts in a voice filled with wonder.  "You crossed the
Einstein-Rosen-Pudalski Bridge."

Quinn smiles.  "Yes, exactly."

"The what bridge?" Joe asks.

"It's physics, Joe.  Quantum theory,"  Duncan says eagerly.  "One of the
basic concepts is that the universe is composed of parallel dimensions, all
coexisting simultaneously."

Joe looks around the table.  "You're pulling my artificial leg, aren't you?"

"Not at all," the professor says.  "You saw the portal yourself, Mr. Dawson.
You witnessed our slide into this world."

"You're telling me that there are a whole bunch of other universes out
there?"

"Yes."

"Other Earths?"

"Oh, yes."

"And these other Earths are just like ours?"

"Not exactly,"  Quinn says with a meaningful glance at his companions.
"According to quantum theory, all possible outcomes of an event actually
happen, and each Earth that we visit is the result of those different
outcomes."

"We once slid onto an Earth in which Russia had conquered the United
States," Wade says.  "And another in which the extinction of the dinosaurs
never happened."

"Wade's favorite," Quinn says, "was the world in which the president of the
United States was Hillary Clinton."

"And Quinn's favorite was the one in which all the men had been killed off
by a virus that attacked the Y chromosome."

Quinn punches her arm lightly.  "Very funny."

Grinning, she nods her head at Arturo.  "The professor liked the world in
which the British had won the American Revolution."

"Yeah," Quinn adds, "until he realized his double made the Sheriff of
Nottingham look like St. Francis of Assisi."

"His double?" Joe asks.

"Of course," Duncan says.  "If there are other Earths, there must be other
us-es."

"Us-es?"

"You know what I mean.  Other Joe Dawsons, other Duncan MacLeods."

Joe turns to the professor.  "Is that true?"

"Yes, indeed," the professor assents.  "We've encountered many of our
doubles on other worlds."

"Wow."  Joe breathes the word, the implications dawning on him.  "So you're
saying there could be a world in which I didn't go to Vietnam."

"Absolutely," Quinn says with a smile.  "There's probably even a world in
which there was *no* Vietnam War."

The older men at the table, the ones with experience of war, do not smile.
"It is certainly possible," the professor says carefully.  "We once visited
a world in which Einstein never invented the atom bomb.  Their world never
suffered a Hiroshima.  Or a Chernobyl."

"Wow," Joe says again.

"And when an asteroid took aim at the planet, they had no means of
destroying it."

After a long moment, Joe receives the message.  "So I guess that means there
are probably worlds in which I didn't come back from Vietnam."

Briefly, Duncan squeezes Joe's arm.  Then, with purpose, he turns to the
others.  "What about your own world?"

"There's the rub," the professor sighs.

"We've been trying to get back to our own world for ages," Wade says.  "It's
a long story, but basically we've been sliding through the multiverse at
random, hoping that each time we'll slide back home."

Joe frowns.  "Can't you just slide back the same way you slid out?"

 "If only," Quinn says fervently.  "It's a long story, but basically our
timer was corrupted during our first slide, and we lost our home
coordinates."

"How exactly *do* you slide?" Duncan asks curiously.

"With this." Quinn removes a strange metal object from his jacket.  "It's
our timer.  It tells us when the next slide window is coming up, and then
opens the portal to the wormhole.  If we don't make the slide within sixty
seconds, we're stuck in whatever dimension we're in for the next 29 years."

Joe opens his mouth, and then stops and shakes his head.  "Never mind. I
doubt I'd understand even if you told me."

Looking over Quinn's shoulder, Wade remarks, "Six months.  I still can't
believe it.  We've *never* had that long in any world."

"Count your blessings, Miss Welles," the professor says.  "We have plenty of
time to determine whether or not we have made it home."

Wistfully, she says, "You really think this could be home, Professor? I
don't remember any -" she gives a quick nod to Duncan, "*you knows* in our
home world."

"I would imagine, from what Mr. MacLeod has told us, that the `you-knows'
make a concerted effort to keep their true natures secret."

It is the perfect opening to ask about the immortals they have met on other
worlds, but Duncan is suddenly uneasy at the prospect.  Instead, he gestures
at the timer.  "May I see that?"

With a shadow of reluctance, Quinn hands it to him.  "There's not much to
see."

Curious, Duncan examines the device.  It looks like a cell phone, which he
supposes it is in a way - the difference being it transmits more than voices
from one location to the next.

It's also heavier than a cell phone.  And warmer.

And warmer still.  Damn - the thing is heating up in his hands.  "What the-"
he breaks off when the lights on the strange contraption begin flashing.
"What's it doing?" he asks, showing it to the professor.

"I have no idea," he says. "Quinn?"

"Let me see."  Quinn takes the timer from Duncan, and drops it immediately
into an empty pizza box.  "It's hot!"

"I know," Duncan says.  "It kept getting hotter and hotter."

"What did you do to it?"

"Nothing," Duncan insists.  "I just looked at it.  Then it started flashing
and warming up in my hand."

Tentatively, Quinn picks up the timer with his fingertips.  "It's cooling
down."

"What are the readings?" the professor asks.

"Everything seems to be normal," his former student replies.  "I don't know
what the deal is.  You're sure you didn't do anything?"

"Positive."

The professor heaves a tired sigh.  "Well, the multiverse is filled with
anomalies.  This one will reveal itself, I'm sure, with time."  He pushes
back his chair with purpose.  "And speaking of time, the hour is very late.
Mr. Dawson, I wonder if I might avail myself of one of those cots you spoke
of?"

"Sure," Joe says, rising.  "The rooms are set up in the back."

"I think I'll call it a night, too." Wade straightens out her legs.
"Quinn?"

"Yeah, coming."  With his head bent over the timer, the young inventor
blindly follows Joe and the professor out of the bar.  His voice drifts back
with a belated "Good night!"

Wade stays for a moment longer.  "I just wanted to say thanks," she says,
holding out her hand to Duncan.  "For everything."

He shakes her hand, surprised at the strength in her small grip.  She might
look like a young girl, with her bouncy dark hair and big brown eyes, but
she has the spirit of a woman with experience.   "You're welcome," he
replies.  "And don't worry.  You're safe here.  Khan doesn't know about this
place."

She smiles her gratitude and leaves.  Duncan stares at the closed door for a
long moment, and then busies himself putting away the glasses, plates, and
empty pizza boxes.

Returning, Joe watches from the doorway until his presence registers on the
immortal.

"Everyone all settled in?" Duncan asks.

"Yeah.  It's not the Ritz, but they seemed grateful."  Joe makes his way to
the bar.  "So what do you think?"

"I think I could use a cot of my own right now."

"I mean about their story.  You believe it?"

Duncan slips on his coat before answering.  "Yes," he says simply.

"Then why didn't you ask them?"

He doesn't have to ask what Joe means.  It is the question that has run
through both of their minds all evening.

Buttoning his coat, Duncan feels the bump of his ever-faithful katana
against his leg.  Usually, he takes comfort in the sensation.

Outside, a distant dog howls.  Whether at the moon, the stars, or a back
door closed by an absentminded owner, it is an eerie, lonely sound.  "I
don't know," Duncan says.  "Good night, Joe."

* * * * *

He is alone in a swirl of blue, like water but lighter.  In his ears is a
strange rushing noise, cold and hollow, like wind in a tunnel  - and
something else, something metallic, a ringing noise.  No, not ringing.
Clanging.

Swords.  A duel.  Somewhere out there, beyond the whirling blue waves.  He
knows he must get there as soon as possible, for he is the one, the only who
can save them.

But he cannot fight the waves, not without his legs.  If only he could . . .

And then . . .

It is a miracle!   His legs!  He can feel them! He can see them, bending,
straightening, kicking!

He rises through the waves, feeling the blood coursing through his legs,
feeling the muscles contract and straighten, feeling the joy and the power
of motion.

The end is there, just beyond the edge of the blue.  One more glorious kick,
and he will break through to the other side.  He draws every ounce of
strength he has, and then with a tremendous push . . .

Joe wakes.

For a long, terrible minute, he has no idea where he is.  Reality returns in
the form of an aching back and stiff neck.  He is in his office, at his
desk.  Shaking his head, he looks at his watch.  Four-thirty a.m.   He has
been asleep for two hours.

God, what a vivid dream.  It's been ages since he had a dream that real.
It's too bad he woke up -

And then Joe realizes what woke him up.  There is a noise out in the bar.

It's probably one of his guests, but with Khan on the loose he doesn't want
to take any chances.  Stealthily, he slides open his desk drawer and takes
out his old army-issue revolver.

That's the easy part.  The hard part is getting to the door without alerting
whoever is inside.  His artificial legs might not fall asleep like real
legs, but they can be a bitch to move quietly.

Carefully, an inch at a time, Joe makes his way across the office.  The door
opens, thankfully, without any telltale squeaks.

He squints into the darkened room.  Yes, there, by the cash register -
someone is helping himself to the contents. He has his back to Joe, but it's
obviously not an immortal Mongolian or interdimensional voyager.

Half-relieved, half-pissed, Joe smacks on an overhead light with his fist.
"Hold it right there, punk!" he orders, raising the gun.

The form raises its hands.  "You got me, copper," squeaks a mocking British
voice.

"Methos!"  Disgusted, Joe jams the gun into his belt and makes his way into
the bar.  "What the hell are you doing?"

The form turns, and in the still shadowy light Joe can make out the familiar
bony face and aristocratic nose.  "Trying to get by," Methos drawls
ironically, "with a little help from my friends."

Joe comes to a stop beside the open cash drawer.  "A little help?"  He picks
up a batch of twenties stacked neatly on the bar.  "Where I come from, it's
called trying to get by by stealing."

"I know, I know."  Methos rolls his eyes.  "I'm *sorry.*   If I'd known you
were here, I would have asked, but I didn't know you were here, so I
couldn't ask, and time is of the essence."

"We have this great invention in the twentieth century.  It's called a
telephone."

"I tried, but there was no answer at your place.  Obviously because you were
here." Mossy eyes narrow as a thought occurs to him.   "Why exactly *are*
you here?"

"Don't change the subject.  I thought you were in Paris."

"I was."  He adds a pile of tens to the twenties on the bar. "I just flew in
tonight."

"And the first thing you decided to do was raid my cash drawer?"

"No," Methos says, drawing the word out as if he's talking to a child.
Fives join the tens and twenties.  "The first thing I did was stop by
MacLeod's dojo.  The second thing I did was to call the airline and book a
flight *back* to Paris."

 "Let me guess."  Joe lets out a snort.   "Khan."

"You got it." Methos closes the cash drawer with a ding and begins counting
out his take.  "MacLeod told me he was in town - twenty-five, thirty,
thirty-five -- so I thought it best I hightail it out of town.
Unfortunately - sixty, seventy, eighty -- my credit card companies are under
the mistaken impression that I'm behind on my payments - one-twenty,
one-forty -- so I thought I would *borrow* enough cash for a plane ticket
from my good friend Joe - one-eighty, two hundred, two-twenty - and pay him
back later.  I don't suppose you could spare an additional hundred?"

"I don't suppose you considered taking the bus."

"Not in this life, or any other."  He sighs and reaches for the cash drawer
again, presumably to start on the ones, but then something behind Joe
attracts his attention.  "Who on earth is that?"

Joe turns.  In the doorway, tousled and sweet in one of his old t-shirts,
stands Wade.  She is wavering slightly and smiling at Methos.

"You're here!" Her voice is light with sleepy happiness.  "I can't believe
you're here!  Did you slide with us?"

Methos looks at Joe.  Uneasily, Joe moves toward the girl with an
outstretched arm.  "Wade, honey, I think you're still asleep -"

"No, it's all right."  She weaves around a table with the light-footed radar
of a sleepwalker.  "I know who he is.  He's the Monitor.  He's going to show
us the way home."

Alarmed, Joe steps into her path and bangs his cane hard on the floor.
"Wade," he says loudly.

She halts, startled and confused.  "What -- ?"

Joe pats her cheek gently.  "You need to wake up, honey."

She blinks and looks around, as if registering her surroundings.  "I'm not
asleep."

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure," she says uncertainly.

Joe looks over his shoulder.  Methos is still standing with one hand on the
cash register and the other wrapped around his pilfered cash.  In the
half-light, Joe cannot make out his friend's expression,  but he recognizes
the still, wary posture of an immortal sensing danger.

Oh, no, Joe thinks.  No, no, no.   It *can't* be.  This girl *cannot* be one
of you.  She has enough troubles of her own.

Separation and delay seem to be the best course of action.  Taking hold of
Wade's elbow, he says, "I'm going to put her back to bed."

"Fine," Methos whispers, more an automatic reaction than conscious
agreement.

At the sound of his voice, Wade peers around the obstacle of Joe.  "Oh, my
gosh," she says in a voice of discovery.

Before Joe can stop her, she has pulled away and is moving to the bar, no
longer dreamy but purposeful.  Methos, as if by instinct, steps to the side,
and the light falls full on his features.

Wade stops sharply.  "Oh, I'm sorry," she says.  "I thought you were -  but
it's obvious you're not - I mean, you're much too young."

Confused, she gives a half-laugh and, backing away, catches a glimpse of
herself in the mirror behind the bar.  Suddenly aware of her attire, she
flushes bright pink.  "Oh,  I'm sorry.  I think I'll just - you know - go
back to -- good night!"

With pixie-lightness, she sprints out of the room.

Joe watches the door close behind her.  Silence fills the room, and
weariness eclipses what little energy he has left.  He is too old for these
middle-of-the-night dramas.  He needs a little normalcy in his life.  No
swords.  No chronicles.  No battles with immortal Mongolian
conquerors-turned-serial-rapist-killers.

He needs eight hours sleep at night.  Old friends who don't steal his cash
and live forever.  New friends who don't slide from world to world in a
crazy blue vortex.

Tomorrow, he decides.  Tomorrow he will begin a search for normal.

In the meantime, though, the present must be dealt with.  He takes a deep
breath and faces Methos, ready for the bad news.

The question dies on his lips at the horror on the face of his ancient
friend.

"WHAT DID SHE CALL ME?!" Methos demands hoarsely.

Surprised into incoherence, Joe stammers out a reply.  "Nothing - she was -
she was asleep - talking in her sleep -"

Horror melts into pain.  "Oh, God," Methos utters, blindly stumbling toward
the door.

"What's wrong?"  Joe follows as best he can, but he is not even halfway
across the room when Methos wrenches open the door.    "Methos!"

The door slams shut behind him.  The breeze ripples the cash piled on the
bar.



------------------------------------
Subject: Quantum, Part Two
Date: Sun, 11 Jun 2000 00:39:18 EDT
------------------------------------

Professor Maximilian Arturo awakens to the smell of old beer and stale
cigarettes.

With a colossal groan, he heaves himself to a sitting position.  The first
item on the day's agenda, he decides, is to acquire enough cash for a hotel
room.  A man of his age, size, and position not only deserves but requires a
decent bed for the night.

Across the room, his young student is sprawled fully dressed on his own cot,
without benefit of blanket or pillow.  Grasped in his hand is the timer.

Oh to be young again, Arturo thinks, and then chides himself for the cliche.
Stifling another groan, he rises to go in search of morning ablution and
refreshment.

The lavatory is easy enough to find, but suitable toiletries are scarce.  He
makes do as best he can with the liquid soap in the dispenser over the sink,
and tries not to mind the rough texture of the brown paper towels. It's all
part of the great adventure, he tells his reflection.  When he gets home and
writes his memoirs, these minor aggravations will provide the sort of
details that reviewers will laud as "delightfully authentic."

Home.  The word sings in his mind, like the call of a siren song.  With the
hunger of Odysseus, he buttons his shirt and goes in search of a newspaper.

He finds one more quickly than he hoped - on the bar, alongside a pot of
coffee, a box of doughnuts, and a note from their kind host, saying he has
gone to the hospital to see Rembrandt.

Thoroughly delighted, the professor pours a cup of coffee and takes it, the
newspaper, and the box of doughnuts to a table.  There, he sips with gusto,
selects a doughnut with sprinkles, and scans the front page with eagerness.
It looks promising.  President Clinton is battling impeachment.  Bill Gates
is battling an anti-trust suit.  A local environmental group is battling the
slaughter of whales by Japanese traders.

"Is that coffee?"

Arturo smiles as Quinn shuffles toward the bar, zeroing in on the coffee as
if it were a homing signal.  "Yes," the professor says. He holds up his
doughnut.  "And Mr. Dawson has kindly provided us breakfast, too."

Quinn sits opposite with his coffee, dropping the timer and reaching for the
garish orange and pink box.  "Dunkin Donuts," Quinn says.  "That's a good
sign."

"Indeed it is."  Shuffling the paper, the professor hands over the Sports
section.  "Perhaps you can find a few more good signs."

They enjoy a few minutes of quiet sipping, eating, and reading.  "The
Atlanta Braves lead their division," Quinn observes.

"An excellent sign," Arturo agrees happily.   "And here's an even better
one.  This world has AIDS."

Quinn blinks, a chocolate-frosted halfway to his mouth.

"Well."   The professor harrumphs.  "You know what I mean."

Another doughnut later, Quinn says, "Uh oh."

"What?"

He reads:  "`Michael Jordan, President of Baseball Operations for the
Washington Wizards -'" He breaks off, scanning further down the article.
"No, wait, it's all right.  It says `former Bulls superstar Jordan.'  I
guess he retired and decided to join management."

"He probably needed the money."  The professor turns the page.  "Oh, dear,"
he says ominously.

"What?"

"The governor of Minnesota is Jesse Ventura."

"The wrestler?   No way.  Maybe it's just a guy with the same name."

Arturo holds up the newspaper to show his young student the headline:
"Governors Conference Convenes in Minneapolis."  In the center of the
accompanying photo, flanked by middle-aged, bland-faced men in suits, smiles
a thick-necked fellow holding up a raised fist.

"Oh, man," Quinn groans.  "I was really starting to think we were home."

"Let's not give up hope yet, Mr. Mallory.  We have enough consistencies to
merit further research."

"I guess."  Quinn sits back and stretches his legs.  "And there's always the
squeak test."

"Precisely.  As soon as Mr. Brown is fully recovered, we can be on our way
to San Francisco and your front gate."

Awake and energized, Quinn looks at his watch.  "We should get to the
hospital.  If Rembrandt had a good night, Dr. Lindsey might release him this
morning.  I'm going to get Wade up -"

"You do that," the professor says heartily.  He watches the young man leave,
and then adds, soto voce,  "while I enjoy another pastry."

Reaching for the box, he accidentally knocks the timer off the table.  With
an impatient grunt, he retrieves it.

Just as he is about to slip the timer in his pocket, he pauses to stare at
it.  "Oh, my -"

Quinn bursts in from the back room.  "Professor!  She's gone!"

"What?"

"Wade!  She's gone!"

* * * * *

Hearing a noise, Rembrandt keeps his eyes closed, hoping to postpone as long
as possible the inevitable poke, prod, or other painful invasion of his
person.  The nurses, he has decided, have taken it as their goal in life to
make sure he doesn't get any more than twenty minutes of sleep.

Well, they aren't going to wake him this time, dammit.  Enough is enough.

With a concerted effort, he burrows into his pillow, back into sleep.

The noise repeats itself, awakening his curiosity.  It doesn't sound like
their usual noises - the click of his chart or the tap on his I.V.  No, it
sounds like someone is sitting in the chair by his bed.

Giving up the battle for lost, Rembrandt opens his eyes.

His fan from the night before smiles.  "Mornin.'  Did I wake you?"

With a short laugh, Rembrandt pushes himself up to a sitting position.  "Are
you kidding?  The only way you could wake me is if these people let me
sleep."  He falls back with a sigh.  "I'm going to have to check myself into
a hospital to get over being in a hospital."

"They have to wake you every hour when you have a concussion."

"So I been told.  Every damn hour, on the hour."

His fan grimaces in sympathy.  "How's the wound?"

"Hurts like hell, but I've had worse."  Rembrandt looks around.  "Where are
the others?

"They were still sleeping when I left my place."

"Lucky devils."

"I don't know about that.  You haven't seen their accommodations."  He leans
forward, his hand outstretched.  "By the way, I'm Joe Dawson.  We never got
to introduce ourselves last night."

"Good to meet you, Joe."  Rembrandt shakes his hand, and then gestures to
the bag on the floor beside Joe's chair.  "What you got there?" he asks
hopefully.  "Breakfast?"

"Not exactly," Joe says, smiling.  "Although you could call it food for the
soul."  He pulls out a square, flat object and hands it to the patient.
"Take a look."

It's a record album, a very old record album.  "Oh, man, I don't believe
this," Rembrandt says with a grin.  "You are something else, Joe Dawson."

Joe shrugs.  "What can I say?  I'm a collector."

"Yes, but *this* --"  The younger man holds up the album.  "*This* baby is
so old it should have mold on it.  I mean, look at those Afros!  We look
like a bunch of fuzzy popsicles."

"So what do you say?" Joe pulls a pen from his pocket.  "Will you sign it,
or are you too embarrassed by the retro hairdos?"

"Oh, man,"  Rembrandt says again.  He takes the pen reluctantly.  "I don't
know.  I don't know if I feel right autographing this -"  He stops, unsure
of how to explain his hesitation.

"Because you might not be *that* Rembrandt,"  Joe finishes for him.  At the
surprise on the singer's face, he says, "Your friends told us about the
sliding stuff."

"They did?"

"I'm not saying I understand it, or even that I believe it, but, yes, they
told us."

"And you still want me to sign this?"

"Sure I do. Just because you might not be *this* Cryin' Man doesn't make you
any less *a* Cryin' Man."

Rembrandt grins.  "I like the way you think, Joe Dawson."  He signs with a
flourish and hands the album and pen back.  "Not to mention your taste in
music."

Joe examines the album with satisfaction.  "Actually, this is the only
Spinning Topps album I bought.  The stuff they put out after you left - I
don't know, it was just too slick for my taste."

"Tell me about it," Rembrandt agrees.  "A bunch of Earth-Wind-and-Fire
wannabes.  That was one of the reasons I left the group.  Well, that and my
big ego."

"I always thought you'd do better with more classic soul music.  Sam Cooke,
Otis Redding, Percy Sledge."

Rembrandt waves the idea away.  "I don't have the voice for that."

"But you got the feeling for it, and that's the important thing."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Interested, Rembrandt observes, "It sounds like you're a man who knows his
way around a song."

"Yeah, well--" Joe shrugs not-so-modestly.  "I can pick out a tune or two on
the guitar.  Blues, mostly. Some country.  I used to be in a band that did
warm up for a Sam and Dave tour.  Best six months of my life."

With a nostalgic smile, Rembrandt settles back against his pillow.  "I
remember the first time I saw Otis.  Back in 1964.  I was staying with my
grandparents in Macon, and my cousin took me to this club in the middle of
nowhere.  Used to be an old juke joint.  I met a girl there - Sharlene.
Otis sang 'Pain in My Heart,' and I told her I loved her."

"Yeah?  What did she do?"

"She laughed in my face and told me to come back when I was old enough to
drive a car.  It made me so mad I snitched my cousin's car keys and went
outside and drove his car into a big ol' oak tree.  It's probably still got
the dent in it."

"Music can do that to a man," Joe says, nodding.  "I once proposed to a
Grateful Deadhead.  Didn't even know her name.  Just popped the question in
the middle of their set."

Even more interested, Rembrandt wants to know more, but his inquiries are
cut off when the door of his room bangs open and the Nurse From Hell enters.

"Good morning, Mr. Brown," she announces with strident cheeriness.  "How are
we feeling on this beautiful fall day?"

"I don't know about you, but *I'm* feeling fine," Rembrandt says sourly.  He
watches with suspicion as she makes ominous moves with the I.V. in his arm.
"Ready to get the hell out of here."

"Your wish," she says, sliding the needle from his arm, "is our command.  As
soon as Dr. Lindsey signs your discharge orders, you'll be free to go home."
She makes a note on his chart, favors them both with cheery smiles, and
exits with happy efficiency.

"Man, there's nothing worse than a nurse in a good mood," Rembrandt
grumbles.

"Oh, I don't know," Joe says.  "How'd you like a nurse with PMS?"

Rembrandt cackles, and then groans.  Alternately grinning and grimacing, he
says,  "You're all right, Joe Dawson.  Maybe you and I can do some jamming
before we head home to San Francisco."   The grin half fades.  "If your San
Francisco is our home."

"How can you tell?" Joe asks. "I mean, from what your friends said, some of
the worlds you've been to have been pretty close to your own."

Shrugging, Rembrandt says, "Talk to our families, check out the history
books, the newspaper, TV.   See if it all matches with what things were like
when we left."

"Mind if I ask a question?"  Shifting the album in his lap, Joe leans
forward.  "How did the Cryin' Man end up sliding from one dimension to the
next with a couple of kids and a physics professor?"

"Now *that,*"  Rembrandt says with emphasis, "is a question I must have
asked myself a million times.  Long story short, I was just minding my own
business, on my way to sing the national anthem at a Giants game, when all
of a sudden this wormhole opens up in front of me and my Caddy -"

He breaks off at the expression on his visitor's face.  "What?"

"Nothing," Joe says.  He makes an obvious effort to stifle his smile.  "Go
on."

"No, tell me," Rembrandt insists.

"Well, I don't know if this means anything or not," Joe says, "but last
night, after I heard the story from your friends, I got on the Internet and
did a little research  -"

The door flies open with a bang, much more explosive than that of the Nurse
>From Hell.  Rembrandt sits up sharply as Arturo and Quinn burst into the
hospital room.

"Remmy," Quinn says, rushing the bed.  "Are you all right?  Wade's missing."

The singer fires back:  "I'm fine, Q Ball, thanks for asking, but what the
hell do you mean Wade's missing?"

"We think Khan's got her."

Rembrandt swings his legs over the side of the bed.  "Who the hell is Khan?"

The professor spies Joe.  "Oh, good, Mr. Dawson.  Perhaps you can help us.
Do you know where we can contact Mr. MacLeod?"

Rembrandt pulls on his pants hurriedly.  "Who the hell is Mr. MacLeod?"

"We spoke with Dr. Lindsey," Arturo continues without pause.  "She told us
he returned her car this morning and then left without telling her where he
was going.  We rang his home but there's no answer."

Helplessly, Joe holds up his hands.  "I'm sorry, but I haven't seen him.  I
don't know where -"

"The Porsche is gone," Quinn adds.

"What Porsche? Oh, forget about it."  Rembrandt grabs his jacket from the
closet.  "You can tell me on the way."

"On the way where?" Quinn asks impatiently.  "You don't even know what's
going on."

"The police station.  The TV station.  Any station.  If someone's got Wade,
I'm not going to sit around this hospital room wasting time while you two
fill in the blanks."

"Rembrandt, wait."  The order comes surprisingly from Joe.  To the others,
he says, "Look, I don't know where MacLeod is, but I know someone who might
know where Khan is."

"Who?"

Maneuvering himself to the phone, Joe waves off the question with
Rembrandt's album.  "Like the man said, filling in the blanks would be a
waste of time."   Quickly, he dials a long distance number.  "Yeah," he says
into the receiver.  "This is Dawson.   I'm in a bit of a jam.  I need to get
in touch with Khan's Watcher, right away.  Do you have her cell phone
number?"

"Watcher?" Quinn whispers to the professor.  Arturo shrugs.

Joe writes something on the album.  "Thanks, I owe you," he says and hangs
up.  "Well, here goes nothing," he says to the anxious listeners as he dials
a new number.

The person on the other end answers right away.  "Hey, Sally," Joe says in a
fake-hearty voice.  "I'm glad I caught you.  I know MacLeod's on his way to
meet up with your guy, but I lost him in traffic.  I wondered if -"   His
expression stills.  "Yeah, I got it.  Thanks."

He hangs up and stares at the phone.  "They're at the park, where we met
last night."

Quinn grabs Rembrandt's arm.  "Let's go.  We've got a cab waiting -"

"Hey," Joe calls, stopping them.  He holds up his hand, fingers crossed. For
the first time, they notice the strange tattoo on his wrist.  "Watch out for
those oak trees, Cryin' Man."

Rembrandt gives his fan a thumb's up and then hurries after his companions.

* * * * *

The cab lets them out across the street from the park entrance.  Arturo pays
the driver with cash from Joe's register, and then the three of them hurry
across to the parking lot.

They see the Porsche first.  Just beyond it, they spot a black Thunderbird.
"Oh, no," Quinn groans.  "They're at it again."

"Here?" A more informed Rembrandt shakes his head in disbelief.  "In broad
daylight?"

"Take a look around, Mr. Brown," Arturo answers.  "It's Thursday morning.
The children are in school, and their parents at work.  The park is nearly
empty."

"Yeah," Quinn agrees.  "And it's a very big park. Those woods must cover
five square miles."

"So where do we start?"

Quinn lifts his hands in an `I don't know' gesture.  "I guess we walk around
until we hear the sound of swords."

"Or," says the professor, "until we spot a Watcher.  Look there."

He points to the north corner of the park, just in time for Quinn and
Rembrandt to see a woman in dark clothes disappearing into a clump of pine
trees.

With long practice, they break into a run.  The injured Rembrandt falls back
quickly, though, and the professor stops to help him.  "Go on!" they both
yell to Quinn.

After the briefest of pauses, Quinn runs.  His heart in his throat, he runs
and he prays:  please be safe, please be safe, please be safe.

At the edge of the trees, a hand grabs his arm, stopping his headlong rush
with dizzying suddenness.  "Stay back," hisses the woman in dark clothes.

Quinn jerks his arm away furiously.  "Where are they?!"

"You can't interfere!"

>From within the trees comes the distant sound of metal on metal.  "Like
hell I can't!" Quinn yells.  Ignoring the woman's call, he fights his way
through the undergrowth, slapping away leaves, jumping over fallen branches.

Desperately gulping air, he stops to orient himself, listening as hard as he
can.

There.  Beyond the pines.  A clearing.

He runs.  The ringing grows louder.

You won't die here, Wade.  You won't!

At last, he bursts onto open ground. On the other side of the clearing, he
sees them - MacLeod and the slick-haired man from the night before.

Khan.

They are alone, just the two of them.

Or are they?  Frantically, Quinn calls out, "Wade!"

His call comes at the wrong moment.  Hearing it, MacLeod looks away from his
opponent, and Quinn watches, horrified, as Khan sends the Scot's sword
flying through the air with a tremendous blow.

With a roar, Khan lifts his blade.  MacLeod turns away just as it comes
down, but not soon enough to avoid a terrible gash down his back.  He cries
out and falls to the ground.

Maddened, Khan raises his sword again.

This time, his blade meets metal.  "Why don't you pick on someone your own
size?"  Quinn dares him.  With all his strength, he grips MacLeod's katana
and sweeps the Mongolian's blade away from the prostrate man.

"Quinn, no!"  MacLeod gasps, pain choking his words.  "You can't interfere!"

"So I've been told!"  Quinn exclaims.  He counters Khan's swing, feeling the
force of the blow tingle through his arms.

"It's not your fight!" MacLeod shouts.

"It may not be my world," Quinn cries, punctuating his words with swings,
"but it sure as hell is my fight!"

A second later, he has cause to rethink that pronouncement.  The Mongolian
might be half his size, but he has centuries more experience with a sword.

And he knows where the boulders are.

Quinn feels himself falling backward, feels the scrape of rock on his ankle,
feels the jar on his elbow knocking the sword from his hand.  Instinctively,
he covers his face to prepare for the blow.

It never comes.  Instead, there is a roar, a human voice, deep and guttural,
followed by a sound Quinn hopes he will never hear again for the rest of his
life.

The sound of a blade slicing through a neck.

He removes his arms.  Relief floods through him.  Khan is on the ground, his
short squat body forever separated from his slick-haired head.  Beside him,
an exhausted MacLeod leans on his knees.

"Oh, thank God!" Quinn leaps to his feet.

MacLeod looks up.  "Get back!"  he cries hoarsely.

Quinn has no time to question why.  A crack of lightning knocks him to the
ground.  His head bounces on the edge of the rock.

Later he will wonder at his thought process.  He will wonder whether the
blow knocked the reason from his mind.  But right now he is all instinct and
feeling.  There is mist and wind and lightning, and if there is mist and
wind and lightning, it must be a gateway, a gateway must be opening . . .

But it is the wrong gateway, it is a madman's gateway, he must stop the
madman from sliding with Wade . . .

A cry from MacLeod brings him to his senses.  Amazed, Quinn scrambles back,
away from the cacophony of energy that explodes around the two opponents.

Of course, he thinks.  Victory.

In a minute, it is over.  There is nothing but smoke wafting through the
clearing, and a tall, dark man struggling to his feet, dragging his sword
behind him.

Quinn jumps up to help him.  "You all right?"

"Yeah," Duncan replies.  He takes a ragged breath.  "You?"

"I'm not the one who just got zapped."

"True."  Duncan tries to smile. "You were pretty good with that sword."

"Varsity fencing team," Quinn says.  "We won the state championship."

His strength returning, Duncan straightens up.  "I can see why."   He gives
Quinn a pat on the shoulder and turns his attention to the defeated Khan.
"Well," he says with satisfied finality.  "I guess that's that."

"Not quite," Quinn says tensely.  "Where's Wade?"

"Wade?"

"She's gone.  She disappeared last night.  Someone took her, and it had to
be him!"

"But it couldn't be."   Duncan grabs his arm and forces him to pay
attention.  "Look, Quinn, I don't know what happened to Wade, but I do know
that Khan was *not* the one who took her."

* * * * *

The blanket covering her scratches her legs and smells of earth and motor
oil.  For the last twenty minutes, she has been trying to explain the
combination.  Perhaps he uses the blanket for camping.  Perhaps he was on a
campout when his car sprang an oil leak.  Perhaps he used the blanket to
wipe his hands after changing the oil.

She doesn't really care about the reason, but constructing scenarios keeps
her from panicking.  The only way she will get out of this is by using her
wits.  She has given up struggling against her restraints.  The ropes
binding her wrists and ankles are too tight.  She can only hope she has left
bloodstains on the back seat of his car.  Where there's blood, there's
forensic evidence.  DNA.  If he kills her and dumps her body near his
campsite, the police will be able to convict him based on circumstantial
evidence.

Of course, there is the problem of her possible double on this world.  If
there's a Wade Welles alive and, well, *well* in San Francisco, it will be
pretty hard to charge this man with the murder of Wade Welles.

Quinn will find a way.  Quinn and Rembrandt and the Professor.  Maybe they
will kidnap him and force him to go sliding - and then leave him behind on
some terrible alternate world.  Ice World, or Plague World, or Desert World.

No.  KROMAGG World.  Yeah, that would be great.  She'd love to see Mr.
Immortal Serial Rapist Killer come face-to-face with a Kromagg.  He'd swing
his big sword and they'd laugh and then --

The car slows, stopping her revenge fantasy in mid-image.  Easy, Wade, she
orders herself.  Pay attention.  Just because you're gagged and bound and
blindfolded doesn't mean you can't figure out where you are.

A clicking noise.  What is that?  A turn signal?  Gee, how comforting to
know Genghis Khan practices safe driving skills.  (Of course he does, idiot.
He doesn't want the cops to stop his car and ask about that squirming bundle
in his back seat.)

They are turning gradually to the right, moving slightly downward.  It must
be an exit off the freeway.

Now they are stopping.  The clicking noise again.

Moving again, turning sharply to the left.  The road is rougher here.

The car picks up speed - maybe thirty, forty miles an hour.  Not as fast as
on the freeway.    If in fact they were on the freeway.  If in fact there is
an freeway that passes through Seacouver.

Panic flutters in her again.  If only they had slid into San Francisco,
where she knows the streets.  If only she hadn't gotten out of bed to get
that drink of water.  If only . . .

The car slows again, almost to a stop.  This time there is no blinker - just
a sharp right turn and a wrenching bump that becomes a series of wrenching
bumps, as the car rises up and down.  Something scrapes the window over her
head.  A tree branch?  Have they turned off onto a dirt road?

After what seems at once a millisecond and an eternity, the car comes to a
full stop.  The engine is cut off, and the driver's door opens and closes.

This is it, Wade.  Brace yourself, girl.

The door at her head opens, and the blanket is tossed from her face.  Hands
grab her shoulders and slide her out of the back seat.  Half-expecting to be
dragged along the ground like a sack of potatoes, she is surprised when her
captor lifts her into his arms, carrying her like a child.  His hands are
surprisingly gentle.

His footfalls are soft, as if he is walking on grass.  But then as soon as
she makes that deduction, the sound changes to a hollow clump, clump, clump.
She feels a tiny change in gravity with each clump.

Steps.  He is carrying her up steps - and now across a wooden floor.

He stops and shifts her weight.  The arm under her legs reaches out, and
there is a creaking noise.  A door.  It must be a door.

He carries her inside.  The air changes from fresh to stale, and the
temperature drops sharply.  She feels herself being lowered onto something
cool and smooth.  A chair.  A chair that moves.  A rocking chair.  A moment
later, the familiar earthy, oily blanket is draped over her bare legs.
Instinctively, she uses her bound hands to lift it higher.

His footsteps move away.  She hears a thunk, thunk, thunk, like something
heavy being tossed from one place to another.  There is a scratching noise
and a pause.

Warmth floods her.  Warmth and a crackling noise.

Footsteps again.  She holds her breath, but the footsteps move further away.
They stop, and she hears a tiny squeak followed by the sounds of water
rushing.  It stops and then starts again.   It rushes for a few seconds
longer.  He makes an "ahh" sound.   The water stops again, and shortly after
she hears the squeak again.

This time the footsteps grow louder.  He is coming toward her.

Panic blooms, full grown.  I'm sorry, Mom, I'm sorry, Dad, I don't want to
be here, I never should have left you, Quinn, help me, Quinn . . .

Her blood pounds in her ears, blocking the sound of glass being set down on
stone.  His hands are on her blindfold.  Frantically, she twists and turns
to get away from them, away from him . . .

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says.

She freezes.  It is not the voice she expected.  Not the man from the woods,
the man with the slick hair and the Freudian sword.

The blindfold lifts.  For a moment, the world is black.  She blinks and
shakes her head, willing her pupils to dilate.  At last, the face of her
captor comes into view.

"You!"

* * * * *

"I'm telling you it's not possible!"  With unnecessary force, Duncan bangs
open the door of the dojo.

Inside, he stops and turns to the young man who has followed right on his
heels.  "Look, Quinn, I know you're worried -"  Behind them, Arturo and
Rembrandt appear in the doorway.  "I know you're *all* worried, but Khan
didn't take that young woman."

"He could have -"

"No.  When I got to the hospital this morning, he was still there in the
parking lot, waiting for us to leave."

"So maybe he -"

"No.  Trust me.  If he'd found your Wade, he would have been off -"  Duncan
pauses, not wanting to make things worse with graphic details.  "Let me put
it this way.  If he had Wade, he wouldn't have accepted my challenge until
*after.*  And his *after* takes a very long time."

"Mr. Mallory," the professor says.  "I think we should listen to the man.
After all, he is much more familiar with the habits of this Khan than we
are."

"Then where is she?"

Duncan sighs.  "Maybe she went out for breakfast.  Maybe she went out for a
morning run.  Maybe she -"

"She wouldn't have done that," Quinn insists.  "Not without telling one of
us."

Rembrandt nods.  "Q Ball's right, man.  We've learned the hard way that
being separated only leads to trouble."

"Indeed," the professor agrees.

Looking from one concerned face to the other, Duncan finally feels touched
by their fear.  "All right," he says, leading them to the elevator.  "First,
we'll call Joe's and see if she's there.  If she's not, we'll start looking
for her."

The ride up in the elevator is silent, each engrossed in his own thoughts
and fears.  Despite the certainty with which he spoke to Quinn, Duncan
cannot help but wonder if there is even the slightest chance he could be
wrong about Khan.  After all, it has been over two hundred years . . .

It was Mongolia, 1781.  May-Ling was fond of the little orphan girl, whose
name was Li-Chen.  At times, Duncan wondered if May-Ling thought of the girl
as her own daughter.  They were alike enough to be mother and child, both
spirited and independent, unafraid to speak their minds even when the elders
betrothed the thirteen-year-old Li-Chen to the leader of a neighboring
tribe.

It was May-Ling who convinced Duncan to help them escape, but it was Duncan
who decided to go with them.  The three of them traveled together, alone in
that vast empty land, with nothing but brown grass and gray sky and the
occasional marmoset to capture and roast.  He soon lost track of the miles
and the days.  He only knew that, despite the hardships, he was happy.  At
night, they would sing, May-Ling the songs of their tribe, Duncan the songs
of his clan.  Li-Chen would watch them with shining eyes and beg for more.

And then came the night that Khan and his men came upon their small family.

They first heard the horses, thundering down the hill.   The moon was full,
and they could see the distant cloud of dust kicked up by the horses'
hooves.

May-Ling hid the girl under a pile of furs, while Duncan retrieved their
swords.  They were standing, ready to defend, when the band of thieves came
into view.  There were twelve of them, and they were dressed as warriors of
old, complete with conical, fur-trimmed hats, silken tunics with brilliant
sashes, long drooping mustaches, and gold-fitted saddles.

It was then they sensed him.  The man in the lead -- with the blackest horse
and the biggest sword - was an immortal.

He reined in his horse with vicious strength in front of them, while the
others circled their small encampment and drew their bows and arrows.  With
an exultant laugh, the immortal raised his sword high and shouted something
in his own language.

May-Ling gave a single cry:  "Khan!"

Duncan felt the arrow in his back before the single syllable had evaporated
in the air.  He fell to his knees and saw his lover fall with him.
Desperate to save her, he reached out, calling her name . . .

And another voice called her, the voice of a child calling for her mother.
No, Li-Chen, no!  he wanted to cry,  but it was too late.  The blackness was
falling . . .

The last thing he saw was Khan, grabbing the girl by the hair, throwing her
over his horse, and riding off with his men.

They found her body days later, beaten and bloodied and left to rot.  "I
don't understand," Duncan said, anger strangling his throat.  "Why did he
take the girl and not our heads?"

"He is a man with no control of his desires," May-Ling said.  She was stoic
and composed in her grief.  "It was a girl-child who cost him his kingdom,
so now to conquer a girl-child is his greatest desire.  If he can have that,
he will always choose it before all else."

The next morning, he woke to find May-Ling and her sword gone.  He searched
for her, and for Khan, for almost a year before turning at last for home.

"Duncan."

The voice breaks his memories, recalling him to the present, to the key in
his hand and the men beside him.

Shaking his head clear, Duncan removes the elevator key and lifts the door.
"I'll call Joe right away," he says.

"You don't have to," Joe says.  He steps out of the loft's kitchen to greet
them, a desperately hopeful look on his face.  "So did you find her?  Is she
all right?"

"No," Duncan replies grimly.  "Khan didn't have her."

Joe smacks the counter with his fist.  "Damn, I was afraid of that."

"What do you mean?" Quinn demands.  "You know something?"

Visibly upset, Joe tries to explain. "I didn't think about it until after
you left the hospital.  I mean, why would I?  My first thought was Khan,
just like you -"

"Hey, Joe."  Rembrandt settles him with a hand on his shoulder.  "It's all
right, man.  Whatever happened, it's not your fault.  Just tell us who's got
Wade."

Joe looks at Duncan.  "I don't know for sure.  But I think a friend of ours
might have taken her.  A very  *old* friend."

Duncan's jaw drops.  "You don't mean -"

"Yeah," Joe says.  "Methos."




------------------------------------
Subject: Quantum, Part Three
From: Mailinb@aol.com
------------------------------------

Methos holds the glass while she drinks.  It takes all his willpower to keep
his hand from shaking and the water from spilling all over her.

Well, not so much willpower as avoidance of the bright dark eyes watching
him over the ridge of his knuckles.   It is his best thing - avoidance.  It
is how he has survived all these centuries.  Live, grow stronger, and - most
important - fight another day.    It is amazing how easy it is to ensure
that "another day" never comes.

So why has he done this?  Why did he not follow through on his instincts to
run last night?  Why has he brought the girl here, this girl with her sweet
face and her intelligent eyes?

She signals with a lift of her head that she is finished.  He lowers the
glass and, unthinkingly, wipes a stray drop from her chin.  It is hard not
to feel rebuked when she flinches.

Returning the glass to the kitchen provides a brief respite to assess the
situation and marshal his defenses.  The cabin, which he purchased in secret
years ago as one of two dozen, globe-spanning hide-outs, is thirty miles
from civilization but only five miles from an ancient Blackfoot burial
ground.

Not that he will need the refuge of holy ground.  She is not immortal.  She
is just a girl.  She is no one.  She knows nothing.

Except . . . except that word.  That one word, spoken in a bar, in a dream,
in the middle of the night.  With that one word she has opened a door, and
try as he might he cannot bring himself to close it.

"Hey," she calls out.  "As long as you're in the kitchen, could you make me
a sandwich?"

He can barely detect the fear running like a live wire under her voice.  She
is brave for a girl her age.  She must have experience with dangerous
situations.  She struggled hard until the chloroform knocked her out, and
even after she woke, she was quiet for most of the drive, obviously thinking
and planning her move.  Not once has she wept or begged.

Thinking of her courage stokes the fires of his conscience.  He does not
want to frighten her.  He does not want to hurt her.  He just wants
*answers.*

She watches guardedly as he retrieves a low stool from the other side of the
cabin and sets it at a cautious distance from her chair.  Lowering himself
onto it, he says mildly, "I'm sorry.  I didn't have time to stop for food,
and, besides, I hope we won't be here long enough to need any."

She digests this without moving.  "So how long will we be here?"

"Long enough for you to answer some questions."

"That's it?!" she cries, her fear briefly dissipating in a rush of anger.
"All you want is for me to answer some questions?  Why didn't you just try
*asking* me before you kidnapped me?"

"Because," he says slowly, "I had to be sure you'd tell me the truth."

Indignantly, she rocks forward. "So you kidnapped me?!"  The blanket slips
down, revealing her bound hands clasped so tightly together the knuckles are
white.

"It seemed the best option at the time."

"The best OP -"   She cuts herself off, choking back the word in an attempt
to gain control.  Swallowing hard, she tries to speak reasonably, "If you
don't know the answers to your questions already, how can you be sure I'm
telling the truth?"

"I'll know," he says with deliberation, "if what you tell me helps me
remember."

She shifts back away from him, pulling the blanket back up and setting the
chair to rocking.  Her reply comes a few seconds too late for believability.
"Remember what?"

He doesn't want to do this, he promised himself he would not do this, not
ever again, but he must, he *must* ensure her cooperation.  By any means.

The fire crackles.  As quick as a snake, he grabs the arms of the chair to
bring her face to face.   "If you lie," he threatens in a voice he hasn't
used in centuries, the low, sinuous voice of a man called Death, "I will
kill you."

A flash of terror in her eyes undermines his resolve.  His grip on the chair
loosens.  "Please," he whispers, pain strangling his throat.  "Help me
understand."

"OK," she says shakily.  "I will.  I'll try."

He lets her go.  The chair rocks slowly, back and forth, as she watches him
regain his composure.  A log in the fire shifts, spraying sparks into the
air.

When he looks up with clear eyes, she draws the blanket up and settles back
in the chair.  "Tell me," she says, "what you *do* remember."

Frowning, he clasps his hands together tightly.  "Nothing."

"There must be something."

"Nothing concrete.  Just images and feelings."

"Like what?"

He closes his eyes, willing his mind back.  "I remember a room.  A very big
room.  Rocks."

"A cave?"

His eyes fly open.  "Yes.  A cave.  How did you know?"

"We'll get to that.  Tell me what else you remember."

"I remember lights flashing.  I remember something stinging me -- like a bee
sting, only worse.  I remember a man saying - I remember a man saying -"
Frustrated, he jumps up to rebuild the fire, tossing in wood with
unnecessary ferocity.  "It's no good.  It's too long ago.  Too much time has
passed -"

Quickly, she asks, "How much time?"

He doesn't answer at first.  He waits until the urge to confess has passed,
and when he speaks, he addresses the flames rather than her.  "More time
than you can ever imagine."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she says lightly.  "Let me guess.  Say, five
thousand, two hundred and thirty-six years?"

And then, for the first time in 5,236 years, Methos the Oldest Immortal
faints.

* * * * *

Alone in Duncan's loft, three sliders hold an intense conference.

"We must tell him," the professor insists.  "If what Mr. Dawson says is
true, if Wade did indeed recognize this man as the Monitor -"

"I don't know, Professor," Quinn says doubtfully.  "Joe said she was
sleepwalking.  Maybe she was dreaming about him."

Rembrandt shakes his head.  "This makes no sense.  For two years, we've
spent almost every night together.  Do you ever remember Wade sleepwalking?"

"No," Arturo says, looking at Quinn. "I don't."

The hum and clang of the elevator alerts them to the return of their host.
"So we're agreed, then?" the professor asks.  "We tell Mr. MacLeod the whole
truth and enlist his aid?"

Rembrandt nods.  Holding his breath, Quinn does as well.  They face the
elevator.

Seeing them, Duncan exits reluctantly.  His first instinct is to ask what's
going on, but on second thought he decides he might not want to know.

He heads for the computer on his desk.  "Joe thinks he might be able to
track Methos with his Watcher contacts," he says, briskly purposeful.  "I
thought I'd try finding him through his financial records.  Credit cards and
gas receipts and all that.  Joe says he doesn't have enough money for a
plane ticket, so I think we can be pretty sure he won't leave the area.
Even if he tried, I doubt he could get your friend on an airplane without
her screaming bloody mur-"

"Mr. MacLeod."  The professor's voice cuts through his nervous chatter with
quiet gravity.

Duncan's fingers pause on the keyboard.  "Yes?"  His heart pounds in his
throat.

"My young friends and I have something we need to tell you.  It's a rather
long story -"

"Well, then, maybe it should wait until later."

"Duncan," Quinn says, with equally quiet insistence.  "It really is
important."

"It could mean Wade's life," Rembrandt adds.

The professor takes position beside the sofa and, with a wave, requests that
Duncan join them.  "Please."

Slowly, Duncan shuts down his computer, his every muscle aching with dread.
Forgoing the sofa, he chooses the chair, leaving the three of them to sit
side-by-side across from him, the professor in the middle with Quinn and
Rembrandt on either side.

He has not lived four hundred years without learning the value of an opening
gambit.  "This is about the last world you were on, isn't it?" he asks
bluntly.

The professor drops his gaze to his hands, clasped together.  "Yes."

"The one your friend called Head-Chopping World."

"That is what she called it."  The Englishman's eyes lift to face him.
"With good reason."

His mouth dry, Duncan says, "I'm listening."

Arturo takes a moment to gather his thoughts.  When he begins, it is with
the air of man accustomed to the presentation of new ideas to an uneducated
audience, complete with prefatory remarks to set the stage.  "The worlds we
visit," he says slowly, "have all evolved in different ways, some more than
others.  In most cases, the differences are a matter of cultural attitudes,
the result of diverging human histories.  John F. Kennedy is not
assassinated.  The French rather than the English colonize America.   A
prehistoric asteroid misses the earth, and the dinosaurs survive
extinction."

He pauses to ensure the understanding of his audience.  At Duncan's nod, he
continues:  "In other cases, however -"  He pauses again, as if seeking the
courage to continue.  "In other cases, the differences are more extreme, the
result of deviation not just in human history but human evolution."

"Yeah," Rembrandt says with feeling.  "Like Kromagg World."

Sighing with thinly disguised impatience, Professor Arturo explains:  "What
Mr. Brown is referring to is our discovery of a world in which an ape-like
species called the Kromaggs evolved to dominate the planet.  It is an
extreme example of the deviations I am attempting to describe."

Duncan swallows.   "But what you're saying is that Head-Chopping World also
proved to be inhabited by other deviations in human evolution."

"To us, they were the deviations.  To them, we were.  It's all a matter of
perspective."

"And from your perspective, how exactly did they deviate?"

"They *were* human," Quinn says quickly.  "But they were also immortal."

* * * * *

"It was weird," Wade says, rubbing her sore but freed wrists.  She is
sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire, newly dressed in the
clothes her kidnapper was thoughtful enough to bring along but still wrapped
in the oily, earthy blanket.

Methos hands down a cup of coffee.  She wraps her hands around it gratefully
as he sits beside her.  "Weird how?" he asks, blowing on his own coffee to
cool it.

"It was like-"  She squints over the rim of the cup, searching for a
description.  "It was like Beowulf meets the Jetsons."

"Say what?"

"For one thing, they all wore clothes straight out of a production of
Camelot.  Long skirts for the women, doublets and tights for the men."

"Tights?"

"Yeah.  You should have seen Rembrandt's face-"  She breaks off.  "Sorry.
You don't know Rembrandt, so it won't mean anything to you."

"That's all right.  Go on."

"Anyway, they were all dressed like they were celebrating a May Day
festival, but then they drove these air cars -"

"Air cars?"

"Like Volvos that can fly.  Pretty cool, actually.  Oh, and for
long-distance travel, they had molecular transporters like in Star Trek."

"You're kidding."

"Swear to God.  The professor said that it made perfect sense.  Necessity is
the mother of invention and all that.  They needed transportation, so they
put a lot of energy into getting where they needed to go.  They didn't need
guns, so they hadn't bothered making much use of gunpowder.  Oh, but they
had swords that you wouldn't believe.  Electric swords, like the light
sabers in Star Wars, that could cut off a head as easy as slicing a tomato."

"Sounds delightful."  He examines the liquid swirling in his cup.  "Are you
sure this actually happened, Wade, or are you recounting the events of the
last couple of movies you've seen?"

She tilts her head, a smile tweaking at the corners of her mouth.  "You tell
me.  You're the arbiter of truth here, aren't you?"

"The verdict is pending.  Go on.  Tell me more."

"Well, let's see.  Oh, they had no doctors - I mean, NO doctors or hospitals
or anything remotely close to a medical practitioner except for midwives -"

"Midwives?"  Methos sets his cup down with a thunk.  "Are you sure?"

"Positive.  Actually, the midwives were among the elite of society.  They
were the only ones who could make sure each woman had only one child.
Overpopulation, you know.  When everyone is immortal, the population can
really get out of -"

"Wait a minute.  Back up.  The immortals on this other world had
*children*?!"

Her mouth falls open, and she covers it quickly.  "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry.  I
forgot.  You can't have -"

In the silence, he can feel his heart beating.  So she does know.  It is the
most convincing proof of her story that he has heard so far.

Doggedly, Methos urges her to continue.  "Don't worry about it.  Keep
going."

"Are you sure?"

"No.  But keep going anyway.  Did you learn anything about how their
immortality evolved?"

"Well," she says hesitantly, "I don't know if I can explain it.  Quinn or
the professor -"

"Aren't here.  You are."

She takes a breath.  "As best they could figure out, it had to do with the
electromagnetic something or other on the planet.  The people there are born
and grow like we do, but they heal really fast.  Then, when they die the
first time, it activates this super-immunity gene in their brains.  The
professor called it the EIS,  electroimmunosuppressive gene.  From that
point on, the only way they can die is to sever the brain from the body, in
which case the electrical whatevers pass from the dead immortal to the
nearest live one."

He smiles weakly at her terminology. "We call it a quickening."

"You do?"  She sounds surprised.

"Why?  What did they call it there?"

She shrugs.  "Victory."

"Victory?!"

"Yeah.  Victory in combat is a really big deal there.  Everybody is always
talking about this battle, or that battle -"

Methos clears his throat.  "Yes, well, what about the aging?  Did your
professor ever come up with an explanation for why we - why *they* didn't
age?"

"They do.  Only it's slowed down so much that it's almost impossible to see.
A day in my life is the equivalent of a fraction of a millisecond in yours."

"I see," he says, and clears his throat again.  "Well, that certainly makes
sense."

She is silent, drinking her coffee and awaiting the next question.  Buying
time, Methos sips his owns coffee.  It's cold.  He tosses the remaining
liquid into the fire and watches it hiss and evaporate.

It is for this next question that he has brought her here.  Now, he can't
bring himself to utter it, to shatter this peaceful scene with more painful
revelations.  He wants more than anything, more than life, more than truth,
to pull her close to him, to feel her body warm inside the blanket, to smell
the woodsmoke in her hair, taste the coffee on her lips . . .


"A millisecond in *yours*" she has said.  He cannot avoid the question.  She
has given him the answer already.

"Tell me about the Monitor," he says.

She sets her cup gently on the hearth.  Compassion shining in her eyes, she
reaches for his hands.  "The Monitor," she says with infinite kindness, "is
your father."

* * * * *

Duncan is finding it hard to keep his balance, even with his head in his
hands.  What the professor has told him has confirmed all his greatest
hopes, and his worst fears.

An entire world of immortals.  Like him.  Like Methos and Amanda and Richie
and Fitzcairn and Darius and Cassandra and -

Only not like him.  They have no need to hide their true natures.  Their
true nature is the true nature of their whole world.

And they have children.  They have families.

HE has a family.  A mother and a father . . .

He wants to cry with loneliness - and with happiness.  For the one truth
that shines through all the others he has been told is the one thing he has
most wanted to know:

He is not a freak of nature, a creature of the devil, an abomination of God.

He is human.

HUMAN!

"Hey, Mac, you all right?"

He wants to laugh.  Rembrandt has adopted Joe's name for him.  Of course,
the two men of music would speak with the same voice.  "I'm fine," he says,
looking up with a grateful smile, surprised at the shakiness of his voice.
"I'm just trying to, you know, process it all."

Rembrandt sends a concerned look to the professor.  "Maybe we should hold
off -"

"No," Quinn says, determined.  "We have to tell him the rest."


Duncan's heart sinks.  "There's more?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. MacLeod," the professor warns.  "A great deal more."

Holding up his hand, Duncan says, "Wait.  Just give me a second."

His legs quiver like jello, but he manages to make it to the bar without
embarrassing himself.  He tries not to notice the way his hands shake as he
pours a double shot of whiskey.

The liquor goes down like fire, warming his skin and settling his nerves.
Fortified, he takes the bottle and four glasses with him back to his chair.
Setting them with ceremony on the coffee table, he announces.  "Now we can
proceed."

Rembrandt reaches for the bottle before the professor stops him.  "Mr.
Brown, do you think that's wise?  You just got out of the hospital."

"All the more reason," Rembrandt says, pouring himself a glass.  "My uncle
Willie always said whiskey was the best medicine for anything that ails you.
And besides, it goes against my conscience to let a man drink alone."  With
a toast to Duncan, he downs the whiskey in a single gulp.

The professor and Quinn exchange looks, and then the professor picks up the
bottle and pours two more glasses.

"Your health, Mr. MacLeod," Arturo toasts, and drinks.  Quinn just drinks,
quickly.

Duncan watches them closely through the exchange.  A man once told him you
could gauge a person's true character by the way he drank.  Of course,
Fitzcairn was three-sheets-to-the-wind when he said it, so Duncan generally
considered the source when implementing the advice.

Still, there is something to it.  None of them drank more than a shot, so he
deduces that they aren't the sort to overindulge. Nor did any of them seem
to need the alcohol, so they aren't in search of false courage.   Rembrandt
drank out of empathy, the professor out of courtesy, Quinn out of the desire
to get on with things.

Somewhat reassured, Duncan settles back in his chair, ready to listen, if
not believe. "So," he says.  "Tell me the rest."

Quinn sits forward.  "This world we were on -  their society was divided
into hundreds of tribes, which they called khelns."

"Khelns?"

"Yes.  Each kheln was headed by a family that ruled over a particular
province.  They each had their own laws, their own armies, their own
everything."

"Like the fiefdoms of the Middle Ages."

"Exactly.  Now, up until about five or six thousand years ago, the whole
planet was being torn up by fighting between the khelns.  There were so many
battles that the electromagnetic energies released by what you call
quickenings were threatening to completely destroy the atmosphere.  Holes
were opening up in the ozone over both the north and south poles."

Despite his dread, Duncan finds his historian's curiosity piqued.  "So what
did they do?"

"They had to find a way to stop the fighting, to choose one kheln to rule
the entire planet.   So they convened a sort of interplanetary council
composed of the leader of each kheln.  For something like twenty years they
fought over ways to decide which family got tapped as big kheln kahuna.  It
was starting to look hopeless until a man named Melchek came to see them."

The professor smiles.  "Melchek was a scientist.  A physicist, to be
specific."

"Melchek told them of a great discovery he had made that could solve all
their problems."  Caught up in the story, Quinn's eyes shine clear and blue.
"A wormhole.  A naturally occurring wormhole geyser that erupted every 36
hours and connected their world to another one."

Duncan resists the urge to reach for the whiskey.  "To this world."

"Yes."

The urge is more than an urge, it is a compulsion.  He grasps his knees with
his palms to stifle it.   He needs a clear head.  "And how exactly did this
discovery solve the problem of leadership for the khelns?"

The professor takes over the reins of story-telling.  "It provided the means
for a  tournament, Mr. MacLeod.  A trial by combat in which the field of
play was an entire world and victory would be achieved when -"

Duncan finishes for him.  "There was only one left."

In the silence that follows, Rembrandt picks up the tale.  "See, the way it
works, each kheln sends its only kid through the wormhole to this side to
battle for its family. They stick a homing device in the kid's brain that
transmits a signal through the wormhole and lets them know when one of you
dies."

"That's also how you can sense each other," Quinn adds.  "It keeps you from
mistaking the people of this world with those from your own."

"Yeah," Rembrandt grunts sarcastically.  "Real thoughtful of them, wasn't
it?  But the real kicker is that they make it so you can't have children of
your own so you won't make a bunch of babies and take over things here."

"They deliberately sterilized us?"  Horrified, Duncan doesn't realize he has
switched to the first person until he sees the look between them.

"The problem is," Quinn says in an obvious attempt to change direction,
"they may have slowed the fighting *between* khelns, but they can't stop the
fighting *within* the khelns.  Every time a kheln family is deposed, another
family takes over and sends its only child through the wormhole.  It's been
over five thousand years, and they're no closer to deciding who gets to be
in charge than when they first started."

Rembrandt nods.  "There's a lot of unhappy people there. The common folk are
sick and tired of working for a different kheln every couple of years, and
the khelns are sick and tired of giving up their kids for some battle that
might never end."

"So why do they?"  Duncan demands.  "Why don't they just bring their
children back?"

"They can't," Quinn says.  "The wormhole is unidirectional.  It only goes
one way."

"You mean -"  Nausea rises in him, and he struggles to choke it back.  "You
mean, they send their children to do battle for their families, *knowing*
the children can never come back home?"

"Yes."

Duncan is so stunned, so sickened, he can't be sure who has answered his
question.

The others thoughtfully give him a moment to recover.  Rembrandt makes a
move toward the whiskey, but at a look from the professor changes his mind.
"So anyway," he sighs, "This is where we came in.  When we first slid onto
that world, everybody and their mothers were coming after our heads.  Man,
it was something.  If Q Ball hadn't been halfway decent with a sword, we'd
all be talking out of our necks."

"Eventually," Quinn interrupts, "we got someone to listen to us, a woman
named Dalleya, head of one of the more powerful khelns.  She took us to see
this physicist, Melchek, and we told him our story, that we were sliders.
He agreed to keep us safe from the head-choppers as long as we let him get a
look at our timer.  He thought maybe he could use something like that to
control their wormhole, to reverse it so the children could come home."

The professor starts.  His hand goes to his pocket.  He is about to say
something, but then he thinks the better of it and lets Quinn and Rembrandt
finish the story.

"We didn't have much choice," Rembrandt says.  "One step outside that cave,
and our craniums would have been rolling like stones down a mountain."

"Wait," Duncan says, confused.  "I don't understand.  How could a physicist
keep you safe from the others?"

"Because," Rembrandt says, as if the answer is obvious, "he was the
Monitor."

"The Monitor?"

"The Monitor of the Game," Quinn explains more patiently.  "This world had
two absolute laws.  First, that each woman could have only one child, and
second, that nobody, absolutely *nobody* could mess with the Monitor."

"He's the one who keeps score of what happens over here," Rembrandt says.
"Who buys it and who doesn't.  When it comes down to the last round, the
Monitor is the one who'll proclaim the winner."

Duncan shakes his head.  "He must be the most powerful man on the planet."

"Well," Quinn says, "Yes and no.  They found a way to make sure he keeps up
his end of the deal."

"Oh?" Duncan says, and then freezes.  Inside, he feels a familiar hum.  A
moment later, he hears the elevator begin its climb.

Confused by Duncan's sudden inattention, Quinn looks at Rembrandt.  "Uh -
yeah - they did."

"What?" Duncan moves swiftly to the rack by the door.  Quietly, he slides
his sword from its sheath within his coat and takes position by the
elevator.

Rembrandt looks at Quinn.  "What the hell is he doing?'

The elevator arrives, and the door slides upward.  Methos, his hands in his
pockets, steps into the room, followed by Wade.  She sees her friends and
runs past him.

"Well," Methos says in greeting, amid the cries of happy reunion.  "If it
isn't Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

He removes a hand and holds it out.  "My name is Methos, interdimensional
pawn and son of Melchek, the Great Monitor."

* * * * *

"Oh, man," Rembrandt says to Wade.  "Girl, you are right.  He does look just
like him.  Dye the hair gray, and he'd be the spitting image of the
Monitor."

Methos looks over at MacLeod, who is leaning on the kitchen counter
surveying the scene.

"Tell me about it," Wade replies.  "At first I thought maybe he was just his
double, but then what would be the odds that the Monitor's double would turn
out to be an immortal on this world, too?"

"I just realized something," Quinn says.  "If these guys are from another
dimension, they probably *do* have doubles on this world."

"Oh, goody," Methos comments with an edge.

"But wouldn't their doubles have died a long time ago?" Rembrandt says.
"All the ones we've met have been the same age as us."

"Double goody," Methos says with an even sharper edge.  "Cheer up, MacLeod.
We've just been spared a meeting with our mortal doppelgangers."

The three young sliders subside into quiet.  "Gentlemen," the professor
says.  "I wonder if you'll excuse me and my young friends.  There is
something we need to discuss."  He looks directly at Quinn.  "In private."

"I can take a hint," Methos says.  After a quick, gentle brush of Wade's
cheek, he retires to the kitchen to investigate the refrigerator while the
younger sliders follow the professor to the other side of the room.

Methos opens a beer and, joining Duncan at the kitchen counter, indulges in
a hefty first gulp.  Across the room, the professor gathers his charges into
a huddle.

Duncan turns his back on them. "So she told you?" he says darkly.

"Yes."

"You believe it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because," Methos says, frowning at his beer bottle, "I remember it."

"You remember --!"

Across the room, the professor says something that clearly alarms the
others.  They stare intently at something in the professor's hand.  "I do
believe that things are not well in Slider World," Methos comments.

"Good God,  Methos." Duncan jerks away impatiently.  "How can you be so calm
about this?"

Succinctly, his friend replies, "Shock."   He takes a long swig of his beer.

"Oh, please --"

"It's true.  Any minute now, I'm going to fall to the ground and froth at
the mouth."

"Would you be serious?"

"All right."  Methos turns his back on the room, and the worried travelers.
"Let's think about this.  We've been told this incredible story about who we
are and how we came to be here.  We even have evidence that the story might
be true, with what you witnessed the other night and what little I can
remember of five thousand years ago.  So what has changed?"

Duncan shakes his head.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean just that.  What has changed in our world because of this?  We're
still here in *this* world.  We're still the people we were yesterday in
*this* world.  Other immortals are still out there in *this* world, chasing
after our heads for they-know-not-what."

"Yes, but now *we* know what."

"So what will change?  Are you going to start fighting immortals left and
right, just so you get to be the one to be proclaimed the winner on another
world?"

"Of course not," Duncan scoffs.

"Neither am I."  Methos turns back to the room and takes another swig of his
beer.  "As far as I'm concerned, my father and all those others can wait
until hell freezes over for their champion.  I rather like it here, and I
plan to stay."

After a long considering moment, Duncan retrieves a beer for himself.  He
twists off the cap with a smile.  "I'm with you, son of Melchek the
Monitor."

Their bottles clink cheerfully.

On the other side of the room, things are not so cheery.  Quinn has taken a
seat at Duncan's desk and is bent over their timer, while the professor
peers over his shoulder.  Wade and Rembrandt hover nearby.

"Oh, man,"  they hear Rembrandt complain to Wade.  "This sucks.  This sucks
big time."

"It's a real burden," Methos remarks to Duncan.  "Being right all the time."
He chucks his empty bottle in the trash, helps himself to a new one, and
retires with it to the sofa in order to enjoy the unfolding drama.

Duncan takes a more active role by going up to Rembrandt and Wade.  "What's
wrong?"

Rembrandt is furious.  "We've been suckered, that's what's wrong.  We've
been played for fools by-"  He points at Methos.  "That guy's old man!"

"Oh, please, not that old tune," Methos sighs.  "The `sins of the father'
routine is entirely too allegorical for this little snatch of science
fiction."

"Yeah, go ahead and joke about it," Rembrandt fumes.  "You're not the one
stuck on a world that's not your own."

Tilting his head, Methos observes, "Actually, I think that describes my
situation perfectly."

"Gentlemen," the professor interrupts sharply.  "This acrimony does nothing
to solve our problem."

"What *is* the problem?" Duncan asks.

"The Monitor switched timers on us," Quinn says, looking up.  "This isn't
ours.  Our timer is back on Head-Chopping World, with him."

"How do you know?"

"I realized it this morning," Arturo explains.  "You see, during a recent
altercation, the details of which are unimportant, the timer ended up on the
wrong end of knitting needle, the result being a small scratch along the
side.  This timer has no such scratch."

"Putting aside my overwhelming curiosity about knitting needles," Methos
inquires mildly, "why would my father switch timers?"

"We don't know." Wade joins him on the sofa.  "But we're guessing that when
the slide window comes up six months from now, that thing will prove to be a
worthless piece of junk."

"But didn't you use *that thing* to make the slide here?"

"Yes and no," Wade says tiredly.  "We used our timer, or what we thought was
our timer, to open *his* wormhole."

The professor tries to explain:  "The Monitor suggested a few adjustments to
the timer to help us locate our home coordinates."

Ever the amused cynic, Methos says, "And you just let him screw around with
your equipment?"

"Of course not," Quinn retorts.  "His adjustments made sense.  See, even
though he couldn't reverse his wormhole, he was able to manipulate its
direction, to determine the point of entry on this world for whoever went
through it.  He thought we could use a similar method - altering the
trajectory of the Z wave to within the parameters of -"

"Q Ball," a long-suffering Rembrandt says.  "Do we really need to go through
all that again?"

"No," Quinn says shortly.  "What we need are some tools."

Five inquiring pairs of eyes look at Duncan.  "I'll see what I can find
downstairs," he says. "Rembrandt?"

Eager to do something, the singer follows Duncan downstairs.  Methos watches
the elevator drop, and then looks over at Wade.  "What if you were somehow
able to get back to that other world?" he asks quietly.  "What then?"

"Well, if we could find our timer before midnight Saturday, we could slide
through *our* wormhole, like we originally planned."

"That was your slide window?  Saturday?"

"Yes.  Instead of waiting, though, we opened the wormhole geyser early.  We
didn't have a lot of choice.  The Tournament Council had discovered we were
there and were about to grab us."

"Wait a minute.  Wormhole *geyser*?"

She looks over toward the desk.  "That's what Quinn calls it."

Watching her watch Quinn, Methos murmurs, "I see."  And he does.

A few minutes later, Duncan and Rembrandt return, each carrying two tool
boxes. "I don't know if there's anything in here you can use," Duncan says,
opening the first box.

"Right now I just need to get a look inside."  Quinn selects a screwdriver
and gently works to open the timer.

A calmer Rembrandt tries to reassure the room.  "Hey, if anybody can fix
this thing, I know it's you, Q Ball."  To Duncan in particular, he says,
"The  boy is a genius, you know."

"There," Quinn says.  He sets the tool down.

The professor squints through his glasses.  "Everything appears to be in
working order."

"Microchip, circuitry, laser gyro, spectrometer," Quinn catalogues, half to
himself.  "I don't see anything out of place."

"What about what happened when I picked it up?"  Duncan asks.  "Could that
have anything to do with anything?"

"Oh my God."  Thunderstruck, Quinn looks up at Arturo.  "You think?"

Equally startled, the professor stares at Duncan as if he has morphed into
an Olympian god.  "Of course," he says, abrupt with insight.  "The homing
chip's EM pattern might just be the trigger."

"The trigger for what?" Duncan asks.

"Don't even bother." Rembrandt claps a hand on the immortal's shoulder.
"Just do what I do.  Go along for the ride."

Quinn hurriedly closes the timer.   Seeing the activity, Wade jumps up.
"What's going on?"

"If Mr. Mallory is correct," Arturo says, "we're sliding back to
Head-Chopping World to retrieve our *own* timer."

"You're kidding."  She throws a quick look over her shoulder at Methos.
"Now?"

"Right now," Quinn says with satisfaction.  He holds out the timer to
Duncan.  "Would you do the honors?"

Duncan takes the device uncertainly.  "You want me to -- ?"

"Just hold it, like you did before."

Feeling not a little like a fool, Duncan walks out into the center of the
room, holding the timer in front of him like a divining rod.

"Well?" asks Quinn eagerly.

"It's getting warm."

On the periphery, Methos murmurs in Wade's ear.  "So this is good-bye."

"Warmer," Duncan reports.

"I guess so,"  Wade replies.  "I wish I had more time."

"And still warmer," Duncan says, beginning to sound uncomfortable.

"My problem," Methos says quietly, "is too much time."

"Damn!"  Duncan tosses the timer onto the sofa and shakes his hand.  "It's
burning my skin off!"

The sliders crowd around and see Duncan's skin red and bubbled with burns.
"Somebody get some ice!"  Rembrandt orders.

"No, it's all right." Duncan grimaces.  "It'll heal in a minute."  He looks
at Quinn.  "I don't know what you were trying to do -"

Quinn shakes his head.  "It was just a thought," he says, dull with
disappointment.  He looks at his friends.  "Well, guys, I guess we really
are stuck here for good."

"Maybe it won't be so bad," Wade says.  She does not sound convinced.

"Indeed," Arturo seconds half-heartedly.  "And for all we know, this might
be our home world.  There's still the squeak test, Mr. Mallory."

"The squeak test didn't help much the last time we used it," says a dejected
Rembrandt.

Abandoning her brief optimism, Wade says dispiritedly, "He's right."

"And what about Governor Ventura?" Quinn points out.

The professor has no response.

Outside their circle, Methos finds himself staring at the timer.  An idea,
half-formed, makes its way through to his conscious mind.   It is an idea
buried in a memory, locked in denial, covered by five thousand years of
life.

A room with walls of rock - a sting like a bee - a light - no, lights that
fill the world - a man saying, a man saying -

A man saying, "I will send a spirit to light the way home."

"Methos?"

She is touching his arm and saying his name.

The idea takes shape with the sound of her voice.  Like a man in slow
motion, Methos picks up the timer.

It hums.

Wade grips his arm.

Out of the end of the timer shoots a beam of blue light.  The room erupts
with wind and lightning as the shimmering vortex opens up.

"Oh, my God!"  she cries. "That's it!"

"That's the portal!"  Quinn yells.  "We can slide!"

"Hot damn!"  Rembrandt slaps Duncan's back.  "Hey, tell Joe I said thanks
for everything, huh?  See you guys on the other side!"

With a yell, the singer jumps into the center of the blue vortex and
disappears.

"Sixty seconds!"  the professor warns.  He grabs Duncan's hand and shakes it
with verve. "Thank you for everything, Mr. MacLeod, and the best of luck!"

"And to you!"  Duncan watches, amazed, as a man who shouldn't be able to
lift himself off the ground dives through space like swimmer.  He is still
smiling when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

"If there has to be only one," Quinn says loudly, "I hope for this world's
sake it's you!"

With a catch in his throat, Duncan says, "Safe journey home!"

"We can only ho -" Quinn disappears into the vortex.

There is only one left:  Wade.  She backs toward the portal, illuminated by
the blue light.    "You can come with us, you know!"  she cries, imploring
with her hands.  "It's your home!"

The two immortals look at one another.

"So what do you say, MacLeod?!"  Methos yells against the wind.

Buffeted by wind, dazzled by light, impelled by inevitability, Duncan
hesitates only a fraction of a second.  "I say hell just froze over!"

"Yes!" Wade laughs - and then leaps into the swirling blue, followed like a
light by two men seeking home.



------------------------------------
Subject: Quantum, Part Four
From: Mailinb@aol.com
------------------------------------

Later, Duncan will describe it as a freefall through a psychedelic tunnel,
wilder and faster than any sky dive, bungee jump, or roller coaster ride he
has ever attempted.  Pressed for more detail, he can only say that to
understand it, you have to experience it.

Of the landing, he can (and will) be more precise.  With the wormhole at
ground level, he is shot up in the air like lava from a volcano.  After a
momentary airborne pause, gravity reasserts itself and he plummets back to
an earth that has transformed from pulsating energy to packed dirt, which
might as well be concrete as far as his shoulder is concerned.

In a daze, he gets to his feet.  "You all right?" someone asks.

"Yeah."  Rubbing his shoulder, Duncan looks up to see Methos doing the same.
"You?"

"Better than an E ticket ride."

They can hear the voices of the professor and the others in the next room of
the cavern.  Being such experienced interdimensional travelers, they
apparently hadn't feel the need to take a moment to orient themselves as he
and Methos are doing by rubbing sore body parts and looking around.

"It's just like she described," Methos says in a voice airy with awe.

Not having as vivid a storyteller, Duncan is more surprised.  He had
pictured something smaller, something darker, something spooky and sinister,
like a mad scientist's laboratory in a German silent movie.

But the cavern is not small or dark.  It is the size of an auditorium,
illuminated by oblong lights set into the rocks.  A long, low shining black
table, one side recessed into the walls, circles the entire room, broken
only by two passageways into other rooms.   Looking closer, Duncan sees that
the table is more a black panel of sorts, dotted with glimmers of gold in
uneven patterns.  As he looks, one of the glimmers fades out.

Methos follows the others into the room on the left, so Duncan wanders into
the room on the right.  He guesses this must be the Monitor's living
quarters, and then wonders what sort of man could spend centuries in such
spartan conditions.  A narrow bed covered with a brown blanket and uncased
pillow is flanked by an unvarnished wooden chair with a small side table.  A
short bookcase is lined with worn gray volumes.   Through an opening in the
far wall, he can see a much smaller room, furnished with a table and chair.
On the table is a plate and goblet.

There are other elements he cannot reconcile with the decor.  Hanging over
the bed is a gold pendulum, the same slightly teardrop shape as the gold
glimmers on the black panel.  On the side table is a contraption that looks
something like a videophone he once saw at a computer show.  But the most
mystifying is the six-foot silver cylinder against the wall on his left.

The room's temperature is mild, somewhere in the mid seventies.  He takes a
deep breath and realizes the air is fresh, despite the lack of any obvious
ventilation system.

Fresh, and different.  Sparkling.  Effervescent.  It tickles his nose and
his lungs, as if he is breathing energy instead of air.  If air were wine,
this air would be champagne.

Unable to resist, he crosses to the bookshelves.   The Monitor, it turns
out, prefers histories and biographies.  The Life of Taluman, The
Jaret/Severo Kheln War, Welstan the Mighty, Polanik:  Inventor of the
Elsword,. . .

His perusal of the saga of Polanik is interrupted by the entrance of Wade.
"Is he in here?" she asks.  Without waiting for an answer, she sticks her
head into the small dining room, calling,  "Monitor?"

Seeing no one, she marches to the silver cylinder and bangs on it.
"Monitor!" she demands.  "Get out here now!"

"What is that thing?" Duncan asks.

"Sanitation cylinder," she says.  "Sort of a combination toilet and shower."
She bangs again.  Getting no answer, she punches a button on the wall and
stands back as the cylinder curves open.

Fascinated, Duncan peers inside, but finds nothing except a low bench with a
hole.  It looks, to Duncan, like a space-age outhouse.

"Damn it," Wade says.  "He *has* to be here somewhere."

She storms out of the room, and Duncan follows her, through the center room
with its glimmering table to the other side.

There he finds more of what he expected.  It is a laboratory, complete with
computers and microscopes and other unfamiliar equipment.

It is also in complete disarray, with disks and papers strewn about the
ground and countertops.  At least part of the confusion has obviously been
accomplished by his fellow sliders.  When Duncan enters, Rembrandt is
rifling through a cabinet, while the professor is checking through drawers.
Quinn is at a computer, with a detached Methos at his shoulder.

"He's not here," Wade tells them.

"He has to be," Rembrandt insists.  "He's not allowed to leave the cave.
*Ever.*"

Impatiently, Wade says, "Well, obviously he found a way."

The professor straightens from his search with a heavy sigh.  "Wherever he's
gone, he must have taken our timer with him."

Like two balloons losing air, Wade drops into a chair, and Rembrandt follows
suit.

Surprised, Duncan asks,  "So what's the problem?  We'll just go looking for
him -"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple,  Mr. MacLeod," Arturo says gravely.  "The
cavern entrance is completely sealed.  The only way in and out is through
molecular transport."

"Through what?"

Amused, Methos looks up from the computer screen he is still watching over
Quinn's shoulder. "Oh, come on, MacLeod.  You've seen Star Trek, haven't
you?"

Duncan looks at Wade.  "He's joking."

"No," she replies, straight and sincere.  "Quinn's trying to find a way to
access a remote transport now."

At that moment, gazing at the all too-serious expression on her face, Duncan
remembers Gordon.

Gordon Sczynkowski.  His plumber.  The best plumber in all of Seacouver, and
as a result the most sought-after and temperamental.

He has an appointment with Gordon for tomorrow morning, 10:30, to start
refitting his pipes with copper fixtures.

How could he have forgotten that appointment?  Gordon is going to show up
tomorrow and find no one home.  He is going to be very angry.  He is going
to be so angry that Duncan will have a very hard time even getting him to
take an apologetic phone call.

And what kind of apology can he make?  "I'm sorry, I was stuck in an
immortal's cave on another dimension because of the lack of molecular
transport?"

Maybe he can make it up to him.  He can tell Gordon about the sanitation
cylinder. Gordon can design his own, get the patent, make a gazillion
dollars.

Or maybe he can -

The slap has such force that Duncan sprawls on the ground.  It is only then
he realizes he has been laughing - the wild, insane laugh of the hysteric.

His head cleared, Duncan wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his
hand and looks up at his attacker.  "Thanks."

"No problem," Methos says.  "I've always wanted to slap some sense into
you."

Duncan allows himself one short spurt of a laugh, and then accepts the hand
up.  "Sorry about that," he says to his worried companions.  "I guess I just
needed to vent."

"Don't worry about it, man," Rembrandt says.

"We've all been there," Quinn adds.

"And then some," Wade agrees fervently.

Duncan feels a hand on his shoulder.  "Are you steady enough to see
something?" Methos asks soberly.

Uncertainly, Duncan says, "Sure."

Without a word, Methos leads the way out of the laboratory.  Duncan gives
the others a half-hearted reassuring smile and then follows him.

He finds Methos standing, his hands in his pocket, before the long circular
table. His olive eyes are fixed on the glimmers of gold.   Something about
his demeanor gives Duncan pause.  He's never seen that particular look on
his friend's face - a look part dread, part fear, part exhilaration.  "What
is it?" Duncan asks.

Methos removes a hand from his pocket and touches a finger to one of the
gold flecks.  "It's us," he says quietly.

"Us?"

A fingernail taps a glimmer.  "Here.  Each mark represents one of us.  If
the mark is lit, we are alive and well.   If we lose our heads, our homing
devices are deactivated and the mark disappears."

"Oh my God."  Slowly, Duncan makes his way around the room, unable to take
his eyes off the glimmering lights.  "This is the scoreboard?"

"Incredible, isn't it?  All our lives, all our enemies and friends, all our
centuries of joy and fear, laughter and tears, love and hate, they have all
been condensed into a single mark on a panel on a world we should never have
been allowed to see were it not for a chance encounter with a group of
strangers."  He sighs and wanders toward the center of the room.  His head
falls back as he searches the upper reaches of the cavern for an answer.
"I wonder how my father feels when he looks on this.  When he sees one of
these small lights flicker out.  Do you think he feels like God, looking
down from heaven?"

"God has nothing to do with this," Duncan says, hoarse with suppressed rage.
"Not the God of my father."

"And which father would that be? Mortal or immortal?"  Methos asks.  "For
that matter, which father's God?"

"They have no God here."

The voice comes from the doorway.  The two immortals turn and find Rembrandt
standing there.

"What do you mean?"

Crossing his arms, Rembrandt leans against the threshold.  For the first
time since they've met him, the singer speaks with grave sobriety.  "I mean
just that. They have no religion.  No churches, no priests or ministers or
shamans.   They have no concept of God, no belief in a power higher than
themselves."

Understanding strikes Duncan like a ray of sunlight.  "Of course," he says.
"That's the only possible explanation."

Methos shakes his head.  "It's too simple."

"Is it?  I don't think so.  Only a godless people feel no compunction at
sacrificing their children the way they do -"

"Have you read your Bible lately, MacLeod?  Remember a little story about a
man named Abraham?"

"Abraham sacrificed his son for his *God.*  These people do it for
*themselves.*  That's not faith, it's narcissism."

"You want to talk narcissism?  How about a people who insist that God
created man in His own image -"

"Uh, guys?"  Rembrandt says.  "I hate to interrupt a good theology
discussion, but Q Ball thinks he's found a way to get us out of here."

* * * * *

"All right," Quinn says.  "I think I've figured out what happened to the
Monitor.  I ran a check of his computer logs and found out that he last
powered on seventeen hours ago.  At that time, he accessed an outside
terminal that, for some reason, had no firewalls around it.  He was able to
use that terminal to activate a remote molecular transport out of here."  He
pauses to take a breath and to add, "I think."

"Transport to where?"  Duncan asks.

"I don't know.  I can't tell from this what coordinates he input.  But -"
His fingers fly over the keyboard.  "I'm pretty sure that I can replicate
whatever commands the computer was last given, which would mean we could
transport to the same location."

"Sort of like a redial button on a telephone."

"Yes.  If I'm right, we can track him from there."  Quinn pauses and turns
to Duncan and Methos.  "The question is, do you want to?"

Nonplussed, it takes Duncan and Methos a moment to realize the question is
directed only at the two of them.  Methos is the one who responds.    "Do we
have a choice?"

"Certainly," the professor answers.  "You have the Monitor's timer.  If that
fails, the wormhole geyser in this cave is active every 36 hours.  You can
hole up here, and then ride it back to your world."

Duncan lets that news settle in, unsure of how much of his reaction is
relief and how much elation.  "What about all of you?"

Four pairs of eyes exchange looks.  "Our only hope of getting back to our
world," Quinn says, "is to find our timer."

"But what if your world *is* our world?"

"The only way we can be sure," Wade says, "is to go on the way we have
been."

"Well, in that case," Duncan says, making up his mind with ease,  "I imagine
you could use a good swordsman.  Or, rather,"  with a small smile at Quinn,
"another good swordsman."

Quinn smiles back, obviously relieved.  "Just wait till you see the swords
on *this* world."

"I hope I see one soon, since I left my behind in the dojo.  What about -"
Duncan turns to Methos, or rather where he thought Methos was standing.

 "Excuse me," Duncan says to the others.

In the next room, Duncan finds Methos standing once again in the center of
the circle, only this time his head is bowed.   Duncan enters quietly
without greeting.

Closing his eyes briefly, Methos takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
"Have you noticed?  The air is different here."

Duncan leans against the terrible table.  "I've noticed."

"Like it's charged with electric particles.  And, actually, it quite
possibly *is.*   The professor believes that the electrochemistry of this
planet differs from ours, and that explains how immortals evolved."   He
draws in air again, savoring it.  "Air like this - it's intoxicating.   I
want to drink it rather than breathe it."

Uneasily, Duncan asks, "What are you saying, Methos?"

"Can't you sense it?  Can't you feel it?  It's *power,* MacLeod.  Here, the
very air is charged with power."

"More likely it's what you first said.  It's charged with electric
particles."

"God, forever the pragmatist.  Even here."  Methos turns his gaze at last on
his friend.  His voice sharpens.  "You know what I was once."

Duncan manages not to flinch.  "Yes," he says, his voice dark with memory.
Then, with resolution, he adds, "I also know that you've changed."

"Have I?"

The question, thrown back at him like a lance, lingers in the air.  Flecks
of gold shine in the unwavering green eyes.  It must be an optical illusion,
though.  Methos is standing too far from the terrible scoreboard for it to
reflect in his eyes.

"Only you can answer that," Duncan says at last.

"Yes.  And only I can determine whether I will ever change back."  From his
pocket he draws his father's invention.  "I can't stay."

"Wait, you don't mean -"  Not wanting to believe it, or for the others to
hear, Duncan lowers his voice to a fierce whisper as he grabs the arm of his
friend.   "Methos, after all they did for us, you can't leave them here!
They *need* us!"

"Don't you get it?  *I* am the reason she's here!  If it weren't for me, my
father would never have -"

"I thought you said all that `sins of the father' stuff was just crap."

Impatiently, Methos jerks away.  "Oh, for God's sake, that's not -"

"No." Duncan stops him in his tracks.  "Not for God's sake.  Or for your
own.  Whatever you do, do it for *her.*"

Methos has turned away, so all Duncan can see is the sudden slump of his
shoulders.  He waits for some response - a word, a gesture, something.  A
minute passes, and then another.

Angrily, Duncan stalks out.

In the laboratory, four anxious sliders are conferring together quietly.
Duncan observes them from the doorway, noting and envying their closeness,
the way the professor rests an arm protectively around Wade, the way Quinn
and Rembrandt stand shoulder-to-shoulder.  We should be like that, Duncan
thinks.  The immortals on our world should be like that.  We are as alone in
a strange land as they are.  But instead of looking out for one another, we
fight for a prize we can never collect.  Never even know.

Wade spies Duncan and stops the others with a gesture.  "Well?" she asks
hopefully.

Unable to find the words, Duncan merely shakes his head, and then despises
Methos for the look of disappointment in her eyes.

Then, from behind him, someone else supplies the words.  "Beam me up,
BeeGee," Methos says.

"All right!" Quinn says.  Energized, he sits back at the computer and
quickly begins entering the necessary information.  "Everyone stand together
in the center of the room, under the tube."

Wade touches Duncan's arm and points to the roof of the cavern.  Looking up,
he sees a large funnel-shaped contraption protruding from the rocks.

They crowd together underneath it.  "I think I've got it," Quinn says.  "Is
everybody ready?"

"I hate this part," Rembrandt complains.

"Why?"

"Because," the professor answers wearily, "having your molecules spread over
the universe results in a certain amount of discomfort."

"It hurts like hell," Wade says.

"Great," Methos mutters.

Quinn interrupts:  "Ten seconds, guys."

A small hand slides into Duncan's palm.  He looks down and finds that Wade
has attached herself to Methos as well.  "Hang on," she warns.

"Three - two -- one," Quinn calls out.  With deliberation, he punches a key
and then jumps up to join the group.

Duncan squeezes Wade's hand reassuringly, and then braces himself.  At first
there is nothing but a hum from somewhere above them.  The sound grows
louder, until it feels as if his whole body is humming.

This isn't so bad, he thinks.

"And away we go," he hears Rembrandt say.

A moment later, a fire begins inside his chest and spreads all through his
limbs, as if every cell in his body is imploding from within.   He wants to
scream, but he can't open his mouth, he has no mouth, he has no face, no
body, everything that is him is expanding with sudden violence --

And then, nothing.

It isn't like the deaths he has experienced over and over.  With them, there
is some sense of darkness, of a void, of an emptiness.  With this, it's as
if his consciousness has been paused, like the picture of a video.  It is a
complete suspension of all awareness.

When awareness returns, it does so with a sudden, swooping contraction.
There is a floor beneath his feet, cold air on his skin, light and color and
form in his vision.

The cavern laboratory is gone.  In its place is an empty and echoing great
hall, with a rough stone floor and a vaulted wooden ceiling that rises a
hundred feet above, supported with plain stone columns.

For a brief disconcerted moment, Duncan feels as if he has traveled through
time, to the castles and palaces of his early years, but as he gets his
bearing he senses the difference.  This room has none of the grace of those
halls.  It is all wood and stone and chilled air.  Empty of art, of
adornment, even of simple decoration, it gives his very soul a shiver.

 "Good God," Methos says.  "MacLeod - look."

Duncan looks in the direction of his friend's pointed finger, and there he
finds the room's one and only attempt at detail - a circular symbol carved
inexpertly over a pair of massive double doors.  He recognizes it
immediately.

"What?"  Mystified, Duncan looks at Methos.  "The watcher symbol?"

"Just when you think there can't be any more surprises -"

Methos's comment is cut off by the opening of the double doors.  As one,
their group bunches together in the center of the hall.

Again, Duncan fights the pull of memory as a troop of a dozen men march in
and quickly encircle their small band.  In eye-aching bright orange
doublets, hose, and fur-trimmed cloaks,  they are a caricature of the palace
guards of his youth, a garish neon cartoon image of men he fought against
and beside centuries earlier.

Except for their weapons.  He has been eager to see these space-age swords,
but at first glance he is unimpressed, to say the least.  In each man's hand
is what appears to be a wooden handle with a long wire, like a coat hanger
that has been unbent and twisted into a single strand.

Then the men lift their coat hangers.  With a zing, the wires burst into
long, bright wands of silvery energy.

"Definitely not in Kansas anymore," Methos observes in an undertone.

Someone has to do something.  Duncan is about to make a move when the
professor pushes past him to face the guard nearest the double doors.  "My
good man," Arturo puffs, "there is no need for alarm.  My friends and I were
merely -"

Duncan grabs his arm.  "Hold on, Professor."

A man appears in the doorway.  He is a small man, but his squat and square
stature is enhanced by the imperious lift of his chin, the long curls of his
mustache, and the folds of his brilliant orange silk cloak.

"Saints preserve us," the professor breathes.

 Duncan is more succinct.  "Khan."

* * * * *

But, of course, it is not Khan, as Duncan realizes long before he and the
others are led out of the hall, down a long, cold, empty corridor.  The man
who leads them, his silk cloak whispering on the stone floor, looks twenty
years younger than Khan.  Which undoubtedly means, in the twisted logic of
immortality,  he is Khan's father.

 "I wonder," Methos murmurs, keeping his voice and his countenance as low as
possible, "if he has heard the news about Junior yet."

"If he hasn't," Duncan responds, "I'm not going to be the one to tell him."

At long last, they reach another set of double doors, over which again is
carved the round Watcher symbol.  The orange cloak comes to a stop, while
two of the guards hurry to open the doors with appropriate fanfare.   With a
twitch of his shoulders and a lift of his head, the imperious Mongol enters
the room.   The murmuring of unseen people ceases, replaced with the rustle
of movement, and the doors are closed again.  Two guards move to block the
entrance.

Duncan looks at Quinn.  "Do you know what's going on here?"

"No idea.  But somehow I doubt we're going to be given the keys to the
city."

"Do we even know what city we're in?'

Quinn shakes his head.  "The Monitor's cavern is in northern California.
But we could be anywhere now, from Egypt to Australia."

"Cold like this," Rembrandt guesses, hugging his arms to his body, "we got
to be near the friggin' Arctic Circle."

Methos interrupts quietly, keeping his face averted from the guards.  "Did
you notice, MacLeod?  We can't sense them."

The significance dawns on Duncan slowly.  "You're right," he says.

"Eerie, isn't it?"

"Yes.  But it might also be useful -"

He is cut off by the abrupt opening of the doors.  The guards step back and
lift their  humming silver swords.  "I think," the professor intones, "we
are being invited inside."

"Whatever happens," Duncan says, as they begin to move to the other room.
"we mustn't let them separate us."

"Us?" Rembrandt says testily.  "I'm more worried about my head being
separated from my body."

"That too."

Warmth envelopes them as they enter the room.  Half-expecting a fire in such
a medieval setting, Duncan is reminded again of the dual nature of this
anachronistic world when he steps over a heating vent in the floor.

The murmuring begins again with their entrance, and grows louder as they
make their down a center aisle into the room.  On either side, immortals - a
hundred, maybe more - are seated in pews, watching the procession.  There is
time for little more than impressions.  They are all on the young side,
twenties and thirties.  They are dressed in vibrant colors - blues and
greens and reds and yellows - but, oddly, there are no prints, no insignias,
no jewelry or accessories.  They look as plain as Puritans in rainbow
colors.

At the end of the aisle sits the short, squat man in orange.   He waits
until the newcomers come to a stop before rising to his feet and raising a
hand for quiet.  The audience subsides immediately.

He adjusts his cloak, hanging his hands on it with an air of pompous
self-importance.  "I," he announces, "am Kazakh,  Leader of the Tournament
Council.  You will explain yourselves to the members here present."

Huddled together, the sliders look at one another.  Clearing his throat, the
professor steps forward and opens his mouth to speak.

"No!" Kazakh yells.  His round face screws up with distaste.  "Not the fat
one!  The tall one!"

The six of them exchange looks again, sizing up each other's height.  "I
think," Quinn says with ironic satisfaction to Duncan, "you've got me beat
by an inch or two."

"Lucky me," Duncan says under his breath.  "So what do I tell them?"

"I've always found," Methos says, staying carefully behind the others, "that
the best truth is a half-truth."

Duncan nods slowly.  Gathering his wits, he steps out of their small circle
and faces the father of the man he has just killed.

"My name," he says with deliberation, "is Duncan MacLeod.  These are my
friends.  We are visitors here.  Visitors from a different world."

The crowd erupts again, talking, pointing, laughing.   All except one woman,
who stares transfixed at the speaker.

"We are seeking a man," Duncan says loudly, and the crowd quiets.  "A man
who stole a piece of equipment that will enable us to continue on our
journey.  Once we have this device back, we will be on our way and trouble
you no more."

Kazakh's eyes narrow to tiny slits.  A red flush begins to creep up from his
neck.  "And who is this man you seek?"

"He is called -"  Duncan risks a quick look back at his companions for
confirmation.  "He is called the Monitor."

The room explodes, only this time the tenor is different.  The crowd is not
amused, but angry.  They shout and jeer and bang their hands against the
wooden pews.

"You lie!"  Kazakh screams over the babel.  The uproar abates somewhat.
"You do not seek The Monitor!  You are the ones who have kidnapped him!"

The din renews with even greater force.  "That's crazy!"  Quinn shouts,
rushing forward to Duncan's side.  The audience breaks off, half of them
reaching for their pockets.

Seeing he has their attention, Quinn demands, "Why would we do that?"

Kazakh's face is as bright as his robe.  With ill-concealed furor, he points
a finger at the group on the floor.  "You were hired by one of the khelns to
kidnap The Monitor and disrupt the tournament!"

The crowd recoils as one.  In the horrified silence, Kazakh turns his
imperious finger on them.  "I will know which one of you has broken our most
sacred law! And then my army will have its victory from you and your
people!"

The double doors swing open again, and the troop of orange-clad guards
marches in, surrounding the sliders.

"Take them!" Kazakh orders.  "I will have the truth or their heads before
sunrise!"

The audience, all except one, rises to their feet as the visitors are led
out at the point of electric swords.

* * * * *

Sleep is impossible, even for a man who in five thousand years has managed
to sleep in every possible uncomfortable condition - from the rat-infested
dungeon of a Turkish sultan to the disease-ridden bowels of an Egyptian
slave galley to the frigid cold of an Inuit igloo.

It amuses him that he cannot sleep now, even though their captors have
thoughtfully heated their cell and provided them with reasonably clean
pallets.

He is not the only insomniac.  At the other end of the cell, MacLeod and the
Boy Genius sit side-by-side against a wall, engrossed in a quiet
conversation.  It's obvious they are kindred spirits - both intelligent and
brave, with a flare for the dramatic.  No doubt they are making plans for an
escape.  Something suitably daring and dashing - overpowering a guard, using
his elsword to cut through the iron bars, fighting through the dozen or so
other guards, tracking down the Monitor and stealing back the timer just in
the nick of time to make the slide  . . .

Or perhaps, he thinks on seeing a frown cross MacLeod's face, they are
swapping tales of derring-do across the reaches of time and space.  They
could even be discussing the finer points of quantum theory and its
relationship to immortality.  Or maybe they are -

A shift on the pallet next to his distracts him.  She is restless, tossing
in her sleep, dreaming of other worlds, some of which might even be stranger
than this one.

He wishes he could know of those other worlds.  He wishes they were back in
his cabin, just the two of them, where she could tell him in that sweet-girl
voice of strange and marvelous things, where she could listen with her eyes
dark and bright to his own stories of the lives he has lived.

Or some of the lives he has lived.  He would not wish on her the full
knowledge of him and his past.  She already has a hard enough road to
travel.

At least she has friends for her journey.  They will care for her and
protect her.  They need not face a future in which they will be the only
one.

A sudden quiet descends.  MacLeod and the Boy Genius have ceased their
exchange, sleep coming over them at last.

Or maybe not.  Their eyes are closed, but their postures are far too rigid
for sleep.  In a moment, Methos understands - they have heard someone
coming.

Here we go, he thinks, the great escape is at hand.  Always willing to do
his part, he keeps as still as possible and waits for the events to unfold.

The footsteps on the cobblestones grow louder.  Whoever it is, he's in a
rush to get here.

The outer door creaks open.  Methos inches his hand inside his lapel.

A small, caped and hooded figure appears in the doorway.  It slips silently
into the room and takes from its pocket an old-fashioned iron key.  The key
fits in the cage door, which creaks as it is opened.

As Methos expected, MacLeod and Quinn break out of possum mode and rush the
door, but apparently the hooded figure also expected it, for out of nowhere
hums one of those blasted electric swords.  The two heroes back off
immediately.

The commotion has awakened the others.  The professor sits up with a groan,
Rembrandt with a "What the -"  Behind him, Methos hears Wade stirring.

The hooded figure gestures with the sword for them to exit.  "Where are we
going?" MacLeod demands, but is silenced by another wave of the humming
blade.

Rembrandt has Wade by the arm, so Methos follows MacLeod and the Boy Genius
in the wake of the professor.  Keeping the sword raised, the hooded figure
backs toward the outer door.  There it stops to look out into the hall.  The
silver light wavers.

With the instincts of four hundred years of combat, Duncan latches onto the
hooded figure's forearm and wrenches the sword from its hand.  "Who are
you?!" he demands.

"Please --" A familiar feminine voice pipes out from under the hood. "I
don't want to die yet!"

Startled, Duncan looks back at his companions, zeroing in on Wade.  She
pulls free from Rembrandt's hand and steps forward.  While Duncan keeps a
firm grip on the figure's arm, Wade gently slides back the hood.

"Oh my God -"  Methos breathes.  Duncan lets slip the arm.

"It's OK, guys," Wade says with a smile.  "It's just my double."

* * * * *

For about the ten millionth time in his five-thousand-year existence, Methos
learns how much the human mind is like a old mule.

Since the first night in Joe's bar, he has suspected that this girl held the
key to his origins.  In the cabin, he believed his suspicions confirmed.  In
the cavern, he knew they were.

Or so he thought.  Now, looking at the two women in front of him, he knows a
part of him has been stubbornly denying it all along, refusing to accept
absolutely and completely that her story was true.

But no longer.  Even identical twins don't look this much alike.  The shape
of the eyes, the tilt of the nose, the curve of the lips are more than
similar, more than identical.  They are *exactly* the same.

The only difference is the hair.  While Wade has cut hers into a short bob,
her double's long curls ripple out from the confines of her hood.

"Is your name Wade, too?" Wade asks.  The commonsensical friendliness of her
voice startles them all.

"No."  The girl rubs her arm with a wary look at Duncan.  "I'm called Wedra.
I've been sent by Dalleya to rescue you.  I'm her ward."

"Dalleya?" Quinn repeats.  Then, to Duncan, "That's the woman who helped us
before."

Skeptical, Duncan says, "Why would this Dalleya send a little girl to rescue
us?"

"Little girl?!" Wade and her double protest in stereo.

"Ladies, please," the professor says tensely.  "We can correct our feminist
politics at a later date.  Mr. MacLeod has asked a reasonable question."

"Dalleya thought you'd trust me," Wedra explains with another dirty look at
Duncan, "Because of the way I look.  Oh, and I brought -"  From within the
folds of her cloak she draws a handful of wooden handles.  "These."

"Elswords!" Eagerly, Quinn takes one.  He draws out the wire and steps back
from the others.  A moment later, the wire bursts into silver flame.

Methos accepts a proffered handle uncertainly.  Following the Boy Genius's
lead, he pulls out the wire.  Nothing happens.  "How do you turn it on?"

"There's a button -"  Wedra starts to say, but is cut off when Methos
apparently finds the button on his own.

"Whoa!"  Duncan leaps back.  "Be careful with that thing!"

Methos waves his weapon back and forth, delighted.  "What an excellent idea!
Light, compact, deadly.  Just imagine, MacLeod - no more long trench coats.
No more setting off metal detectors every time you walk into an airport.  No
more -"

"Can we save the sales pitch for later?" Rembrandt interrupts.  He shoves
his own unelectrified elsword into his belt.  "It's almost sunrise.  Those
orangesicle-men are going to be here any minute."

"You're right."  Duncan turns to Wedra.  "How do we get out of here?"

"Simple."  She gives an impish smile to her double. "Just follow us little
girls."

* * * * *

Cold hits like a breaking wave as the seven escapees burst out of the castle
and find themselves slipping and tumbling down a steep icy slope, finally
come to rest on an outcropping of rock.  Gasping and laughing and shivering,
they get to their feet and brush snow from their clothes.

Quinn, seeing Rembrandt bending at his waist and clutching his side, hurries
to him quickly.  "Are you all right?"

"Yeah."  His features stretched with pain, the singer gestures with his free
hand to their surroundings.  "I told you we were in the friggin' Arctic
Circle."

"Close," Duncan says.  His gaze has fallen on a patch of wood below them,
the trees black and staggered down the grade of the snowy mountainside.
"But not quite.  There's no vegetation at the Pole."   He turns to Wedra.
"Where are we?"

"Hvannadalshnukur," the girl answers.  She wraps her cloak around her
tightly.  "The Council built its headquarters here because it's neutral
territory."

"Hvanna-what?" Wade asks, blowing on her fingers.  Her feet dance.

"Iceland," Duncan tells her, his breath a whisper of vapor.  "We're in
Iceland."

Before anyone has a chance to comment, a shout from above mobilizes them.
"This way!" Wedra cries.  Using her uphill arm for leverage, she clambers
over the icy rocks, slipping and sliding toward the wood, while the others
follow her lead.

Bringing up the rear, Quinn is the one who sees their exit door fly open and
a flash of orange run out.   Ducking behind a wet black tree trunk, he
fumbles with half-frozen fingers for his elsword.  With one finger on the
so-called trigger, he risks a quick glance around.

Something orange is peering over the edge of the slope.  Quinn's grip
tightens.

The orange disappears, and he relaxes.

A hand grabs him from behind.

"Come along, BeeGee," Methos hisses.  "Our carriage awaits."

His heart galloping, Quinn sees what he was too distracted to see before.
In the middle of the wood, not twenty feet away, sits a long black vehicle,
roughly the size of a minivan but with one startling difference.  Instead of
wheels, it has short legs, half-buried in snow.

Wedra is climbing into the driver's seat, and motioning for the others to
follow.  Impelled by an immortal hand in his back, Quinn joins Duncan in the
rear, while Wade, Methos, and Rembrandt squeeze into the middle.

Hanging over the driver's seat, Wade gives her double a congratulatory pat
on the shoulder.  "You," she announces with emphasis, "were incredible!
That back flip thing -- where did you learn moves like that?"

"It was nothing." Wedra shrugs and begins punching a series of buttons on
the van's instrument panel.  "We learn that in First Level."

"First Level?"

"Sure.  First Level is all about diversionary tactics -- rolls, jumps,
sidesteps, stuff like that.  In Second Level, you master basic combat
moves."  She continues preparing the van to move as she talks.  "I'm in
Third Level now.  So far, I've completed study of fourteen styles.  As soon
as I am certified in seven more, I'll be able to graduate."

The jubilance of the others has seeped away.  "And after you graduate?" Wade
asks with trepidation.

"Then I die."

"You WHAT?!"  Rembrandt cries.

She punches another button, and the van's engine warms up underneath them.
"Oh, I don't have to."  Wedra punches two more buttons on the instrument
panel, and then turns a knob.  The engine noise grows stronger. "I could go
on to Fourth Level work and postpone my graduation death another few years.
That's what Dalleya wants me to do.  She wants me to work as one of her
ladies-in-guarding."

"What do *you* want to do?"

"I want to go to the Equatorial Language Academy and learn how to read and
write."

"Wait a minute."   Wade leans over the seat again.  "You don't know how to
read and write?"

"Of course not," her double replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in
the world.  "I told you.  I haven't *died* yet."   She smiles back at them
cheerfully, her hand on what appears to be a gear shift on the floor.  "You
ready?"

"Uh - sure."  Wade sits back.

"Then let's go."

"Go where?"  Duncan calls out from the back.  "There's no road."

"Sure there is," Quinn says.  "You just need to look in a different
direction."

He points upward, Wedra shifts gears, and the van begins to rise.

Quinn grins at the expression on Duncan's face.  "I guess we forgot to tell
you a few things."

"A *few* things!?"

The van clears the treetops.  With all due casualness, Wedra shifts gears
again, and with a loud pop they shoot forward, accelerating from zero to
fifty in a matter of seconds.

"Good Lord," Quinn hears MacLeod mutter.

"I'm sorry we can't transport," Wedra says over her shoulder.  "Council
Security would be able to track us.  We'll have just have to take the slow
route."  As if to illustrate, she shifts gears again, and the van speeds up
to well over a hundred miles an hour.

"Where are you taking us?" Wade asks.

"To Dalleya."  Wedra punches a button and then settles back in her seat.
Quinn wonders, a bit wildly, if she has just put the flying van on cruise
control.  "It's a three-hour fly, so you might as well sit back and enjoy
the view."

Below them stretches a frozen wasteland of white ice and black rock.   On
the horizon, they can see an expanse of blue water, a large lake or an
ocean.  "I could enjoy it a lot more with a parachute," Rembrandt grumbles.

Twisting around, Wedra inquires,  "What's a parachute?"

"Oh, nothing important.  Just a little piece of equipment that might keep me
in one piece if this damn minivan takes a nosedive."

Wedra blinks.  "I don't understand."

"She thinks you're like them," Quinn tells Rembrandt.  "If this thing were
to crash, *they'd* heal up and walk away, and she thinks we would, too."

"Are you saying you wouldn't?" Wedra asks, astounded.

"My dear Miss Wedra," the professor replies.  "It would seem your employer
has not been entirely forthcoming about the nature of the people you have
just rescued."

Smiling, Quinn looks over and realizes that Duncan is not listening.
Instead, he is staring, fascinated, at the earth below.  "What is it?" Quinn
asks in a low voice.

"Southeast," Duncan says, half to himself.  "We're flying southeast."

Quinn waits for the immortal to continue.  When it becomes clear that
nothing more is forthcoming, he turns his attention to the amusing spectacle
of his friends trying to explain the nature of mortality to a woman who has
never heard of such a thing.

Hours later, Wedra is still trying to absorb the revelations about her
passengers when a beeper sounds on her instrument panel.  She sits forward
right away.  "We're coming up on Gelnadden," she says, expertly punching
buttons.

A few minutes later, they see it.  It is a castle like the one they have
just left behind - a large stone square set with more concern for
defensiveness than aesthetics on the top of a barren hill.  Below the hill
stretches miles of rugged amber grassland, broken by wooded stretches and a
large green lake.  In the distance are shadowy gray mountains.

Wedra sets the flying van neatly on a cobblestone circle before the castle
entrance, and they all hop out, grateful for leg room and solid ground.

Duncan is the last to leave the van.  He gets out slowly, and instead of
following the others in the direction of the castle, he walks away to stand
at the edge of the cobblestones and look out over the expanse.

Concerned, Quinn motions for the others to wait and goes to see what's
wrong.  After a moment, Methos follows him.

Gently, Quinn steps up beside Duncan.  "What is it?"

"Nothing. I -"  Duncan shakes his head once, sharply, as if he is clearing
his mind of haze.  "It *can't* be."

Methos comes up on the other side.  "MacLeod?"

Like a man in a trance, Duncan lifts a hand toward the distant lake.  "The
way the birch trees round the shore, that one gap in the middle, the way you
can see straight through to the mountains over the moor --"  His voice drops
to a whisper.  "Loch Shiel."

"What are you saying, MacLeod?"

"It's Glenfinnan.  I'm home."

"Yes."

The word slices through the air like a knife, clean and shiningly clear.
The voice is a woman's.

The three men turn.

She is elegantly tall and proud, with shining dark eyes and rippling dark
hair that falls to her knees.  A cobalt blue velvet cloak brushes the stones
as she steps forward.

Quinn smiles.  "Dalleya --"

She does not acknowledge the greeting.  Her dark eyes are fixed on the
dark-eyed man beside him.  "Yes," she says again.  "You are home, Declan."
She smiles and holds out her hands.  "My son."



------------------------------------
Subject: Quantum, Part Five
From: Mailinb@aol.com
------------------------------------

"Oh, man," Rembrandt grumbles.  "I'd forgotten about the lousy food in this
world."

Methos has to agree with the singer's assessment.  Sourly toying with his
own meal of uncooked vegetables, moldy bread, and fatty lamb tartare, he
wonders if the immortals on this world treat food poisoning as an
uncomfortable inconvenience, like heartburn.

Across the dining room table, Wedra pauses with her food halfway to her
mouth.  "What's wrong with it?"

Disgusted, Rembrandt jabs a knife into a raw potato and displays it.  "It
ain't even been washed, that's what's wrong with it!  It's probably got boll
weevils crawling all through it -"

"Rembrandt," Wade says, with a conciliatory smile to her double. "We should
be grateful to be safe."

Undeterred, the singer complains, "And haven't you people ever heard of
butter and salt?"

"No," Wedra says, interested.  "What are they?"

"It doesn't matter,"  Wade says, and in an obvious attempt to change the
subject, asks, "Where did Quinn go?"

Good question, Methos thinks.  Sighing, he lets his knife (the only utensil
provided) fall to the table and admits, to himself, that it is less the
unpalatable food than the unprotected company that is making his stomach
twist and roil.

They had been required to surrender their elswords at the door, and then
shortly after, had been ushered in here by an oh-so-dour (and armed) butler.
When the food arrived, Quinn had slipped out, muttering something about the
facilities.  Now, twenty minutes later, he has not returned.

Not that Methos particularly misses the Boy Genius, but it would be nice to
have around at least one other person who could handle a sword.  God only
knows where MacLeod disappeared to.  Off filling in the blanks on his family
tree, probably.  Swapping four centuries of family anecdotes with dear ol'
Mum.   Leaving him, Methos, here alone with a whiny singer, an overblown
professor, and a girl.

Make that girls, plural.  Watching Wedra watch them, he realizes she has
become very attached to her double in the short period of their
acquaintance.  They sit beside one another, like bookends, the same
expressions flickering across their faces as Rembrandt, refusing to be
sidetracked, continues his bellyaching.

One child per woman, Methos muses.  Of course.  That would mean no immortal
on this world has siblings.  Wedra has discovered she has a sister, only she
has no concept of sisterhood.

His train of thought is derailed by a fed-up professor.  "Enough, Mr.
Brown!" Arturo roars, pushing away his plate.  "You should be thanking your
lucky stars that you still have a mouth with which to eat, not using that
mouth to moan about the lack of attention to matters of culinary taste."

Rembrandt subsides into sulky silence, while Wade represses a smile.  Wedra
swallows and watches.

The professor's phrasing has jogged loose an idea, half-formed, in the back
of Methos's mind.  With nothing better to do (and desirous of any kind of
distraction), he brings it out to examine it.  "Actually," he says to the
scholar speculatively,  "I'm beginning to think the lack of attention to
taste is a rather significant characteristic of this world."

With a polite but impatient sigh, Arturo asks,  "Significant how, my dear
man?"

Methos sits back in his chair, thinking as he speaks.  "It first occurred to
me when we were dragged in front of the Council.  Did you notice how
everyone was dressed in solid colors?"

"Now that you mention it," Wade says, "everyone in this whole world dresses
in solid colors."

"Well, isn't it obvious?" the professor says crossly. "The people of this
world identify kheln affiliation with color, as do a great many
organizations, from armies to football teams to street gangs."

"Yes, but they use only *solid* colors," Methos says.  "I've seen no prints
or plaids or fabric patterns of any sort."

"Like this," Wade explains to her double, indicating her own sweater, dark
purple dotted with small silver stars.  Wedra touches the sleeve
inquisitively.

His ill-humor abating somewhat, Arturo states, "I still don't see how this
world's fashion sense could have any significance -"

"Think about it," Methos urges with the detached eagerness of a fellow
philosopher.  "Think about that very first moment in which a lone weaver
tried to re-create the pattern of a tree or a flower or a buffalo in a
cloth.  What could have motivated him to do so?  It couldn't have been to
improve the durability of the cloth, or its warmth, or any other practical
element."  His voice fades into dreaminess.  "It must have been a pure
creative act."

There is a pause, and then the professor breathes, "Of course."  Now fully
engaged, he pounces on the idea with enthusiasm.  "But it's not just in
apparel that the people of this world lack the creative impulse."  He pushes
back his chair and strolls around the table, gesturing at their
surroundings.  "Look at the architecture.  Everything is designed to be
purely functional, with no attention at all to the decorative arts.  The
walls are unpainted, the columns unadorned, the furniture unvarnished."

"Ergonomics extremis," Methos agrees.  "It's enough to make one nostalgic
for rococo."

"And it could very well extend beyond fashion and architecture," Arturo
says.  "When we first arrived on this world, I sought out a bookstore for
information on its society.  It took a great while, but I finally found a
small shop in a deserted square."  He comes to a stop behind his own chair
and leans on it.  "The only books for sale were biographies of famous
immortals and histories of immortal battles.  There were no novels, no
dramas, no poetry -"

"No poetry?" Wade blurts out, incensed.  "How can that be?  I mean, waiting
until your children *die* to teach them how to read and write is one thing,
but how can a society exist without poetry?"

With paternal affection, the professor explains to Methos:  "My young friend
was a literature major.  The Romantics, no less."

"In that case --" Methos regards her soberly, without a trace of
condescension.  "She should have no trouble understanding how a world unfed
by sacred rivers can evolve into a world devoid of poetry."

Her eyes are round and grave.  "No God," she says.  "No Xanadu."

Methos inclines his head in silent assent.

"Hold up a minute," Rembrandt says.  "What does God have to do with this?"

"Creation, Mr. Brown!" the professor declaims with raised fist.  "Creation!
All great artists and, for that matter, all great scientists are driven by
the impulse to create.  To be, in a sense, God."

Unimpressed by the theatrics, Rembrandt says, "Yeah, but this world does
have scientists.  Who else could have invented all their gadgets?"

"These gadgets," Arturo says scornfully, "have proven little more than
conveniences to improve the tasks of daily life, or to increase one's chance
of victory in battle.  I have seen no evidence whatsoever that any of these
tools were invented for the purpose of understanding the nature of the
universe, or ourselves."

Rembrandt shakes his head.  "You lost me there, Professor."

"Maybe," Methos interjects, "you should think in terms of another aesthetic.
We're talking about the difference between the twenty-dollar-an-hour hack
who bangs a piano in a lounge and the composer who writes and performs his
own music for an appreciative audience."

"Precisely," Arturo seconds.

Through the whole exchange, Wedra's eyes have passed from one to the other.
Periodically, she has opened her mouth to ask a question, only to be cut off
by one person or another.  Now at last, there is a pause long enough for her
to jump in.  "What's music?"

Astounded, Rembrandt thunders:  "Girl, you don't know what MUSIC is?!"

Wedra shrugs unselfconsciously.  "No."

A gleam in her eyes, Wade sits forward to offer a suggestion.  "I'm sure the
Cryin' Man wouldn't mind giving a little demonstration.  Right, Rembrandt?"
At his hesitation, she coaxes, "Come on.  Haven't you ever heard of singing
for your supper?"

"Sweetheart, this supper don't deserve no singing."

Methos stretches back indolently.  "Then call it a lesson in aesthetic
education.  Show our young friend what she's been missing out on all this
time."

Still reluctant, Rembrandt heaves a sigh and gets to his feet. "Well, all
right, but -"  He stops, frowning sharply at the food congealing on his
plate.

"What?" Wade asks, alarmed.  "Is it your side?"

"No."  The singer looks down the table at the diffident man seated at its
head.  "No God, huh?"

Methos looks back, expressionless.  "No God."

"Well, we'll see about that."  With an air of determination, Rembrandt
clears his throat of raw potato, fills his diaphragm with sparkling air, and
begins to sing.

Everyone is surprised by his choice.

"Amazing grace," he sings, "how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch, like
me -"

His voice may lack the power and resonance of the great vocalists, but as a
fan of his once said, he has the ability to feel a song deeply - and there
isn't a person in the audience, mortal or immortal, who hasn't the ability
to hear and understand the lonely, aching, beautiful longing of the music
and the man who sings them.

Unnerved, Methos leaves his seat to stand at the window, his back to the
room.

"I once was lost," Rembrandt sings, "but now I'm found -"

Blindly, Methos stares toward the distant, shadowy mountains.  He hasn't
considered it until now:  in a world without God, without Xanadu, there can
be no refuge, no sanctuary.

No holy ground.

"Was blind, but now, I see."

The final vowel lingers in the air like perfume.

Wade and Arturo break into applause.  "Well?" Wade asks her double eagerly.

Wedra's eyes are two dark saucers.  "I never heard anything like that," she
says wonderingly.  "Why on earth do you do it?"

"God!"  The word, bursting from Methos, is not an answer but an emotion.  He
turns back to the group gathered around the table and speaks through angry,
clenched teeth.  "Give it up.  They'll never understand.  All we can do is
try to get the hell away from this godforsaken world."

As if in reply, the dining room door opens, and Quinn enters.

"We've got trouble," he announces grimly.

* * * * *

The sun has disappeared behind an ominous dark cloud, and a cold wind
penetrates into Duncan's very bones.  It is autumn here, the edge of winter.
Just as it is back home.

Home.  The word rings as chill and hollow as the air.  His mind cannot
reconcile what he sees with what he feels.  He knows this is home, even more
home than the Glenfinnan he was raised in, but he feels . . . disconnected
from it.  There should be a town there, to the east.  He should be able to
follow a road from here into that town.  He should be able to follow that
road into that town to a pub.  He should be able to walk into that pub and
enjoy a welcoming hug from Rachel, a satisfying mug of ale, and the
comforting sight of his father's sword hanging on a post.

He should be able to continue on that road out of that town, to a field
dotted with gravestones.  He should be able to kneel by those gravestones
and touch the name of his father, and his mother.

He hears the whisper of her skirts behind him.  His stomach tightens.

"I'm sorry I had to leave you," Dalleya says.  "The duties of a kheln leader
never stop, even for the homecoming of its heir."

Inwardly, Duncan recoils.  Not yet, he thinks.  NOT YET.

Outwardly, he asks tautly, "Where are my friends?"

"They are taking the noon meal.  Do you wish to join them?"

"No."  His stomach revolts at the thought. "I'm not hungry."   Desperately,
he searches for something to say, something neutral and safe, but there is
no such possibility.  Taking a deep breath, he plunges in.  "How did you
know -"

She answers smoothly, pretending not to notice the way his voice has broken.
"I was at the Council meeting yesterday.  The moment I saw you, I knew who
you were.  You have my coloring, but you have your father's build.  His
voice.  His air of command."

He stiffens on feeling her hand slip into his.  Her palm is cool, her
fingers strong, as she lifts his hand to her cheek.  "His hands," she
murmurs.

They are almost of a height, so Duncan is able to look directly into the
eyes so like his own.  She meets his gaze steadily, sensing the question he
cannot voice.  "Your father was defeated over two hundred years ago," she
says composedly.  "I have ruled alone since then."  A smile warms her
features.  "Until now."

The hair on his forearms prickles.  From across the expanse of moor comes a
cautionary rumble of thunder.

"Come," Dalleya says.  "Let me show you."

Stupefied, Duncan lets her draw him inside the raw stone castle, through the
vacant entrance hall, down an echoing, monotonous corridor.

Her manservant, a Scot if ever Duncan saw one, is standing mournful sentinel
outside a door at the end of the passageway.  He accepts his ladyship's
cloak on one arm, and opens the door with the other.

His eyes meet Duncan's.  About to inquire about his friends, Duncan allows
the question to fade unspoken on seeing the expression in the man's eyes.

The last time he saw such bleak hatred in a man's eyes was Culloden.  And
they were his own eyes.

Dalleya's hand is on his arm.  "Come," she urges, and walks into the room.
Duncan watches the manservant take his leave, and then turns to follow her.

It is the largest room in the castle, and the coldest.  An old fireplace,
long unused, takes up the far wall.  Over the hearth hangs an old-fashioned
metal sword, its blade rusted and its hilt tarnished.

The rest of the room is better cared for.  On a desk near the windows sits a
modern computer and videophone.  Two chairs, worn but clean, face the
windows, through which can be seen the rugged expanse of the Highlands,
bathed in a gray November light.

An oak table takes up the center of the room, and it is to this that Dalleya
leads him.    Expecting her to conjure some refreshment, Duncan does not
even look at the table until she gestures to it.

It is not a table.  The oak comprises a frame for a panel, like the one in
the Monitor's cave.  But instead of strange gold glimmers, the panel is
illuminated with a map.

He recognizes the lands right away.  There is Scotland.  England. Wales.  In
one corner, Ireland.  In the other, the coastline of France.  At the bottom,
the straits of Gibraltar and the uppermost ridge of Spain.

Only, on this map those divisions do not exist.  The land he knows as France
is colored yellow.  Spain is red.  Ireland, green.  The island he knows as
Britain, Wales, and Scotland is blue.

Dalleya runs a finger along the length of the blue island.  "This," she
says, "is the province of the Kheln Bretanne.  Our land."

Her free hand rests on his shoulder.  "Your land."

Wildly, Duncan suppresses the urge to break into a chorus of "This land is
your land, this land is my land."  And then, he wishes he had not resisted
the impulse, for mockery would have vanquished the long-dormant ambitions
that flood him with exultation as fierce as firewater.

England - Wales - Scotland -

Scotland!

They all belong to HIM!

He has known it, he has always known this is to be his destiny.  As a boy he
knew it, scrabbling over rocks, his cousin Robert at his heels and the other
children down below, all shouting and laughing and finally cheering as with
a great leap he scales the last boulder and dances along the top of the
ridge, the victor and king for the day.  As a young man he knew it, standing
alongside his father in his tartan blue with his sword in his hands, riding
alongside him, fighting alongside him, dying . . .

Dalleya is talking.  With great difficulty, Duncan focuses on what she is
saying.  " . . . eighty thousand peasants in the southernmost region, who
produce the bulk of our most lucrative commodities, meat and grain and
cloth.  They are also the most difficult to maintain control over, which is
why a full two-thirds of our army are stationed there permanently.  Just
this morning, when I was called away, it was to deal with another uprising
-"

"STOP!" Duncan chokes.  "Just - stop!"

Reeling like a man with a fever, he pushes her away and stumbles for the
door, away from her, away from that brilliant map and its seductive promise
of riches and power and -

"Declan!"

He stops, thoroughly disoriented.  It is his mother's voice, his mother
Mary's voice, Mary MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and she is passing him a
sword, she is saying, "This belongs to you."

Only it is not Mary MacLeod, for she did not shimmer like blue light and
walk like an empress, and the sword she passed to him was not stained with
neglect and disuse.

And other things.  Duncan stares at the sword Dalleya has removed from the
hearth and placed in his hands. Crudely fashioned and unevenly balanced, it
weighs heavily on his palms, and now he can see that what he thought was
rust is, in fact, the stain of blood.  Old blood.

Painfully, he squeezes out a question.  "Why are the peasants rebelling
against you?"

She is obviously surprised.  Shrugging, she tries to dismiss the problem.
"We can discuss the matter later, when you have -"

The touch of steel against her neck suspends her speech.  "No," Duncan says
in a voice not to be argued with.  "Tell me now."

She does not flinch.  She answers with the level, unblinking confidence of a
queen.  "The usual reason.  Taxes."

Of course.

Methos tried to warn him, back in the Monitor's cavern.  In a world where
people live and breathe power forever, a man can lose his soul in a matter
of moments.

The sword slips off her shoulder, coming to rest at Duncan's side.

Dalleya smiles indulgently.  "Declan --"

Again, he cuts her off with brutal abruptness.  "No.  My name -"

Inside, he feels a familiar hum, like a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"My name is Duncan," he says, with fierce and final resolve.  "Duncan
MacLeod."

The door opens, and Methos, surrounded by mortal friends, finishes for him:
"Of the Clan MacLeod."

* * * * *

Quinn waits until the door has closed behind Dalleya to spread his discovery
on the map table.  The others - Methos, Wade, Rembrandt, the professor -
circle around, while Duncan gently replaces a disgraced sword over an empty
hearth.   "Take a look," Quinn says. "I found it in the garbage."

"You were going through their trash?" Wade says, surprised.

"Yes, and you're not going to believe what I found." Quinn smoothes the
edges of the diagram he has unfolded.  "Look familiar, professor?"

Arturo slips on his glasses and inspects the paper.  "It looks like -"
Startled, he looks up.  "Good God.  This is a blueprint for a sliding
machine."

"I know," Quinn says.  "Somebody in this castle has been trying to
reconfigure a means for crossing the Einstein-Rosen-Pudalski bridge."

"Wait a minute," Wade interrupts.  "Are you saying that Dalleya -"

"Not Dalleya," Quinn corrects her.  "I recognize the handwriting.  The only
person who could have written these equations is our old friend, the
Monitor."

The blood rushes to Methos's face as all eyes turn toward him.  "Don't look
at me," he protests.  "I've never even met the bloody sod."

"Don't you see what this means?" Wade addresses herself to the group.  "The
Monitor has to have been here, in this castle, sometime over the last few
days."

"But if he has our timer," Rembrandt asks, "why does he need to build
another sliding machine?"

Their eyes fall, as one, to the mysterious diagram.  No one has an answer
until, with a fateful sigh, Methos reaches into his pocket and dumps his
father's invention in front of them.  "This might be the reason," he says.
"It doesn't work."

Quinn grabs the timer up.  "What do you mean, it doesn't work?"

"Back in the cavern, I tried to activate it.  I got nothing, not a beep, not
a hum, not a thing.  I don't know if it's broken, or what -"

The professor frowns at the problem.  "The Monitor might have designed it to
be used only once -"

"Or by one person only," Methos says with a glance across the room at
MacLeod.  "The idea had occurred to me."

Grim-faced, Duncan joins them at last.  "It doesn't matter," he says to
Methos.  "We can still slide through the geyser.  We all can, if it comes
down to that."  With a shake of his head, he directs them back to business.
"The point is, we know the Monitor was, and still might be here."

Wade makes up her mind.  "I'm going to talk to Wedra, see if she knows
anything."

"Wait," Duncan orders.  "Let's not go running off in all directions without
a plan.  If the Monitor is here, we don't know if he's a guest or a
prisoner.  For all we know, Kazakh was telling the truth, and the Monitor
*was* kidnapped by a kheln leader.  This one."

Carefully, Methos comments, "I guess the chat with Mommie Dearest didn't go
so well."

"That's neither here nor there," Duncan snaps.  "What matters is we don't
have much time, and we need to use that time well."

"He's right," Rembrandt agrees.  "It's a big castle.  They could have hidden
him anywhere."

"I still think Wedra will talk to me," Wade insists.

"Good," Duncan says.  "Only be careful how you ask the questions.  Make it
seem as if you're just curious about other guests at the castle.  Professor,
you go with her.   Meanwhile, Quinn and Rembrandt can begin a very discreet
search of the grounds.  Start with the basement, and work your way up."

No one questions his authority.  "What about us?"  Methos asks quietly.

"We," Duncan says bluntly, "are going to have an audience with the Queen."

* * * * *

With surprisingly little difficulty, Wade and Arturo locate their young
rescuer in a courtyard behind the castle.  Having changed into a tunic with
leggings, Wedra is engaged in a practice bout with a handsome young man
similarly armed and dressed.

Watching the young woman so like his traveling companion execute a series of
intricate and potentially deadly moves with a wand of electricity, Arturo
comments, "Ah, the benefits of a sound educational system.  It warms my old
teacher's heart."

Drily, Wade points out, "Some of those benefits saved your butt this
morning, Professor."

He concedes the point graciously.  "Quite true, Miss Welles."

Their voices draw the attention of Wedra, and she narrowly misses losing a
hand due to the distraction.  Annoyed, her opponent pulls back and turns off
his elsword.  During their heated exchange, Wade says to the professor in a
low voice, "Why don't you give my double and me a few moments alone first?"

"What are you thinking?"

The handsome, annoyed young man is packing away his elsword in a bag.  Her
eyes on Wedra, Wade murmurs, "I'm thinking we should have a little girl
talk."

Arturo nods.  "I'll be close by," he says, and wanders off to examine with
great interest a bush on the edge of the courtyard.

The annoyed young man shoulders his bag and leaves.  Watching him, Wade
walks up to her double.  "Is that your trainer?" she asks.

"No."  Wedra wipes her face and neck with a towel taken from her own bag.
"Just another student."

"Even better."  Wade grins.  "Do you guys live in a dormitory or something?"

"A dormitory?"

"On my world, when we go away to college, the students live together in the
same building.  It's called a dormitory."  Seeing the blank look, Wade
continues:  "College is, well, I guess you could call it a sort of Level Ten
for reading and writing."

Impressed, Wedra says, "I guess it's really hard to get that far."

"Yes and no. Most of my friends went to college.  I was almost finished with
my degree when I got caught up in this sliding thing."

Thunder rumbles in the distance.  Wedra closes up her bag, and they begin
making their way back to the castle.  "Did you live in a dormitory?" Wedra
asks.

"No," Wade says. "My family lived really close to the school, so I just
stayed home."  Trying to be as casual as possible, she asks, "What about
you?  Is your family here?"

"My parents were defeated five years ago."

"Oh."  Wade pauses awkwardly.  "I'm sorry.  What happened?"

With matter-of-fact brevity, Wedra says,  "There was an uprising in my home
province.  My father and mother were the ringleaders.  After their defeat,
my wardship was sold to Dalleya, and I've been with her ever since."

Wade frowns.  "Sold?" she repeats distastefully.  "You mean Dalleya *owns*
you?"

"Of course.  My parents were peasants."  Wedra shifts the bag on her
shoulder.  "Why does that bother you?  Don't you belong to --"  She casts a
look back at the professor, who has paused to remove something from the sole
of his shoe.

"The professor?"  Wade gives a short incredulous laugh.  "Hardly.  On my
world, slavery is against the law.  People belong to *themselves.*"

Wedra chews her lip thoughtfully as they move into the castle, down a long
side passage.

Remembering her mission, Wade asks, "So you live here, at the castle?"

"Yes, with the other wards.  Our rooms are in the basement -"  Wedra smiles
brightly.  "I guess that would make it *our* dormitory."

"Do guests stay in the basement, too?" Wade inquires, adding with careful
indifference, "I just wondered where we'll be sleeping tonight -"

"You'll probably be put in the guest quarters on the second floor."

With even more care, Wade questions, "Are we the only guests?"

Wedra pauses at a door just shy of the entrance hall.  Her gaze falls to the
floor.  "Yes," she says tersely.   Then, as if compelled, she adds, "A man
arrived here a few days ago - I think - I was told he was a secret emissary
from the Reshier kheln.  No one was allowed to speak with him.  He - he
stayed alone in another part of the castle.  But he's gone now."

Containing her excitement, Wade glances back.  The professor has stopped to
examine the craftsmanship of another doorway.   "Well," she says to her
double, trying to hurry without hurrying.  "I guess I should let you get
back to work."

Wedra frowns.  Wade's heart skips.

With a surreptitious glance at the professor, Wedra says in a low voice,
"This college place.  What kind of reading and writing did you learn there?"

Wade's heart resumes its normal rhythm.  "All kinds.  We studied novels, and
plays, and poetry by all the great writers."

"Poetry."  Wedra sounds out the word.  "You mentioned that before, with the
others.  What is that?"

Wade smiles and squeezes her arm.  "I tell you what," she says
confidentially.  "Before we leave, I'll show you some poetry."

Without waiting for thanks, she hurries over to the professor, not seeing
the frown on her double's face change from confusion to concern.

* * * * *

Outside the door to his mother's chambers, Duncan pauses with his hand on
the knob.

"What's wrong?" Methos asks.

"I was just thinking -"  Duncan stares, unfocused, at the rough wooden grain
of the door.   "When we get inside, maybe you should check behind any wall
hangings."

Methos inclines his head forward. Blankly, he says, "I'm sorry?"

"Hamlet."

"Ah, yes."  Methos nods.  "How sharper than a serpent's tooth and all that."

Irritated, Duncan says, "That's Lear."

"Oh, right."  Crossing his arms, Methos slouches against the wall to get a
look at his friend's expression.   "Hamlet was the one with the mirror."

Duncan releases a short laugh.  "What a rogue and peasant slave you are," he
says, and opens the door.

The room is dark, the windows covered.  A single light illuminates the scene
- a gold teardrop-shaped pendulum hung over the bed.

Dalleya is standing in profile, her brown eyes unblinkingly held by the

pendulum.  Her blue gown has been discarded into a heap on the floor, and
she is dressed in an ivory sheath, her long hair flowing in brown ripples
over bare, vulnerable arms.

Instead of being embarrassed at coming upon her undressed, Duncan is too
struck by the youthfulness of her appearance to think of anything else.  She
must have died in her mid-twenties, he realizes.  Quinn's age.

But actually he has no idea how old she is.  And while the pensive look on
her face has struck a chord of empathy in him, he knows that her air of
vulnerability could be as deceptive as her youth.  That's the way with
royalty.

She makes no move as he quietly approaches her.  Gesturing with his head at
the gold light, he asks, "What is that?  We saw one in the Monitor's cave as
well."

"It's you," she replies, expressionless.  "As long as you live, that light
will shine."

Duncan looks back.  Methos has taken a chair by the door and sits with his
elbows on his knees, his eyes on his clasped hands.  Of course, Duncan
thinks.  He knew all along.

He takes a deep breath.  "Mother," he says gravely.  "May we talk?"

She shakes off her reverie.  "Certainly," the leader of the kheln responds,
and with a clap of her hands turns on the wall lights in the room.  She
picks up the gown from the floor and carries it to the closet.

In the sudden illumination, Duncan sees something that had been hidden from
him in the darkness.  On the wall opposite the pendulum hangs the portrait
of a man.

It is an amateurish affair, the artist apparently lacking subtlety and
style.  The body is off-center, the head is too large, and the brush are
strokes too bold, but there is enough verisimilitude to give a sense of the
man who was its subject:  the square set of his jaw, the angry frown on his
brow, the curve of his fist on the hilt of the sword --

Buttoning up a fresh gown, Dalleya notices her son's distraction.  "Leonid
was a great warrior," she says, coming up beside him.  "Strong and decisive.
He held the kheln for nearly 800 years before he was defeated."

At this, Methos looks up.  There is something missing from her voice. A
warmth, a sense of sorrow and loss.

Duncan has heard it, too.  "But was he a good leader?"

"He achieved Level Eight," she says in the same disengaged tone, giving her
son more of an answer than she realizes.

Duncan has to turn away to hide the nausea.  No, not Hamlet, he thinks.
MacBeth.

In the silence, Methos coughs.   "Yes," Duncan says to him, shaking his head
clear of Elizabethan echoes.  "I know."

Facing the woman he refuses to call Mother again, he says bluntly, "We need
to see the Monitor."

Dalleya returns to her closet and unhooks a cloak, of the same rich blue but
lined with fur.  With unhurried efficiency, she drapes herself in it.  "I
have a meeting with my generals."

"It can wait."

"No, it cannot."

"It must."

Icily, she lashes back: "You are not the leader of this kheln yet, my son."

And there it is, Duncan thinks.  There it is at last.  The voice not of the
wounded mother seeking the comfort and help of her only son, but the
imperious sovereign commanding obedience to her authority.

Somewhere deep in his soul, disappointment sounds like a single toll of an
iron bell.

She would have swept out of the room, but Methos anticipates and bars her
exit by stepping neatly in front of the door.

"Take us to my father," he orders with low, sinuous menace.  "Or we go to
Kazakh and provide him with evidence that *you* kidnapped the Monitor."

"You don't have any evidence," she says scornfully.

"Oh, but we do," Methos assures her, his tone shifting neatly from menace to
mockery.  "You really should do something about the waste disposal system on
this world.  Extraordinary things are left in the trash for enterprising
young boy geniuses to find."

She is still, obviously gauging the merits of his threat.  "You're lying."

"No, he's not," Duncan says.  Sensing that she will not be moved unless the
danger is more immediate and personal, he presses in closer, lowering his
voice.  "But do you think Kazakh is going to believe the woman whose son
killed his chance to win the Game?"

She moves away sharply, her instincts leading her to the portrait of her
husband.  Facing his indomitable frown, she speaks with strained composure.
"You defeated Kazakh's son."

"His name on our world was Khan," Duncan says, deliberately stressing the
`our.'  "Genghis Khan.  He was a brutal killer, without remorse or
compassion, responsible for the deaths of thousands of people."  Again,
Duncan closes the gap between them.  "And, yes, I defeated him. Only I
didn't do for a prize - I didn't do it to inherit a kingdom or a kheln.  I
did it because it was the *right* thing to do."

Grabbing her arms, he forces her to face him.  "Can you understand that?
Do you have any concept of right and wrong in this world?  Of justice, and
free will, and the right of every man to determine his own destiny?"

He cannot read the look in her eyes, part fear, part anger, part something
he cannot understand.  In the silence, Methos speaks low and clear:  "`Oh,
shame, where is thy blush?'"

He moves forward and sets a hand on Duncan's shoulder.  "Give up the battle,
my friend," he says.  "The mirror has broken. Damnant quod non intelligunt."

Duncan releases her.  "Yes," he says.  He is deeply tired.  "You're right.
It's hopeless."

His hand is on the door knob when her voice stops them.  "I didn't kidnap
him."

Stiff-backed and fiercely imperial, her dark eyes glitter with unshed tears
as she faces her son.  "I rescued him."

* * * * *

"You know what I'm thinking, Q Ball?"

Quinn stops his search of what feels like the hundredth room of the castle
basement to look at the man standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips.
"You're thinking this is a huge waste of time," Quinn guesses.

Rembrandt nods.  "We've been at this for an hour, and all we've found is a
bunch of dirty mattresses and some nasty-looking rats."  A shiver runs
through the singer, and he crosses his arms defensively.  "And I *hate*
rats."

"Yeah," Quinn says.  "It makes you wonder, though."

"Wonder what?"

"If the bioelectricity of this world makes the *people* immortal -"

"It could make the RATS immortal?!"

Quinn laughs.  "Probably not.  Different immune systems."

"Well, thank the good lord for small favors."  A noise down the hall catches
Rembrandt's attention.  Quickly, he slips into the room and shuts the door.
The two of them wait, silent, as booted feet pass the room and recede into
the distance.

Breathing again, Quinn says, "There has to be a better way to search this
place."

"I'm open to any ideas, especially if they mean getting out of this
basement."

Quinn thinks.  "The Monitor has to eat, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Which means someone is preparing his food and serving it to him."

"On this world?  He probably slips out the back door and digs up a turnip in
the garden."

"Not if he's a prisoner."

Understanding, Rembrandt smiles.  "You just might have something there, Q
Ball."   Without checking the hallway, he opens the door.  "We should stake
out the kitche-"

The kick knocks across the room and sends him sprawling backward, on the
dirty mattress.

Quinn grabs Wedra's arm and wrenches it behind her.  "What the hell are you
doing?" he demands.

She struggles mightily against him, but before she can answer, a loud groan
from the other side of the room gets Quinn's attention.

"Remmy!"  Quinn pushes Wedra aside and bends down to his friend.  "What is
it?  Is it your wound?"

Rembrandt nods convulsively.  "I sure do hate this world," he gasps. "It's
hell on my wardrobe."  Looking down, he pushes his jacket aside and reveals
his bloody shirt.

"How did that happen?"  Wedra says, amazed.

Frantically pulling the blanket off the mattress, Quinn doesn't bother to
answer her.  "We have to stop the bleeding," he says to Rembrandt tersely.
The singer nods once, quickly, and Quinn presses the cloth against the
wound.

When Rembrandt moans in pain, Quinn directs his anger to Wedra. "Why the
hell did you attack us?"

"You were in my room."  Wedra kneels beside him, watching his ministrations
with fascination.

"Kick first, ask questions later?"  Rembrandt spits out.

"Yes."  She frowns.  "Are all of your people so fragile?"

"Only those who were already injured,"  Quinn snaps.

"Oh."  Wedra looks at Rembrandt, her eyes large with apology.  "I'm sorry.
I didn't know."

"It's OK, sweetheart," he grimaces.  "Better my gut than my head."

Tentatively, Quinn lifts the blanket.  Blood spurts through the gash, and he
hurriedly reapplies pressure.  "We've got to find a doctor."

"On this world?" Rembrandt painfully stifles a laugh.  "Ain't no such animal
here, Q Ball."

"There has to be *someone* --"  Desperately, Quinn appeals to Wedra.  "Is
there anyone here who can help us?"

Cringing, Wedra says, "I don't know - I -"

Rembrandt moans.

Her eyes filling, she whispers,  "Maybe."

* * * * *

In another woman's room, a man who was once a doctor and a man who was once
a prince listen to a story.

"Several years ago," Dalleya tells them, "I received a letter from the
Monitor.  He told me that for some time the signals from his son and mine
had been in close proximity without a victory for either one.  He
hypothesized the two of you had become friends."  A ghost of a smile passes
over her as she remembers.   "Melchek was delighted.  Apparently, it had
been years, decades even, since his son's signal approached another of his
kind."

Methos feels MacLeod's gaze on him, but he keeps his own rigidly fixed on
the woman as she continues:  "We began a correspondence, and soon became
friends ourselves."

With calculated detachment, Methos asks, "Are you lovers?"

She is equally dispassionate.  "No.  The Council selects the Monitor's
female companions, and they have final approval if he should decide to take
a new wife.  As a kheln leader, I am not eligible for either honor.  They
fear I would influence the Game in favor of my son."

"Would you?"

"Of course," she replies evenly.  "I have already."

"That's why you protected Quinn and the others,"  Duncan deduces.  "Why you
took them to the Monitor."

She shrugs.  "I never expected anything to come of it.  When I saw how much
the girl resembled Wedra, I thought there was a small chance they were
telling the truth.  I managed to smuggle them into the cavern, and Melchek
and I agreed that if he was able to use their technology, he would return
both our sons to our world."

"Then what happened?"

"Kazakh learned that the Monitor was no longer alone.  He sent in the
Council guards, but by then your friends had departed and he had no proof of
any interference.  He told the Council he was mistaken and that he would
return the Monitor to his post."

"But he didn't."

"No.  He transported the Monitor to his home province."

Methos murmurs to Duncan, "Like son, like father."

"When I did not hear from Melchek at the arranged time," Dalleya says, "I
knew something was wrong.  I was able to trace the movements of Kazakh's men
-"

" -- and you sent in the cavalry," Duncan finishes for her.

"The cavalry?" she repeats.

He waves the word away as of no importance.  "You rescued him."

"Yes."

"And hid him away."

"Yes."

"Where?"

Unblinking brown eyes meet unblinking brown eyes.  "If I tell you," Dalleya
says with breathless, careful logic, "you will leave."

Duncan answers with equal clarity.  "If you tell me," he offers gravely, "I
will stay."

"MacLeod!"

Duncan's eyes never leave his mother.  "I know what I'm doing, Methos."

"Like hell you do!"  The knife, still sticky with carrot juice, has been at
his fingertips through the whole interview, so he is able to encircle
Dalleya's velvet-draped neck and point the edge to her pulsing artery before
her son has a chance to move.

"Methos, don't!" Duncan cries.

"I've told you before, MacLeod," says the son of Melchek.  "Chivalry is
dead.  I won't let you sacrifice yourself to this bitch for me or anyone
else."  His hands grip the knife tightly as he murmurs directly into her
ear:  "Where is my father?"

They have forgotten that the immortals of this world cannot be sensed.  They
have forgotten the chamber door is behind them.

They do not hear the door open.

"I'm here, my son," says the Monitor.



------------------------------------
Subject: Quantum, Sixth and End
Date: Sun, 11 Jun 2000 00:43:24 EDT
From: Mailinb@aol.com
------------------------------------

Once, centuries earlier, a doctor named Adams rode out a hurricane in the
back room of a New Orleans brothel.  All night long, wind and water pounded
against the walls of their shelter with the force of a battering ram, while
in his arms shivered a woman who just hours before had given birth, with his
help,  to the infant cradled in her own arms.

It wasn't the first time the doctor had faced the violent fury of nature.
It wasn't even the most recent.  But the event stayed with him.  Not the
total blackness of the night, the ceaseless screaming of the wind, the
trembling of the new mother, or the resounding crash of the brothel's roof
giving way in the front room.

It was the dawn he remembered the most vividly, when the eye of the storm
passed over them.  The wind died.  Sunlight broke through the clouds.  He
and the women picked their way through the shambles of the front room,
knowing it was a brief respite, that soon the storm would return, even
stronger than before.  Most of the women were crying, hysterical, as they
searched for their belongings.  The doctor himself was quite rattled.  Only
one person was calm:  the new mother, who sat serenely in the midst of the
chaos and nursed her infant for the first time.

That image is what he recalls now, as he bends over the injured man and
composedly examines the damage.  In the next room, formerly the chambers of
the defeated Leonid and now  (he has learned) the hiding place of the
fugitive Monitor, the storm rages.  Soon it will descend on him again, but
right now his only concern is his patient.

"The bleeding has stopped," Methos tells Rembrandt.  Even he is surprised by
the level calm of his voice.

Relieved, Rembrandt asks, "Am I going to need new stitches?"

"No."  There is a knock on the door.  "Too much risk of infection," Methos
explains as he lets in the gloomy manservant, who carries hot water and
bandages.

"So what can you do?"

Methos dismisses the servant and sets up the water and bandages on the
bedside table. "Remove the remaining stitches, clean the wound, bind it as
tightly as possible.  When you get to the next world, you should see a
doctor right away for antibiotics."  He sits on the bed and looks at
Rembrandt.  "Ready?"

Rembrandt grimaces and nods, but holds his tongue as the immortal gets to
work.

Time slows down, for both of them.  For Rembrandt, the world consists of the
pain in his side and the reassuringly deft fingers of his companion.  For
Methos, the world is skin, and blood, and water.

In the next room, the world is exploding.

* * * * *

It begins with a slap.

Quinn catches Wedra as the force of her mistress's blow sends her spinning.
"She was trying to help us!"  he yells.

Dalleya ignores him.  "You stupid, stupid girl!" she rages.  "You pathetic
little peasant!  Have you any idea what you have done?"

"The mortal was hurt!" Wedra cries under the shelter of Quinn's arm.  "He
could have died!"

"You should have let him!"

Duncan grabs his mother's wrist to prevent a second blow.  She struggles to
wrench it free but, recognizing her son's superior strength, gives up
ungraciously.

"Quinn," Duncan says grimly, holding fast.  "Take the girl out.  Give her
the diagram you found.  She can use it to guarantee her safety once we're
gone."

Quinn moves to the door, his arm protectively around the shocked and tearful
Wedra.  "You got it," he says.  "Then I'll round up Wade and the professor,
if you can make sure  -"

Glancing at the window where a man stands, aloof and alone, Duncan assures
Quinn, "He's not going anywhere."

Quinn leaves.  Forcefully, Duncan shoves away the woman who bore him.

"You sicken me," he says. "This whole world sickens me.  You're given
centuries of life, and this is what you make of it?"

"I've risked everything for you!"  Dalleya screams.  "Everything!  But all
you care about are those weak, pathetic mortals who can't even live a single
century!"

"Those weak, pathetic mortals," Duncan informs her acidly, "can achieve more
in a half-century than you can in a millennium.  From what I have seen, all
you do is kill each other.   They, on the other hand, chart the oceans and
the heavens and the secrets of human existence.  While you battle for a
stretch of barren moor, they have walked on the moon!"

"And what good does it do them?" Dalleya counters with a scornful flip of
her velvet cloak.  "When they die as easily as insects?"

"I wouldn't insult insects if I were you, milady," Duncan says, scathingly.
"The insect arrived on this world long before your kind, and will be here
long after you are gone."

"MY kind?"  She is apoplectic with rage.  "YOU are my kind!  You are my son!
And you will rule beside me as you were born to do!"

"Thanks but no thanks," her son defies her contemptuously.  "I'll take the
world of mortal peasants over this place any day."

An exquisitely cultured voice interrupts.  "Is this true?" the Monitor asks
politely.  "Do you prefer the world of mortal beings to your own?"

Duncan has forgotten he is there.  Cursing his own temper, he faces the man
he promised to keep watch over.

In the confusion of his arrival, with Quinn and Wedra carrying in the
bleeding Rembrandt and the infuriated Dalleya attacking her ward, Duncan
hardly took note of the man.  Clamping down his anger, he does so now.

He is obviously the father of Methos.  They have the same aquiline face, the
same verdant eyes, the same ascetic manner.  He even looks old enough to
have fathered Methos, his eyes lined with wrinkles and his temples silvered
with gray.  In a long homespun robe, like a monk's, he exudes the dignity of
mature age.

But what draws Duncan's gaze and suspends his pulse is what he sees hanging
around the man's neck.  It is the first and only accessory he has seen in
this world:  an amulet in the shape of a Watcher symbol.

With difficulty, he finds his voice to answer the man's question.  "Yes, I
do prefer my adopted world.  Very much."

"How can you say that?" Dalleya demands.  "Here you have a chance to rule
not just a province but the entire world."

Facing her again, he finds his fury has spent itself, and with clearer eyes
he can now see the tears standing in her eyes, tears less of anger than
grief.   "I don't expect you to understand," he says heavily.

"And you don't care enough to even try?"

He struggles for the words, for the language that will put meaning to those
vague, amorphous things called beliefs.  "The people of that other world -
they're not perfect, by any means.  Many are just like you, consumed only
with themselves, driven by the desire for more power or wealth or whatever
for their own needs."

He turns to the man who, having watched countless gold lives shine and fade,
might be able to comprehend.   "But there are others, a great many others
who have taught me that there is something larger that we are *all* a part
of, man and woman, adult and child, monarch and peasant, and that we are all
beholden to it, and to each other."

Familiar green eyes narrow, not with anger but perplexity.  "`Beholden,'"
the Monitor repeats.  "The word is unfamiliar, but I can gain the meaning
from the context in which you used it.  If things are as you say, would it
not follow that your kheln is also part of this something larger?  And if
so, are you not also beholden to it, and the woman who leads it?"

Starkly, Duncan says, "I should have liked to have been."

"Then why aren't you?"

"I can answer that."

Wiping his hands, Methos enters and comes to stand before his friend.  His
proud eyes on the tall Scot, he says, "`For he on honeydew hath fed, and
drunk the milk of Paradise.'"

Quiet descends.

"Well," the Monitor says with a regretful sigh.  "I suppose I owe you and
your mortal friends an apology."

"Why?" Duncan asks suspiciously.

"Because," the scientist answers, "we have lost the interdimensional gateway
out of this world."  His eyes linger on his son.  "Forever."

* * * * *

"Miss Welles," Professor Arturo says with some urgency from the door of the
map room, "I believe someone is coming."

"I'm hurrying as fast as I can," Wade answers.  She is seated at the desk,
her eyes on the computer screen.  "It's not easy when you don't know what
you're looking for."

"It's quite simple.  We need any information that will provide a clue to the
Monitor's current location."

Wade shoots him a look.  "Gee, thanks, Professor," she mutters.  "That
really narrows it down - oh, wait a minute.  This might be something."

Arturo abandons his post to inspect her discovery. "A cleaning schedule?" he
reads in surprised exasperation.  "We aren't in search of a *maid,* Miss
Welles."

"I know, I know,  but look at the rooms listed for cleaning yesterday.  The
dining hall, the kitchen, and -"  She taps a fingernail on the screen.  "The
*master's* chambers."  She smiles at the professor.  "Last time I checked,
this kheln had no master."

Pleased, he squeezes her shoulder.  "Nice work, Miss Welles.  Now, we should
track down Quinn and Rem-"

"Don't bother," Quinn interrupts.  He hurries inside.  "We found the
Monitor.  He's upstairs with Duncan."

Disturbed by the fact that Quinn's tone does not match the goodness of his
news, the professor asks, "What's wrong?"

"Rembrandt re-injured himself.   It's all right," he says quickly.  "It
turns out Wade's kidnapper is also a doctor.  But even so, I don't know how
Remmy can handle another slide."

Arturo sighs.  "Well, you managed with a bullet hole in your back.  Mr.
Brown will just have to -"

He is interrupted by a loud beep.  The three of them look around, startled,
until Wade identifies the source.  "It's the videophone."

The device beeps again.  With a gleam of mischief, she asks, "Should we?"

"Of course not," Arturo says.

"No way," Quinn says.

She punches the "on" button, as they quickly stand behind her.

An Asian woman's face appears on the screen.

"Hello," Wade says brightly.  "I'm sorry, but Dalleya can't come to the
phone right --"

The woman breaks in:  "This message is for all members of the Tournament
Council. Council Leader Kazakh has abandoned his post and commandeered the
Tournament Portal.  Molecular transport into the cavern has been blocked,
and he is refusing communication.  An emergency meeting of the Council will
commence in two hours."

There is a pause.  In response, Quinn says awkwardly, "Uh, thank you.  We'll
pass that infor -"

Again, the woman interrupts:  "This message is for all members of the
Tournament Council.  Council Leader Kazakh has abandoned his post -"

Wade hits the "off" button, and the woman's face blinks out.  "Must be a
recording."

"How very odd," the professor says.  "Whatever could have possessed the
man?"

"Yeah," Wade says.  "What could he possibly do stuck in that cavern?"

The answer occurs to them simultaneously.  "Slide," they say as one.

"He must have learned that Duncan defeated his son," Quinn speculates.  "His
kheln has lost its chance to rule this world."

With thoughtful severity, the professor agrees.  "And now the conqueror
seeks a new world to subdue, by sliding through the geyser -"

"No," Duncan tells them from the doorway.  "Not with the geyser."

Suspended with sudden dread, they wait for him to finish.

"With your timer."

* * * * *

While Rembrandt sleeps lightly, Methos delicately lifts his shirt to check
the bandage.  It is clean, with no evidence of seepage.  He lowers the
shirt, and with equal care, places the back of his hand against the injured
man's forehead.  The skin is cool.  No fever.  It's a good sign that
infection has yet to take hold.

He pulls the coverlet up gently and looks at the man who is standing at the
foot of the bed and watching him with detached curiosity.

"You are a healer," Melchek observes.

"I was," Methos answers in a low voice. "Once.  I have been many things over
the last five thousand years."

Rembrandt moves under the blanket.  Motioning for quiet, Methos leads the
way out of the chamber, closing the door behind them with care.

He takes a breath and faces his father.  Alone at last.

Silence stretches between them, a vast, profound chasm that seems impossible
to bridge.  On some automatic level, Methos registers surprise that he is
not more disturbed by this moment, that he is not, like MacLeod, gripped
with the rage of blighted hope and shattered dreams.

But then, Duncan is still young, in immortal terms.   He still feels the
drive toward destiny and the desire for epiphany.  Whereas he, Methos, feels
only the distant echo of those needs.

It is a relief, he decides, to find himself so far removed from passion, so
immune to the intoxication of this world.  And he refuses to believe his
current impassive state is anything so mundane as denial.

With perfect composure, he asks his father, "Where are the others?"

The Monitor answers with a gesture toward the stairs, and they begin walking
toward them slowly.  Their strides match, the footsteps falling in perfect
sync.

"I would imagine this other world has a great need for healers," Melchek
remarks.

"They call them doctors," Methos says.  "And yes, they do.  They have
achieved extraordinary things in their struggle to extend human life."


"Your friend mentioned something about these mortals having discovered the
secrets of human existence."

"MacLeod was probably talking about the recent strides in human genetics,
the study of DNA, the mapping of the human genome.  A researcher right here
in Scotland has even cloned a sheep successfully."

"Cloned?"

"He used the animal's own genes to reproduce itself."

"That *is* remarkable.  Having met two of the scientists of that world, I
was aware of their progress in the advancement of physics, but I did not
realize it extended to other fields of inquiry."

They turn a corner.

"I'm curious," Methos says, relaxed enough by the neutrality of the
conversation to turn it toward the personal.  "Why did you set the timer so
that only I could activate it?"

"I could not risk Dalleya's son being the only one to return," Melchek
replies.  "I knew from your homing signal that you were in transit toward
him, so I directed the wormhole to open near his location.  I trusted that,
once the two of you united, you would somehow find the timer in your hands."

Methos pauses at the top of the stairs.  "So you did intend for *both* of us
to slide."

"Of course.  It was my hope that the presence of Declan - I mean, of your
friend Duncan - would make adjustment easier for you, once you returned."

"And now that we have?" Methos asks, trying but not fully succeeding in
keeping his voice even.  "Is MacLeod to be crowned champion?  Am I to be
retired with a medal and a pat on the back for the centuries I've spent as
this world's pawn?"

"That was not my intention."

"But that was my role, wasn't it?  I was never in the Game.  I was insurance
that you would fulfill your responsibilities as Monitor."

"No," Melchek replies, his voice hardening. "Your grandfather was a kheln
leader before his defeat.  In fact, it was he who first proposed the
Tournament.  Should you have been victorious, I would have been appointed as
Supreme Kheln Commander."

The air seems very still. There is a distant rumble of thunder.  With sudden
restlessness, Methos wonders if the storm that has been threatening all day
will ever arrive.  "So why bring me back?" he asks sardonically.  "I've
survived longer than any other immortal on that world.  Surely the odds that
you would win have increased dramatically."

"I have no desire to win.  When I agreed  to the tournament as a means of
quelling the conflict, my only motive was to stop the destruction of this
world's atmosphere.  I did not foresee the Council's actions, the lengths
they to which they would go to ensure my cooperation -"

The cool, cultivated voice breaks off, and long delicate fingers remove the
amulet from his neck and fumble to open it.

The circle opens, and Melchek holds it out for his son to see.

Inside is a picture of a woman.  She has finely drawn features and shining
light hair and eyes as soft and warm as a doe's.

"She tried to warn me," the scientist says.  "She was the daughter of a
kheln leader, and she knew what they would do to her, to you -"

She is smiling in the picture.  Smiling gently, winsomely, the smile of a
woman who knows that happiness is a brief as a breeze, that love lasts the
length of a storm's eye.   Methos touches the amulet, seeking a memory of
that smile from somewhere in the ancient corners of his mind.

Finding none, he seeks one now.  "Who ordered my mother's death?" he asks
hoarsely.

Melchek closes the amulet slowly.  "The leader of the Tournament Council."

"Who was -?"

"Kazakh has led the council since its inception."

Thunder rumbles in the distance.  Below, a door opens, and a moment later
Quinn appears at the foot of the stairs.  "Uh, guys?" he calls up to them.
"We need to talk."

* * * * *

Of the group gathered in the map room, only two notice the unsettled
vibrations of the two men, old and young, who follow Quinn into the room.
Wade senses it with the affinity of one who cares for both and feels
responsible for their being here.  Duncan senses it with the radar born of
long friendship and similar turmoil.  They watch the two men, and then
exchange long looks with each other.

Quinn, on the other hand, is far too angrily embroiled in recent events to
do little more than summarize them with fierce brevity.   "Kazakh has taken
over the cavern. He has our timer.  We think he wants to use our timer to
re-open the wormhole."

The Monitor shakes his head.  "It isn't possible."

"Why not?  Isn't that why you were trying to build a sliding machine?"

"Not like yours.  Yes, the basic design was similar, but your timer hasn't
the power needed to remove the obstruction."

"What obstruction?"

"Quinn -"  Duncan settles the young man with a hand on his arm.  "Why don't
we all have a seat and let the Monitor tell us what he knows?"

There aren't enough chairs.  Duncan and Melchek take the seats by the
window, while Wade slips quietly into the chair behind the desk.  Quinn
perches on the map table, his legs banging impatiently against the oak,
while the professor, equally agitated, paces in front of the fireplace.

Methos melts into the background, by the door, curling up inside his long
overcoat.

With difficulty, the Monitor tears his eyes away from his son and turns his
attention to Quinn.  "I shall try to explain with all due speed," he says
with stiff formality.  "When I first discovered the geyser, my only thought
was exploration.  I constructed a device, a cruder version of your timer but
with an increased gyroscopic frequency, that would enable me to enter the
wormhole and return after a set period of time."

"Wait a minute," Duncan says.  "I thought your wormhole was strictly one
way."

"Well, obviously, we were misinformed," Arturo points out acerbically,
"since we ourselves managed to slide back here in that very same wormhole."

Quinn raises a hand.  "No, wait, I get it," he says with the grim
satisfaction of an A student figuring out the correct answer to a question
he missed on an exam.  "The wormhole *is* one-directional, like a river that
flows one way.  But if a fish can swim upstream -"

"Then a person can slide upstream," Duncan says, nodding.

"Yes, indeed," the Monitor confirms.  "The difficulty comes when too many
fish swim upstream at the same time.  The river's flow is dammed --"  He
stops and waves away the analogy impatiently.  "As I said, I myself
traversed the wormhole initially as a simple expedition.  I spent a few days
exploring this other world, discovering to my great astonishment the limited
life span of its inhabitants -"

"Hold up," Duncan says abruptly.  "You're saying you've been to our world?"

"Certainly.   The kheln leaders would never have agreed to send their heirs
off into a void without knowing where they were going."

Duncan's head rears back, and his eyes fall to the silver circle around
Melchek's neck.  "You founded the Watchers."

Politely, the Monitor repeats:  "The Watchers?"

The Scot looks over at Methos but on finding his friend's attention focused
on the stone floor, he dismisses the topic.  "Never mind.  You were saying
you traveled to our world and -"

"Then I returned.  Unfortunately, the journey back proved quite difficult.
After a great deal of study, I determined that geyser would permit only one
person at a time to traverse it in the opposite direction.  Any more would
clog the portal with -"

"Photons," Quinn interrupts again.  "Of course.  Our photon trails clogged
the entrance. And all this time you've been trying to build a machine to
unclog the gateway."

"Yes," Melchek says simply.

"But why?" Duncan asks.  "You got what you wanted.  Methos and I are here,
and from all indications we are going to have to stay.  If the gateway is
closed, then the Game is forfeit."

The Monitor frowns.  "Closing the portal has had unforeseen consequences."

Somewhere nearby, lightning cracks explosively.  The hair on every immortal
in the room rises in response.

"At last," Wade breathes.  "That storm sure has taken its time getting
here."

"I'm afraid," Melchek says gravely, "it is more than just a storm."

Startled, the professor crosses to the window.  "Oh my good lord," he says
in voice of discovery.  "You stopped the drain."

"The what?" Wade asks.

Arturo presses a hand on the glass, as if trying to feel something inside
it.  "We've been so concerned with the properties of the wormhole, we
haven't taken time to consider its origins.  How it came to be formed in the
first place, the purpose it serves in this world's ecosystem."  He turns to
Melchek.  "It's a drain, isn't it?  An outlet for the electrical energies of
this world."

"Yes," the Monitor says.  "Without it, the atmosphere will completely ionize
and burn off before the decade ends.  Without it," he pauses to sigh, "we
are all doomed."

Quinn's leg bangs against the table one final time, like judgment.  "Talk
about your killer greenhouse effect," he says in horrified wonder.

"Well -"  Duncan swallows the mass strangling his throat.  "I guess that
means we have no choice.  We have to get into that cavern.  For all our
sakes."

"How?" Wade says.  "Kazakh has blocked molecular transport, and the entrance
is sealed with a hundred pounds of rock.  There's no way we can get in."

A voice from the doorway contradicts her.  "Sure there is."  Austere and
ruthless, Methos shoves his hands in his pockets and surveys the room.  "We
can do it the mortal way."

* * * * *

This time, they make sure they are better prepared.  Wrapped in fur-lined
blue cloaks and armed with humming silver swords, they troop into the
entrance hall of the castle and come facetoface with their hostess.  She is
pale and tremulous, but her back is straight and proud as she steps up to
her son.

Behind her, a melancholy manservant dejectedly holds his ladyship's cloak,
and a worried Wedra peruses the strained face of the man who leans on the
shoulder of her double.

Duncan glares at his mother.   "You cannot stop us, milady."

"I know."  Her brown gaze breaks off, and then returns with renewed resolve.
"I am aware of the situation, and I believe I can be of some assistance."

>From the general murmur of dissent among his companions, Duncan gathers
that her help is not welcome, but, caught by something in her eyes, he keeps
silent to hear her out.

"The cavern entrance is well-guarded," Dalleya says with more firmness.
"You will not be allowed within a mile of it.  They will defeat you on
sight."

"So what would you suggest?"

She glances at Melchek.  "The Council is meeting shortly.  With Kazakh's
abdication, leadership falls to Malegia of the Kheln Chinan.  She is a
reasonable woman, and she is a friend.  She will listen to me."

The cloaked figures behind him become very still.  Duncan finds his hand
gripping the handle of the elsword inside his cloak.   "What -"  he takes a
breath.  "What would you tell her?"

"Everything," she says quietly.

"You realize," Duncan says slowly, "that to tell her everything, you must
confess your interference in the Game?"

"It will not affect you," she answers steadily.  "After my execution, you
will assume your rightful place as leader of the kheln.  If you choose to
return to this other world, you can appoint a regent to serve in your
place."

Sometimes love comes upon one slowly, like a seed fed with soil and sun and
water that grows from root to stem to flower over the course of days.
Sometimes love comes with the suddenness of dawn, breaking from the horizon
and warming the night-chilled soul in a matter of minutes.

Duncan lifts his mother's hand and presses his lips warmly against it.

A mocking voice breaks in:  "And so `the election lights on Fortinbras.'"

Gripping his mother's fingers, Duncan frowns blackly at Methos, who raises a
hand to forestall the storm of angry words.  "I am merely saying," he
drawls, "that such noble sacrifice on the part of your noble mother is
entirely unnecessary.  Surely, MacLeod, you've spent enough time among
courts and kings to know that the events that change worlds are not designed
by virtuous men in the light of day but are crafted by devious men in dark
and smoky back rooms."

He turns to the lady.  "You say this Malegia is a reasonable woman.  I
assume that also means she is a practical one.  Would she consent to a
private audience with us before the Council meets?"

Dalleya exchanges a look with her son.  "Yes, she would."

"Excellent," Methos says.  "Then here's the plan.  Your happy manservant and
charming lady will assist our mortal friends in assembling certain items
that we require.  In the meantime, those of us who might live forever in
royal splendor or die in terrible agony within a decade will go in search of
a dark and smoky back room."

He looks around, inquiringly, at the stunned faces of his companions.  "Are
we agreed?"

The responses come with jerky explosiveness.  "Sure - you got it - whatever
you say - let's do it --"

Within minutes, the hall has cleared of all except a proud father and a
determined son.

Thoughtfully, Melchek says,  "Tell me something."

"Certainly," Methos says.

"Have the mortals of that world truly walked on the moon?"

"Walked," Methos replies, "and talked."

"Remarkable," his father breathes.

* * * * *

In the end, they find not a dark and smoky back room, but a large and
unheated council chamber, the pews empty of rainbow spectators and the chair
of leadership filled not with a squat, malevolent man but a small,
self-possessed woman who keeps one eye on her unscheduled visitors and the
other on the timepiece in her hand.

Dalleya does most of the talking, conceding the floor only to the Monitor
when the scientific nature of their dilemma requires his expert voice.
Through it all, Malegia listens with placid composure, her eyebrows raising
only twice - when Dalleya admits to having arranged for her son's return to
their world and when Melchek specifies the impending danger to their world's
existence.

Standing behind his mother, Duncan watches the new leader with growing
interest.

She is very old, he has learned, the oldest of the kheln leaders now that
Kazakh has abandoned his position.  Her province encompasses most of what he
knows as Manchurian China, adjacent to the mountains and steppes of Kazakh's
province of Mengol.  She is also, he has discovered, what his world would
call a lame-duck leader, her only child having been defeated in the
tournament some years back.   Even so, Dalleya has told him of the fierce
loyalty of her people and the deep respect of the other kheln leaders.

He thinks of these things as he watches her, as he notes the way she sits,
the way she holds her head, the shape of her face and her eyes and her
hands.

He watches her take a long, slow breath as Dalleya finishes her tale and
awaits a response.

Solemnly, Malegia shakes her head. "I am . . . amazed.  These are great and
terrible things."

She then frowns.  "But I do not understand the need for urgent action."  To
the Monitor, she says, "You are in the process of constructing a means to
re-open the gateway?"

"I am," Melchek assents.

"And the device that Kazakh is in possession of cannot be used to open our
gateway?"

"No."

Methos takes a step forward.  "We believe Kazakh intends to use it to escape
to another dimension."

"A very logical conclusion," Malegia agrees.  "What remains unclear to me is
why we should prevent him.  Once Kazakh departs this world, we should be
able to gain access to the cavern with relative ease, and the Monitor can
continue his work."

An awkward silence fills the cold room.  "There is the matter of our mortal
friends," Methos points out edgily.  "In just a few hours, they will be
stranded here -"

Malegia disposes of the matter with a wave of her hand.  "As Council leader,
I can ensure their safety.  The two scientists can be enlisted to aid the
Monitor.  The others can be suitably employed in one province or the other."
Her calm expression clouds with concern as she turns her attention to the
woman facing her.  "On the other hand, my friend, your safety is not so
easily -"

"No," Duncan says forcefully.  "I cannot believe you of all people can be
that callous about the fate of innocent people."

Disconcerted, and displeased, Malegia says, "I don't understand.  You don't
know me -"

"That's right," Duncan says.  "But I knew your daughter.  And I have to
believe the mother of May Ling Shen must be a woman of compassion and
integrity."

Blanching, she tries to rise to her feet, but her legs give way.  "You knew
-you knew my -"

"I knew her," Duncan says, "and I loved her."

He lowers his voice, easing the harshness.  "And if you help our friends,"
he promises, "I will you tell you of her."

* * * * *

For one hundred and seventy-three years, two months, eighteen days, three
hours, and twelve minutes, the immortal Jeffere has stood night watch on the
Almighty Tournament Portal Ground Entrance.

The job was not his first choice.  It wasn't even his last choice.  In point
of fact, he had no choice in the matter, once his wardship in the Kheln
Virganne was sold to the Kheln Califf.  His former master had been a man of
some patience and understanding, eager to promote the interest of a young
peasant boy in history.  His current master, however, found the boy rude and
presumptuous, and soon banished him to the most stultifyingly boring job in
the entire khelndom.

While at work, Jeffere is not permitted to read or write.  He is not
permitted to observe the occasional passing deer, or to listen to the call
of an eagle nesting in a nearby redwood.  He is not permitted to even look,
much less speak, to the occasional patrol.  He is required to stand
perfectly still and alert in front of the great pile of rocks blocking the
cavern entrance.

And so it is with immense astonishment and gratitude that on this particular
evening, three hours and twelve minutes into his shift, that he hears (but
doesn't hear) the unmistakable hum of a molecular transporter and sees (but
doesn't see) the arrival of nine strangers.

One of the strangers, a tall fellow carrying a large satchel, approaches him
with a friendly smile.  "Hello," he says, lowering the satchel to the
ground.  "Don't mind us."

Jeffere rigidly keeps still.  Until this moment, he has not fully
comprehended the irony of his job.  He has been charged with protection of
the cavern entrance, yet he has been expressly forbidden to move from his
position.

The friendly fellow, carefully opening the satchel, calls back to the
others:  "I'm going to need some help setting these."

Two of the strangers join him - a portly chap who speaks with blustering
authority, and a handsome dark-haired bloke who speaks with more natural
authority.  In the farthest corner of his peripheral vision, Jeffere watches
(not) as the three men remove strange round tubes from the satchel and set
them on the ground.  Directed by the larger man, the two more fit and agile
men climb the rocks and begin inserting the tubes with great care into
various openings.

The other strangers observe the proceedings from a distance.  Or, rather,
most of them observe.  One of them, a young girl strangely attired, takes a
seat under a tree and appears to be writing something in a book.  Another
girl, who looks very much like her, helps a dark-skinned man to sit on a
boulder.   The two older women stand together, arm-in-arm, while the two
older men stand shoulder-to-shoulder and talk quietly.

The friendly one reappears at Jeffere's side and, bending again to the
satchel, draws long strings of wire from it.  Glancing up, he advises, "You
might want to move back.  The explosion won't kill you, but it sure will
hurt like hell."

"Don't bother, Quinn," the handsome stranger says.  He takes half the wire
for himself.  "Malegia told me he's under strict orders not to move a muscle
no matter what."

The handsome one climbs the rocks again, while the friendly one gazes
thoughtfully at Jeffere.   Wrapping the wire around his hand, he steps
directly in the path of the guard's gaze and waits.

Jeffere blinks.

"Ah," the friendly one smiles.  "So there is someone at home."  He leans
forward confidentially, "Just so you know - we hold these truths to be
self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their
Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness."  He chucks Jeffere's immovable arm.  "Think
about it."

Things move along speedily after that.  The climbers connect the wires to
the tubes.  The portly man gathers the other ends of the wires into a bundle
and attaches them to a single wire, which he then lays along the ground in a
path to a distant tree.  All of the strangers group themselves behind the
tree.

The last thing Jeffere (does not) see is a spark of fire, moving merrily
along the length of the wire until it meets the connection, at which it
bursts into a dozen or so other sparks that climb happily upward to meet the
strange tubes.

And then the rocks explode.

* * * * *

Choking and coughing, Duncan lifts himself off the ground, shaking off the
thick pile of earth that has landed on him.

Beside him, Methos sits up and slaps dirt off his long overcoat.  "Think
Butch used enough dynamite?" the older immortal says with a half-laugh that
turns into a full cough.

"Is everyone all right?" Duncan calls into the darkness.  Voices answer him,
one by one.  Unable to see through the smoke and the dirt, he mentally
counts them, one by one, all the way up to seven.

No eighth voice replies.  "Wedra!"  he yells.  "Where's Wedra?"

Wade appears at his side, grabbing his arm.  "I think -"  she breaks off to
cough.  "I think she ran inside the -"

Her breath fails her, but Duncan finishes the sentence with sudden fear.
"Everyone stay put!"  he orders hoarsely, jumping to his feet and running
through the smoke and the dirt and the darkness in the direction of the
cavern.

The homemade dynamite has done its job admirably.  Freed of obstacles, the
entrance gapes open like a wide, dark mouth.

Thinking he'd give his katana for a flashlight, Duncan picks his way over
the fallen boulders.  When he reaches the entrance, he remembers what sits
inside his cloak.

The elsword lights immediately.  Holding it like a torch, he makes his way
inside without looking back.

Across the way, Methos sees the sudden illumination.  "Damn," he swears.
"Kazakh will see him coming."

Quinn has seen it, too.  Hurriedly, he pulls out his own elsword and, with
its light, checks his watch.  "Oh, no," he says in alarm.  "We only have
three minutes to the slide!"

The brave boy genius and the crafty ancient immortal exchange frightened
looks.

"Let's go!" they cry at once.

The others follow.

* * * * *

In years to come, the events will return to them all as scenes in a
slow-motion movie, but each one will remember different scenes over and
over.

Duncan will remember the look in Kazakh's eyes as he holds the terrified
Wedra hostage, an elsword in one hand and the timer in the other.   He will
remember the Mongol's laugh echoing up the walls of the great score room,
with its gold-flecked lives ever gleaming along its shining black circle.

He will remember the elation, the profound and all-encompassing elation of
sensing the arrival of Methos in the laboratory beyond the score room.   He
will remember the great and glorious satisfaction with which he turns Khan's
trick on his own father, maneuvering the man around with trickery so his
back is to the lab entrance.

Wedra will remember the quick glance of the Scot to the timer in her
captor's hand.  She will remember the feel of the timer as she grabs it and
throws it, and she will remember the immediate sound of metal through air,
and an old-fashioned sword through a neck, above and behind her.

Quinn and Wade, Rembrandt and Arturo will remember the thrill of relief as
the timer sails through the air and lands back where it belongs, in the
hands of its creator.  They will remember the joy of deliverance and the
pain of parting as Quinn pushes the button and they leap and slide into the
blue light of freedom.

As for Methos . . . he will remember the solid feel of his sword as he draws
it from his overcoat.  He will remember the rage that fuels his strike
against his mother's killer.

And he will remember the fury of the quickening, the lightning that bounces
off the walls of the cavern and sends Wedra scurrying for the doorway, for
shelter beside her mistress and the friend of her mistress.  He will
remember how lightning ricochets around him, around MacLeod, striking
neither of them, charging neither of them, quickening neither of them, but
gaining strength and power until it hits, with apocalyptic furor at the
ground beneath their feet.

And a grief-stricken mother and father will remember the earth opening up,
violent and blue, and swallowing their children.

Again.

* * * * *

It takes Joe three attempts to get the key to turn the lock.  When it
finally does, and the stale air of the bar washes over him, he wonders
despairingly if he should even bother.  After six months of finding a
"Closed" sign on the door, his regulars have certainly found other watering
holes to drink at.

Even so, he can't help feeling the pleasure of homecoming as he makes his
way inside, past the dust-covered tables, the dust-covered barstools, the
dust-covered rows of brown and amber bottles.  All the place needs, he
decides, is a little cleaning.  He can hire someone to come in tomorrow
morning, and by tomorrow night he can be open for business.  Maybe it's not
too late to put an announcement in the newspaper:  Joe's Bar is Back in
Business.

"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

The voice, thundering like a god's, matches the look of the man who stands,
hands on hips and feet apart, in the doorway.

"Hey, MacLeod," Joe says cheerily.  "It's good to see you.  Want a drink?"

Duncan stomps up to the bar. "I want," he demands, only a little less
ferociously, "an explanation."

Joe sets out a bottle.  "Whiskey?"

"I go away for two days -"

"Bourbon?"

"I travel to another dimension -"

"Scotch?"

"I meet my mother, I learn the truth about immortals, I help save this world
from another Genghis Khan, and when I get back, what do I find?  The one man
I want to tell about all this, is GONE.  Vanished without a word, without a
note, without even a phone call."

Joe sighs.  "I'm sorry.  I did hear all about it, by the way.  Methos
tracked me down in Macon and told me the whole story."

"Macon?"  Duncan snatches up the whiskey bottle.  "Macon as in Georgia?"

Joe places two shot glasses on the bar.  "Yeah."

"What the hell were you doing in Macon, Georgia?" Duncan asks, pouring.

 "I was looking for a dented old oak tree."  Joe picks up his glass and
stares into it morosely.  "And I found it."

Duncan's hand rests on the bottle. "You don't mean -"

Joe sighs again.  "Yeah.  Our slider friends were home all along."

On another world, a different sort of homecoming is taking place, as a young
graduate of the Equatorial Language Academy is welcomed back to the kheln by
her mistress.

Wedra tries to hide her impatience as Dalleya details her new position as
kheln biographer.  Yes, Wedra says, she is looking forward to beginning her
research on the late great Leonid.  Yes, she says again, she will do her
best to do justice to his memory.  Yes, and yes, and yes, and may she retire
to her room, mistress?

With a smile, Dalleya releases her, and Wedra sprints from the room, across
the entrance hall and down a corridor.  At the door to the basement, she
pauses.

There is a strange sound coming from around the corner.  Actually, it is not
so strange.  But it is a sound she has heard only once before in her life.

The sound grows louder, and a moment later Dalleya's mournful manservant
appears, carrying his mistress's noon meal on a tray and matching his steps
to the sounds issuing from his mouth.  "A - ma - zing  - grace - how - sweet
- the - sound . . ."

Wedra laughs and skips down the stairs to the basement.  Quivering with
eagerness, she opens the door to her old room.  There she stands for a long
moment, remembering.

>From the pocket of her graduation robe, still sticky with the blood of her
death, she takes a sheet of paper, scribbled on and folded over six months
ago, hurriedly, in the darkness of a redwood forest, and shoved into her
hand by a young woman who could be her mirror.

The paper, never unfolded, crackles lightly as she carefully separates the
edges.  Her heart pounds with excitement as she (finally!) reads aloud:

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
a stately pleasure dome decree,
where Alph the sacred river ran
through caverns measureless to man,
down to a sunless sea."

There is more, but Wedra is too blinded with tears of disappointment.  She
can read the words, but she cannot understand them.  She drops to her old
mattress, still stained with the blood of the singing man.

The tears taste bitter, like failure.  She wants to give herself over to
them, but a noise outside her room stops them.  It is the manservant, and he
is passing down the hall.  She can hear him:  "that - saved - a  - wretch -
like - me . . ."

She wipes her face and picks up the poem.  She will read, she will learn,
she will understand.

An ocean and a continent away, others also seek understanding.  A watchman
stares blindly into the night, thinking over the words of a friendly man.
His companion, standing in the open entrance to a gateway, holds an amulet
and finds his gaze drawn upward, over the trees and past the stars, to the
moon.

The moon is just as full and just as bright in Paris, in the Paris of
another world, where Methos is awakened by a strange humming noise.

Almost as soon as it begins, it stops.  Methos turns over in his bed and
tries to go back to sleep, but as is often the case these days, rest and
repose elude him, chased away by memories.  Groaning, he throws aside the
covers to search for the source of the intrusive, elusive hum.

He finds it buried in a box under his bed, alongside a blue cloak, a wooden
handle, and a picture of a woman with light hair and a winsome smile.

It is his father's timer.  The numbers are lit, and as soon as Methos picks
it up, it begins again to hum.

He drops it, quickly, onto the bed.  The hum ceases, but the illuminated
numbers remain the same.

Six months, and counting down.

It is dawn when he makes his decision.  Using the blue cloak as a shield, he
packs the timer away, under the elsword and the picture.

He shoves the box back under the bed.  Then he sits at a window and watches
the sun rise.

Live.  Grow stronger.

Slide another day.


------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE END