The Highlander's Guide to Hitchhiking in the Star Wars
Universe, Episode II: The Return of the Abomination
by by Hiper Bunny ( hiperbunny@hotmail.com ) and Ladonna
King (lking@agora.rdrop.com)
See Part 1 (92 Kb) for all
disclaimers, warnings, headers, etc.
"I hate airports," Krycek was muttering under his breath as
Qui-Gon scanned the crowds, trying his best to ignore the
assassin. It was just too tempting to gloat over Krycek's
agitation when Qui-Gon actually let himself pay attention, and
gloating was definitely of the Dark. After all, gloating led to
pointed remarks, pointed remarks led to rebuttals, rebuttals
led to unseemly displays, and unseemly displays generally led
to either "Drunk and Disorderly" or "Public Indecency" charges,
which invariably led to small cells and large beings named
Bub-Ba Jhoe.
And Bub-Ba Jhoe was practically a one-way ticket straight to
the Dark Side.
No, ignoring Krycek seemed like the best course of action for
now--agitated or not, the man seemed stable at the
moment, and Qui-Gon couldn't argue that the man had been useful
so far. He just hoped Maul would keep the man busy--and
away from his Padawan.
Qui-Gon sighed. Maul was bad enough by himself, but Krycek was
really a bad influence on Qui-Gon's serenity...
"It looks like they're disembarking," Obi-Wan mentioned to no
one in particular, craning his neck to watch the gate they
expected Dawson to emerge from. At least they wouldn't be
jostled about if they had to make a dash to intercept them,
Qui-Gon mused with a purely mental shrug. It was odd--there was
always at least a three-foot gap between them and the people
around them, and he couldn't help but wonder if the natives of
Earth were sensitive to the Force on some level he couldn't
detect. It was obvious to him that they could sense the
presence of a Sith amongst them...and it had to be Maul's aura,
not the tattoos, because Maul actually looked rather
tame compared to some of the humans Qui-Gon had seen.
With a few piercings and a touch of polyester, Maul might have
actually garnered some attention. Admiring attention at
that.
Qui-Gon shook his head with a hidden grin. He'd said it time
and time again, the ability to speak...
"Great," Krycek muttered, standing away from the bank of phone
booths he'd been leaning against, his fellow humans'
nervousness about their party keeping the hordes away from this
much-prized location. Several fliers with eyes nearly as
bloodshot as Maul's were staring at them in naked challenge,
frothing slightly at the mouth as they eyed the silent phones
lustfully. "The sooner we get out of here, the happier I'll
be."
"If we can find the human in all this...mess," Maul
sneered, hot yellow eyes flicking over the mob disdainfully.
"That shouldn't be too difficult," Qui-Gon shrugged with a
quiet chuckle.
"You're not going to do your 'Psychic Bloodhound' routine, I
hope..." Krycek snorted, glancing sideways at the two Jedi.
"Actually..." Qui-Gon said with a pleasant grin, refusing to
let Alex get to him. It was obvious the man was only trolling
for a reaction--no different than Methos at his most
defensively scathing, except that Methos, unlike Krycek, had
apparently decided he was among friends. Obi-Wan seemed to take
it all in stride, and though it was irritating in the
extreme...they were just going to have to work together. And
working together, as far as Qui-Gon was concerned, meant
sharing. "I was considering asking you to pass around
that photo you liberated from the man's house..."
Strange. As soon as he'd said 'liberated,' Maul and Krycek had
turned to each other with identical wicked grins, Alex
muttering something about the next 'vocabulary test.' //Force
save me from Sithly humor,// Qui-Gon sighed to himself, not
even tempted to ask what had set those two off.
"You see, Maul," Krycek was saying mock-solemnly, "this is how
Good Guys survive long enough to pass on their genes--they
cultivate the acquaintance of people like us. We can always be
counted on to be prepared when our hero's hands might be tied
by something inconvenient, like morality. Or four-strand nylon
rope. Here," Krycek grinned, pulling the photo out of his
jacket and passing it casually to Obi-Wan, who was closer.
"Distinguished-looking fellow. Shouldn't be hard to spot.
Besides, he'll be the one with the limp and a cane."
"I saw the wheelchair," Obi-Wan frowned doubtfully. "How do you
know he won't be using one now?"
"Because prosthetics are all the rage these days," Krycek
shrugged resignedly, as if to suggest it was the will of the
gods and beyond the ken of mortal men. "Trust me, I know."
"And I don't wish to, thank you," Qui-Gon rolled his
eyes, catching that innocent look on Obi-Wan's face that meant
his Padawan was about to embarrass him in public or start an
intergalactic conflict. Again. "I believe I already know more
than I ever wanted to about your hobbies, Mr. Krycek..."
"The feeling's mutual," Krycek grinned easily. "And call me
Alex."
"What?" Qui-Gon demanded with a blink.
//Mutual?// "Padawan..." he growled, turning
narrowed eyes on Obi-Wan, who paled alarmingly.
"Hey," Obi-Wan coughed, nodding towards the gate, "isn't that
Dawson?"
"Right," Alex nodded shortly, starting across the floor with a
determined pace. "Let's get this over with..."
"Padawan?" Qui-Gon smiled dangerously, enjoying watching his
Padawan squirm. "What exactly did your friend Alex mean
by that?"
"I don't know what he's talking about, Master," Obi-Wan
protested with just the right tone of outraged hurt. "I never
told him anything about you!"
"Anything?" Qui-Gon asked, one brow lifting pointedly as
he hid a smile. This was more fun than watching Obi-Wan try and
explain that incident with Senator Palpatine, the bantha, and
the contents of Yoda's special "undercover" costume drawer.
"You just conveniently forgot you had a Master, perhaps?"
"No, I mean, I told him who you were, but I didn't tell
him anything personal about you--I'd never do
anything like that, Master! I'm amazed you could think so
poorly of me..."
Oh damn, there he went with the pout...Qui-Gon knew it was
purposeful, no more serious than his own posturings and quite a
bit more melodramatic, but there wasn't a Master alive that
could resist that Patented Padawanian Lower Lip Thing. Melting,
Qui-Gon found himself soothing: "I know you wouldn't,
Obi-Wan--I'm sorry I even brought it up..."
"You should be, Master..." Obi-Wan sniffed, looking
pointedly away from Qui-Gon just as one corner of his mouth
twitched up dangerously. "One day around Alex, and you already
believe all his wild claims--you probably believe we're going
to try and start something again, when we just met at a party
when I wasn't. Even. Looking. For him."
//Ouch,// Qui-Gon winced. //I deserved that...// That
would teach him to ask his Padawan to help him spot an ex-lover
at a Senatorial bash...
"Understood, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon nodded gravely, meeting his
beloved's gaze when Obi-Wan's eyes slid his way, regarding him
sideways with a glint of wicked humor in their depths. "You
know I'll always trust you..." Perfectly solemn, Qui-Gon meant
that in so many ways...Obi-Wan's unquestioned loyalty, his
Padawan's wisdom and consideration, that Obi-Wan would always
be his wherever his Padawan might wander. Always his.
"I know," Obi-Wan smiled easily, "Master."
Grinning back, Qui-Gon just had to ask, "So...why
did your friend say that, then?"
Obi-Wan shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "Probably because
I already knew what to do with the eggbeater," he replied
glibly, leaving his Master behind when Qui-Gon stopped in the
middle of the terminal and stared, jaw hanging.
"The eggbeater?" Qui-Gon demanded, blushing furiously as
he stalked after Obi-Wan with a jerk, lengthening his strides.
"We need to talk, Padawan..."
Krycek had already cornered the fellow they'd been asked to
retrieve, who was quite distinguished-looking, since
Krycek had mentioned it. Qui-Gon definitely approved. Joe
Dawson was a vigorous fellow in his early fifties, with thick
greying hair and a level stare, his expression solidly
determined despite the chaos his life must be in right now. As
a friend to Immortals, the Gathering must be hitting Joe hard,
but the man kept his chin up, and not even a leather-jacketed
hood planting himself in the man's path seemed to faze him.
"Joe Dawson?" Krycek asked quietly, not a trace of the menace
Qui-Gon had expected to hear in the assassin's voice. Actually,
Krycek sounded...young. Earnest. Altogether like the junior
member of a partnership, still wet behind the ears and wearing
bad suits, ditched every time something interesting came up. If
Qui-Gon didn't know better, he might even have believed it, he
decided, watching Dawson ignore the leather entirely as
Krycek's mask of meekness worked its magic.
//I wonder if he was ever a Padawan...?// Qui-Gon mused
distractedly, thinking of the perfect angle of Obi-Wan's cheek
when Obi-Wan bowed his head in meek submission for
chastisement...
"Who wants to know?" Joe demanded, but he paused reluctantly,
eyeing Krycek with a sort of impatient compassion reserved for
hapless flunkies everywhere.
"My name is Val Arntzen," Krycek lied with a trace of an
accent, and Dawson's brows raised expectantly. "I'm a friend of
Methos'..."
"I don't know who you're talking about," Joe snarled suddenly,
surprisingly quick despite his cane as he widened the gap
between them. "You've got the wrong man, buddy..."
"No, no," Alex shook his head, "you've got it all wrong--I'm
not Immortal. I'm not after his head. And I know where
he is right now--him and Duncan MacLeod."
"Is this some kind of a joke?" Joe demanded, eyes darting over
Krycek's shoulder to fasten on Maul, who was wisely looking
away from the human. "I told you, you've got the wrong man..."
Krycek turned to Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan with a shrug. "This one's
your problem," he smirked cheekily, all trace of accent and
self-effacement gone from his manner. "Noble type. Not my
department."
"Yes, we'll, ah...take it from here," Obi-Wan nodded seriously,
trying not to laugh.
Eyes narrowing, Joe took another step back, noticing for the
first time the wide berth the other fliers were giving the four
that confronted him. "Who are you guys?" he growled, glancing
around in an obvious bid for escape.
"We're here to help," Qui-Gon began seriously, readying a
Force-push to influence the man...
...except that something interrupted before he could go through
with it. Something like... "A great disturbance in the Force,"
he mused aloud, shivering unconsciously. "As if six billion
souls had suddenly cried out in horror..."
"I feel it too, Master," Obi-Wan whispered, looking towards the
ceiling with Qui-Gon.
"Ohhhhhh yesssssss," Maul hissed joyfully at Krycek's
shoulder, the Sith's eyes dilated alarmingly in lust.
"Funny," Krycek frowned distractedly. "I just got the strongest
urge to ask for the check. And that I shouldn't bother leaving
a tip."
"We have to get him back to the ship," Obi-Wan said
determinedly as they shook off the strangeness of their shared
premonition, ignoring the human that was now staring at them in
undisguised bafflement.
"Rope ladder," Krycek reminded shortly, his expression
expectant.
"I can levitate him," Qui-Gon shrugged, instantly putting aside
their differences. Something was happening up there, and they
didn't have time to bicker like children and Senators.
"Now, wait just a minute," Joe was saying loudly, about to take
another step back. Frowning, Qui-Gon turned to him sharply,
waving his hand before the man's face.
"We're taking you to Duncan and Methos."
"Look, why are we just standing around here?" Joe snapped,
glaring at the four of them as if he hadn't been bent on escape
a heartbeat before. "The longer we twiddle our thumbs, the more
likely it is somebody'll come looking for me. They already
think trying to rig the Game--losing my Immortal when
all hell's breaking loose...well?"
"You and Methos get along really well, don't you?"
Obi-Wan asked seriously.
"Ha-ha," Joe snorted, shaking his head. "And remind me to thank
that cranky sonofabitch for skipping out right along with Mac,
will you? Of all the times for him to pull one of his little
disappearing acts..."
//'Disappearing acts?'// Qui-Gon blinked, surprised. Methos
hadn't particularly seemed like the kind who'd just up and
vanish on someone he cared about, not when the chips were
down... Catching Obi-Wan's baffled look, Qui-Gon shrugged,
nonplused. Maybe not when times were hard...but when life was
sunny? Did Methos tend to take a powder then, not wanting to
overstay his welcome or risk rejection--or acceptance? It was
something to think about...because Qui-Gon was already starting
to think of the Immortals as a fixture in his life, and he knew
Obi-Wan felt the same. Perhaps it was something best discussed
with Methos himself.
And then with Duncan and Joe. In triplicate.
"By the way," Qui-Gon frowned as they led Joe towards the
parking garage, hoping they could find their way back to the
level where they'd parked the Gannet. "Why is everyone
keeping away from us like this? Are Earth-humans sensitive
to--"
"Hell no," Krycek laughed with a huge grin, the usual sharp
edge missing from his voice. "It's you guys' robes," he
shrugged, gesturing at the Jedi. "They think you're going to
ask them for donations to some hokey religious sect that
worships some sort of weird, unseen energy that everyone can
tap into if we all just sit around in the dirt meditating for
hours on end and--um. And shave our heads," Krycek ended
smoothly, chin coming up, eyes forward. "At least you're not
banging tambourines..."
Qui-Gon considered taking offense until they had to sidestep a
Jedi in a flowing orange robe, bald as Mace Windu, cheerfully
Whammying three dazed travelers into buying a rose apiece for
the contents of their wallet. "Greetings, brothers," the orange
Jedi nodded serenely as they passed.
"May the Force be with you," Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan replied
automatically, cowed by the strength of their brother's Whammy.
//Hmm, maybe we should start sending our Padawans to spaceports
for training...// Qui-Gon mused consideringly, turning his head
to watch the other Jedi's technique until they left the
terminal and their brother behind.
He tried to picture Obi-Wan with a Whammy that strong.
Succeeded all too well.
//Maybe we ought to send our Masters to spaceports for
training...//
Pulling out his communicator as they walked, Obi-Wan hailed the
Gannet, frowning, "Computer, what can you pick up on the
Sub-Etha in the vicinity of this planet?"
"Why thank you, sir! I'm thrilled to tell you," the
Gannet's AI bubbled melodically, "that I'm reading
several dozen satellites orbiting this world, several in
stealth mode which seem devoted to recording the dressing and
undressing and showering of a handful of popular celebrities
which bear a remarkable resemblance to--"
"Ships, please," Obi-Wan sighed patiently, and Qui-Gon heard
his Padawan's unshielded mental grumbling, resolving yet again
to finish working on his own Shipsvoice AI program sometime
soon. Qui-Gon had to agree. Hells, at this point Qui-Gon could
probably ignore the quirks in the personality features of
Obi-Wan's program--anything had to be better than
putting up with the grating cheer of the Sirius Cybernetics
Corporation AI they had installed now. Even that Sithly
program's bizarre sense of humor.
Yes, he was definitely going to have to convince Obi-Wan
to install the "Renton" program soon...
"Sure thing, Obi-Wan! Actually, space seems pretty quiet out
here. There's what looks like the hulk of a JHVH-1 Class
Insta-Rapture Terrarium Freighter--"
"Damn, that was supposed to fire up in '98," Krycek sighed
philosophically. "They're probably too fropped-out up there to
change the month on the calendar..."
"--and all these wedge-shaped ships with some unfamiliar
markings on the top--actually, it looks like an invasion fleet
to me, sir!"
"What?" four people yelled at once, only one out of
sheer frustration alone. Joe did not appear to be the
kind of man who took well to being left in the dark--but
Krycek, Qui-Gon noticed grimly, didn't look surprised at all.
"Repeating!" the chip chirped happily. "Actually, space seems
pretty quiet out--"
"We can't let this happen," Obi-Wan snapped, disconnecting the
communicator and silencing the ship's recital in mid-inanity.
"Sorry, guys," Krycek shrugged with a sigh. "The Date has been
set. But as far as I know, this is not the Date, if
that's any consolation..."
"Date?" Qui-Gon growled pointedly.
"For invasion," Krycek admitted easily. "The Oiliens, of
course...which means my hands are rather tied, here."
"I thought your Oilien liked being the rebellious sort,"
Obi-Wan demanded with narrowed eyes, and Qui-Gon filed the
information away for future reference.
"Rebellious, not suicidal," Krycek corrected, raising his
hands. "Look, best I can tell you is that someone out there is
jumping the gun on his orders--but what exactly do you suggest
we do about it?" Krycek asked calmly enough, regarding Obi-Wan
with a frown. "Fly up there and challenge them to single
combat?"
"Maybe not combat..." Obi-Wan scowled, too thoughtfully
for anyone's peace of mind. "Didn't I hear something about a
Sith Apprentice in training...?"
"Excuse me?" Maul growled. "I don't recall volunteering to be
your bitch, Jedi!"
"Maul's right," Krycek agreed with deceptive mildness as they
filed out to the roof level of the parking garage. Maul stopped
dead in his tracks just outside the door, and the others
followed suit, Joe staring at all four of them as if trying to
decide whether or not he'd lost his mind. "He's my
bitch."
"Alex," Obi-Wan groaned, exasperated. "I don't care
whose bitch he is, we have people still on this
planet! How are we supposed to rescue them if the whole place
gets boiled into particles or possessed or something?"
Something about that seemed to catch Krycek up short, and
Qui-Gon decided to hold his peace and let his Padawan work,
watching something unfamiliar flicker across Krycek's face.
Something rather like...regret? resignation? "Wait," Krycek
said slowly. "You're going to be wading through a mob of
Immortals cutting each others' heads off in back alleys with
big swords and lightning shows all over New York City?"
"Yes, Alex," Obi-Wan nodded patiently, nothing more.
Krycek took a deep breath and reached into his pocket. "Right.
Well, when this guy in a rumpled suit shows up poking a rather
impressive nose into the mess, give him this," Krycek sighed,
holding out an updated copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the
Galaxy for Obi-Wan to take. "He'll pout if you don't
explain what's going on--try not to stare directly at the lower
lip; it has amazing powers of hypnosis. He works for the
FBI--Fox Mulder. Tell him..." For an instant, Krycek wavered,
something on the tip of his tongue that made him look...all too
human. For an instant. "Tell him the Truth is in there,"
he shrugged, expression shuttering tight. Maul's eyes narrowed,
but the Sith said nothing, moving closer to Krycek as if
unaware of his possessive attitude.
Slowly, Obi-Wan nodded, tucking the Guide in his utility
pouch. "Fine. If I see him, I'll make sure he gets it."
"Better give him a Babel fish while you're at it," Alex
shrugged, the nonchalant tone back in his voice. "At the very
least, he'll get a kick out of it if he finally figures out the
Russian bits of the interrogations he taped of me," Krycek
grinned, bloody amusement in his eyes. "Wish I could be a bug
on the wall for that one..."
"Why do I get the feeling you can?" Obi-Wan sighed, shaking his
head, but they were moving again, heading towards the
Gannet. "Look, we're going to need the Gannet--is
there anything we can do to get you some transportation?
Something with weapons?"
"Don't worry," Krycek shrugged one shoulder. "I have a ride...I
didn't really want to wake him up just yet, but it's not like
they'll take me seriously if I show up in the Jedimobile
anyway..."
"Him?" Qui-Gon asked slowly, wondering how many more Black Hats
and Black Hat Trainees he could take in one day.
Krycek nodded, then surprised him with, "My ship."
Turning vaguely west, Krycek stared off into the middle
distance, an unfocused look on his face as his eyes pulsed
completely black, and the man let loose with the loudest
mind-call Qui-Gon had heard since the last time Mace Windu had
forgotten about the hazards of zipped flys and going commando.
(*SPIKE*) the call went out, half-deafening the Jedi on
the roof as Maul grabbed for his vibrating horns with a choked
curse.
A heartbeat of silence echoed across the city before every dog
in a fifteen-mile radius began to howl. Qui-Gon almost breathed
a sigh of relief, but Krycek wasn't quite done yet.
(*HEEL*) he--or more accurately, the thing inside
him--sent, leaving Maul clutching his head pitifully.
Ninety-seven seconds later, the Gannet was floating
serenely side-by-side with a wicked black wedge-shaped ship
with no discernible seams. "Meet Spike," Krycek shrugged,
jerking his head at Maul to follow him as he stalked towards
the triangular ship. Maul grimaced doubtfully, but he slouched
after his mentor without complaint.
"Damn," Joe muttered, staring at the now-visible ships in
shock, shaking his head slowly. "First Immortals, now..." The
man shook his head harder, blinking his eyes rapidly before
giving up with a sigh. "Wednesdays," he groaned, following the
Jedi towards the Gannet. "I never could get the hang of
Wednesdays..."
Joe Dawson had long accepted that the Universe had it out for
him. Not only had he been mixed up in the most pointlessly
futile Asian land war ever and lost two very precious limbs in
that war, he'd gone on to make a career of watching other
fellows get their heads hacked off--and not just any
fellows, but predominantly young and handsome ones who were
always going to stay that way, getting healthier, wealthier and
wiser over the years--and not just a dozen years or two dozen
but centuries, even millennia, whereas Joe was going to be
lucky if he lasted out the next fifty--and not only
that, but on top of it all, he was a weirdo magnet. Of
appropriately epic proportions.
At least the weirdos he'd attracted this time knew how to
travel in style. If he absolutely had to be captured,
manipulated and dragged off by strange men in bathrobes, it was
good to know he rated a nice, sleek, chrome spacecraft when it
came to getaway vehicles. He'd tried not to believe this
was happening, but the apparently-treacherous Voice of Reason
pointed out that he had previously been hot on the trail of a
400 year old man who was hell-bent on lopping off the head of
everybody who gave him a buzz today or who set off his psychic
radar or something. Joe wondered if real serial killers
ever had days like that. The quarry in question had, up till a
few hours ago, been a nice barge-dwelling, opera-listening,
home-redecorating kind of guy. Now he was the most
well-trained, vicious warrior on the planet.
The appearance of a spaceship was peanuts, compared to all
that.
The guys in the robes were quite tactful but firm regarding his
safety in boarding their ship. Figuring he'd just get a hand
waved in his face if he objected, he decided not to point out
that in his book, the lines 'Trust me' and 'Don't look down'
tended to cancel each other out. The shorter one had lowered
the ramp as far as possible and the larger one had, well,
lifted him up. Joe refused to think about that. It only
encouraged the Voice of Reason to get snide with him, and he
suspected he was going to get enough of that out of Methos as
it was.
"I've taken us into a higher orbit, Obi-Wan. I think their
sensors might have been getting curious about us," the tall guy
said. "Either that, or the Oilien fleet was. I
distinctly heard the computer giggling, at any rate, and
it only does that when it's being, ah, probed."
"Great. Thanks, Master... Do you need anything, Mr. Dawson?"
Obi-Wan asked, grimacing slightly as he glanced through the
doorway that seemed to lead to the, ah, bridge. Damn, watching
all those bad sci-fi movies with Richie was actually turning
out to be useful...
Joe shook his head no. He wanted to demand answers, but
he had the distinct feeling they'd be more confusing than his
questions at the moment. And where the hell were Duncan and
Methos, anyway?
"Well, we really don't know what our next move is, here. It was
implied that you would know what to do," the younger man
continued.
"Who said that?" Joe asked, though he thought he had a pretty
good idea.
"Methos. He said you'd have information we would need. That
is what he said, isn't it, Qui-Gon?" Obi-Wan added
quickly, turning to the tall one with an encouraging,
meaningful smile.
Qui-Gon nodded quickly, staring at the way Joe turned the
handle of his cane around and around in one hand as if
mesmerized. //Great,// Joe sighed to himself in exasperation.
//Weirdos with a cane fetish...//
"Well, where is he?" he asked patiently, staring from one man
to the other. "Did he just up and bolt on you guys, too?"
"No... he's in the cooler. He's a little...dead right now,"
Obi-Wan admitted.
Dead. Well, that made a weird kind of sense...the question was,
should he bother being disturbed by the fact that he wasn't
disturbed by that? //Hmm...naaaaaah. Can't blame the Bathrobe
Boys for giving in to temptation...// "Well, let's go wake him
up," Joe said.
"But...the Gathering..." Obi-Wan objected.
"He apparently survived the last three 'Gatherings,' or at
least what we thought were Gatherings," Joe grumbled
with a shrug. "I don't imagine this one will be much more
trouble for him. We can always...sedate him again," he added,
trying not to sound too pleased by the prospect. Then again,
considering how much the Really Old SOB had put Joe through in
the last few hours, the man deserved a little sedation,
dammit...
"Okay," Obi-Wan agreed, spreading his hands wide. "You're the
expert."
"You're damned right I am, son. And if I know Methos, he won't
take well to waking up in a freezer. We'd better make it
someplace warm." Joe tapped the floor with his cane and both
Jedi stepped back, as if they expected him to take a swipe at
their shins. Well, he would if that's what it took.
"Move it on out, there," he ordered and was pleased when both
scrambled to do so.
Hmm. Weirdos that actually listened to him. Things were
looking up.
Even with the Force to help them, it was tough work getting
Methos out of the freezer and back to the guest quarters. Even
dead, Methos seemed to want to sprawl, taking up enough room
for any three corpses, and not at all apologetic about it,
either. Plus, they'd left him in the freezer, which
meant they had to wait for him to thaw out a bit before they
could even think about pulling the knife. What a mess...
"Maybe if we stuck him in the--" Obi-Wan began, but Qui-Gon
shook his head regretfully.
"No, the metal from the knife would just short out the
microwave, Padawan..."
"Actually," Obi-Wan coughed, "I was thinking of the hot tub..."
Ah. Now there was a thought... Floating the Immicicle
over to the spa droid's tender care, Qui-Gon sat back with the
others and waited for the warm water to do the trick, not quite
looking at his Apprentice, who was desperately trying not to
laugh. Joe just shook his head, muttered "One for the
Chronicles," and claimed a ginger seat at the edge of a bed,
waiting for some color to return to Methos' cheeks--or for the
frost to melt, at any rate...
When the man finally seemed thawed enough for Immortal healing
to take over, it was Qui-Gon who removed the dagger from
Methos' chest. He waited for a long moment, wondering if he
needed to do anything special. Chant a prayer, or wave a beer
under that prodigious nose, perhaps. Before he could act, the
still-dripping Immortal sat up on the bed, gasping and panting.
He fixed Qui-Gon with a murderous look, but it seemed more a
reflex than anything. "Where am I?"
Well, that was better than 'Who am I...' "You tell me,"
Qui-Gon invited, taking a nonchalant step back.
Methos furrowed his brow in concentration. "Still on the
Gannet, but I can feel...wait," his brow furrowed again,
and Methos stared down at himself in confused disgust. "Why am
I wet?"
"Well... it seemed like the thing to do at the time..." Qui-Gon
began. The murderous look returned to Methos' eyes. Qui-Gon
raised one hand and extended his index finger towards Joe.
Instead of invoking any Jedi Force trick, he employed a tactic
he'd learned at his own Master's knee many years ago. "He can
explain everything," Qui-Gon announced and sped from the guest
quarters, his Padawan hot on his heels.
"Joe?" Methos growled dangerously, though he made no move to
leave the comfort of the bed. "What exactly is the meaning of
this?"
"I could ask the same of you," Joe scowled back, not impressed
with Methos' Horseman imitation in the least. "I mean, there I
was, every Watcher and his dog calling me up trying to figure
out where the Mighty MacLeod had gotten off to, and when I turn
around looking for my oldest friend to shed some light
on it, whaddaya know, he's gone too. Now, a stupider man would
have been worried about two Immortals turning up missing
on the eve of the Gathering, but me? Nah, why should I worry!
It's not like I really know you guys, after all--"
"All right, Joe, you've made your point," Methos sighed
tiredly, slumping back against the pillows. "It was just dumb
luck, all right? Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon just happened to show up
right about the time the Gathering started, so I dragged
MacLeod along with me, all right? We would've been back..."
"What, after everybody else was dead?" Joe scoffed, but Methos
rolled his eyes, mouth twisting in equal parts disgust and
resignation.
"Not if I wanted Mac to ever speak to me again," he snorted.
"Look, we had the time--literally. We've been gone a few days
already, though you'd never have noticed it here--we even
traveled to a point billions of years for now, just to grab
dinner. It's all different out there. We could have stayed a
thousand years, but we came back for our friends first thing,
instead."
Dawson looked rather more mollified, but it was obvious to
Methos the man wasn't done yet. "And?"
"And I wanted some time alone with him, okay?" Methos rolled
his eyes, not yet up to playing evasion games with the Watcher.
"So sue me."
"Did it work?"
Did it... "Joe!" Methos snapped, glaring at the other
man's wicked grin. His expression of convincing horror was hard
to maintain, however, undermined by a smugness he just couldn't
shake. "What do you think, you Peeping Tom?"
"I think you'd be a hell of a lot grumpier if it hadn't," Joe
chuckled, shaking his head. "And don't call me 'Tom.'"
"Whatever," Methos snorted, rolling his eyes. "Look, we've got
some Immortals to rescue--and I need to change clothes.
If you could help our Jedi friends find Amanda, Nick and
Connor..."
"Already on it," Dawson admitted, heading for the door. "And
then you have got a lot of explaining to do."
"Sure thing, Joe," Methos sighed, heaving himself up and
stretching until his bones cracked.
"Oh, and by the way," Joe mentioned casually as he strolled
through the door, "just to let you know, there's a tiny little
invasion fleet hovering around Earth at the moment--but don't
worry, I guess Alex and his friend hare taking care of it...
See you on the bridge!"
The door whisked shut on the last word, and Methos frowned
after the Watcher doubtfully. He couldn't have just heard
Dawson say... 'invasion fleet?'
"Oh damn," he snapped, lunging for the wardrobe and vowing to
strangle that annoying Watcher if it was the last thing he did.
Obi-Wan parked the Gannet inconspicuously in an abandoned
warehouse on the lower east side. He engaged the SEP field for
good measure, but really didn't think it was necessary. The
people of New York seemed to notice only what suited them, and
they took the strangest things in stride... Better safe than
sorry, though. Joe Dawson was taking everything with a grain of
salt...okay, he was actually taking it as if he were promising
himself a nice belt of scotch as soon as he woke up, but that
was neither here nor there. He was taking things, period, and
had directed them to this warehouse, after a flurry of
conversations on his comm link. Cell phone. Whatever they
called it on this primitive mudball.
Qui-Gon joined Obi-Wan at the head of the ramp and they
proceeded towards a stack of crates. The crates didn't provide
much cover, but they were good enough to sit on while they
waited for their quarry.
"So, what's the deal here?" Obi-Wan inquired of the Watcher as
Dawson joined them.
"Well, my guys say Connor's still holed up in his antique shop,
seems to be lying low until the worst of it has passed. Of
course, the Kurgan just blew into town, so that's probably not
gonna last long. Nick and Amanda are sticking together, more or
less. Managing not to whack one another, God alone knows how.
Maybe it really is love. Last report had them fox-and-hounding
some rabbit this way," Joe settled in on the far side of the
crates. "Shouldn't be long now."
Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon exchanged glances, trying to work out
exactly what was happening. Things seemed to be going
well, so it was apparent to the Jedi that they didn't know what
the fuck was going on. The answer burst through the loading
dock doors, a lithe, sword-swinging, curse-screaming...well,
fashion model, by the look of it.
"Amanda," Joe murmured. "She's gotten better."
She was staging a controlled retreat towards the center of the
warehouse, totally oblivious to the observers behind her. Her
opponent, a short, stocky man with masses of unkempt hair, was
equally unaware of the Jedi presence. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon
stepped behind the crates to lay their plans but were
momentarily distracted by the entrance of a third player. The
woman glanced around, as if instinctively knowing he would be
just a few paces behind her.
"Nick," Joe subtitled.
The Immortal couple seemed to be bickering, while keeping their
prey well in hand. "Dammit, Manders, you took the last one! The
night is still fucking young, and this isn't going to be
the last fight for us! You've got to pace yourself or you're
not going to fucking make it!" Nick was bellowing.
"Well, we can't both make it, Nick. Not the way our
luck's been running! I'd rather do what I can while I can. If
we could have found Duncan, or if his fucking cousin had
answered the bell...I should have made plans sooner. Safety in
numbers, that's what Methos always said. Stick together, keep
focused. Okay, you do him." She stepped back at just the right
moment to clear the path for Nick's blade.
Qui-Gon stepped from behind the crates and made his trademark
fluid gesture. "Cease."
Three swords hit the floor.
Obi-Wan swooped in, gripped the unwanted Immortal's temples and
murmured: "You are the victor. The Quakering is thine."
Immediately, the enemy Immortal began to thrash wildly,
speaking in tongues as he dropped to the floor and writhed like
a man in the throes of a religious rapture or an ex-Padawan
five hours into his post-Knighting kegger.
"That's Quickening, kid," Joe interceded with a wince as the
man's Quakering turned downright naughty, and Obi-Wan tried it
again.
"Um, the Quick--"
"Wow," the third, unnamed Immortal grinned softly to himself,
going utterly limp on the floor. He wavered for a moment, then
pulled away from Obi-Wan's grasp and rose, a trifle unsteadily,
to retrieve his sword, staggering towards the door. He paused
to look back, shook his head as if to clear it and muttered:
"Best damn Quickening I ever had..." before fading into the
night.
"I don't think he noticed," Obi-Wan blinked with a shrug,
turning to Joe with a half-apologetic smile.
"Figures," Joe snorted, but the man's face was red with the
effort not to burst out laughing. Luckily, a cough distracted
them before Joe could hurt himself trying to keep his cool.
When Obi-Wan turned around, the remaining Immortals were doling
out looks between Joe and the Jedi. "Joe, what's going on
here?" Amanda demanded.
"Long story. Quick version is you've been granted a reprieve
from your participation in the Gathering. You'll have to leave
this place, never to return, but...you get to live." Joe
shrugged. "Apparently, Mac and Methos arranged this."
Nick's eyes narrowed suspiciously at that. "Do we know these
men? They're not...like us."
Qui-Gon stepped forward, his best 'I am Jedi, hear me Soothe'
voice in full force. "You do not know me, nor my student here.
We came at the request of your friends, to prevent what
needless waste of life we could. You have but to accept, and we
will deliver you from this peril."
Amanda slowly bent and retrieved her sword. "And if we do not
accept?"
Obi-Wan shrugged. "From what I can tell, you'll fight
gloriously and die a hideous, senseless death."
Amanda considered that for a long moment. Nick piped up:
"What's the catch?"
"Catch?" Qui-Gon inquired.
"What's the downside to all this?" he demanded.
"Um, one time offer. We're not bringing you back," Obi-Wan
shrugged.
"I can live without New York," Amanda decided. "Especially now
that everyone has a website."
Qui-Gon cleared his throat. "No, we won't be bringing you back
to Earth. We're leaving, you're coming with us, or you're
dead."
"That's our options?" Amanda cried.
"Amanda, listen to reason. There must be better places to shop
somewhere..." Nick said, grasping at any straw that would end
the bloody nightmare his life had suddenly become. He'd never
wanted to be Immortal. Well, okay, he'd wanted to be with
Amanda, and Immortality was a definite plus when it came to
matters of keeping her all-too-attractive ass out of the fire,
but he hadn't signed on for any Gathering. Spending the next
millennium bailing Manders out of jail--he could handle that.
But he'd been a cop for Chrissakes. One more deadly,
disorderly brawl, public property-destroying Quickening, and
marathon bout of public indecency against the nearest
convenient wall, and he'd never be able to look his cop buddies
in the eye again.
Then again, if they were getting out of here alive, never to
return--maybe one more bout of marathon public
indecency...
"Coruscant comes to mind," Obi-Wan supplied, and Nick tried to
drag his mind back to shopping instead of sizing up the heights
of the various crates scattered about them. "We just have to
stick this fish in your ear."
"Oh no," Amanda squeaked, backing away. "No way are you
coming near me with that...that...minnow!"
Nick casually reached out and pistol-whipped her across the
back of the head with the hilt of his sword. "She does get
worked up every once and again," he said as she crumpled, and
he caught her deftly in the other arm before she could fall.
"Now...where do we go from here?"
Obi-Wan pulled out his remote and switched off the SEP field.
"Our ship, the Fortnight Gannet."
Nick turned, looked, goggled and passed out cold, Amanda
landing on top of him.
"Well shit," Obi-Wan grumbled. "And Maul's not here to carry
them for us."
"Just as well," Qui-Gon observed. "I think he enjoys killing
them."
At the moment, Maul wasn't thinking about killing. Or
Immortals. Or the Jedi he'd been cursed to encounter time and
time again. Instead, he was trying to wrap his mind around the
fact that the universe was not only weirder than he had
previously imagined, his mentor was weirder than he
could imagine, in ways that had already eclipsed
Sidious' mastery of the improbable.
The wickedly wedge-shaped ship Alex had called seemingly out of
nowhere certainly did look like an appropriately Sithly
conveyance. It was black, it had vaguely menacing patterns
etched into its sides, and it looked like it could eat any
three battlecruisers for breakfast and go back with room for
some smartassed smuggler's bucket of bolts afterwards. When
Alex had walked up to it on the roof of the airport garage, a
previously unseen seam had split open in its belly, and Maul
had been left with no choice but to follow Alex up the narrow
ramp it...extruded, for want of a better word. The ramp
had been black, too. Maul had been mildly surprised they hadn't
climbed up into pitch darkness.
The bridge had been built for one person when Alex led him into
it. Now it was built for two. Watching a copilot's chair and a
bank of controls just...ooze out of nowhere had
been...educational. Maul had no idea how that particular feat
had been accomplished, and that was saying something. He was
good with mechanics, after all...there wasn't much of
anything he couldn't build. He'd been working on plans for the
ultimate weapon before his Master Sidious had informed him of
his new assignment, messing around just for fun, but Sidious
had seized on his doodles with unholy glee, practically
drooling. Maul thought he might call it a "Death Star."
But even his Death Star couldn't do anything like that.
//Humility is not a Sithly trait,// he muttered to
himself, sinking lower in his newly-fashioned chair, //so why
do they all seem intent on keeping me humble?//
And the damned ship could corner like a dream.
"Hey, Spike," Alex called to the ship as he flopped down in his
own chair, sprawling out comfortably without making a move
towards the controls. "Give me some visuals, huh? And this is
Maul--he's going to be flying with us for a bit."
There was no answer that Maul could hear, but part of the dark
inner wall of the ship before them went suddenly fluid, silvery
striations flowing inward like the glitter of moonlight off
pitch-black waters. Rapidly, the silver pulsed outward,
lighting up an oval screen that Maul was certain hadn't been
there a moment before...and it showed them rushing above a
flickering landscape of tall buildings, the city giving way
grudgingly to suburbs and countryside.
Blinking, Maul grabbed the armrests, leaning forward with a
frankly avaricious expression. He hadn't even felt them begin
to move, much less at such a respectable speed--what was
powering this ship's stabilizers? And how could he convince
Alex to let him look under the hood to find out?
"I wouldn't think too loudly about taking Spike apart, if I
were you," Alex offered mildly, leaning on one elbow. "He can
get a little touchy about that kind of thing..."
"It--he can read my thoughts?" Maul grimaced suspiciously,
changing his pronoun quickly when he felt his chair shift
strangely beneath him. Damned AIs...always getting delusions of
personhood...
"Better than I can," Alex surprised him by saying. "At least,
when my, ah, partner isn't in command of the body."
Something about the way Alex said that, so matter-of-factly,
gave Maul the shivers, and that was hard to do. It was very
easy to forget Alex wasn't just a well-trained human... "Spike
is an Oilien ship--an alien lifeform in his own right, half of
a symbiotic relationship with one particular Oilien--my Oilien
rider."
"You inherited the ship," Maul stated with sudden
understanding.
"Exactly," Alex chuckled. "Better than asking my dad for the
keys to the Ferrari on the weekend, huh?"
Maul wasn't entirely sure what the heretical Ferrari sect had
to do with anything--if Alex's father had a group of them caged
somewhere, he was welcome to them. On the other hand, imagining
a younger Alex wandering down to the dungeon on the weekend and
torturing a band of the extortionist monks...applying burning
fuses to bare skin, stringing them up by faulty wires, taking
their own holy symbol of the Fractured Axle and ramming it up
their--
Maul smiled in blissful nostalgia, thinking of his own
graduation present from Sidious, the keys to the Lexus Temple
on Egoicon IV. Oh yes. Those were the days...
"Hey Spike," Alex called again, breaking in on Maul's musings,
"let's have some music..."
The ship answered with another burst of speed as something
raucous and Sithly suddenly pounded from unseen speakers,
filling the bridge with sound. Briefly stunned by the volume,
Maul slumped bonelessly in his chair, eyes wide as the bass
quivered in his bones, his horns vibrating pleasantly in time.
"I came into this world as a reject / Look into these eyes,
then you'll see the size of the flames! / Dwellin' on the past,
it's burnin' up my brain / Everyone that burns has to learn
from the pain!"
"What...is it?" Maul asked, eyes falling half-shut as he
decided his mentor was wasted as anything but a Sith.
"The story of my life," Alex muttered darkly, "the story of my
life..."
"I did it all for the Nookie! C'mon, the Nookie!"
blasted through the ship, rattling in Maul's skull. The
bitterness spoke to him. It told him to watch Alex very
carefully if his mentor joked about past relationships again.
Very carefully indeed. Alex might be the ranking Black Hat
here, but the sharply-honed instincts of Maul's well-developed
lizardbrain had already formed very strong connections between
Alex and the things he craved: belonging, approval, safety,
sex. Especially sex. He could live without the comforting
feeling of being one with a pack, the growing sense of security
as Alex's training made him more and more invulnerable, without
the warm glow of Alex's pride in his accomplishments. What he
wasn't willing to forego was the mind-blowing,
earthshaking, spinemelting sex. It left him feeling more than a
little possessive.
//Avarice is a Sithly trait,// he reassured himself with a
mental shrug, shunting his uneasiness aside. //I don't see the
problem.//
The almost living Force of bitterness inside the ship spoke to
him again.
It told him the problem probably worked for the FBI.
In the middle of nowhere, the Oilien ship suddenly turned at
right angles, straight up, and the force of its vertical
thrust left a perfect shockwave circle in the middle of an
unsuspecting farmer's wheat field. At the same time, the
compressed air that had been shoved ahead of the ship's
inertialess field shot forward several hundred feet along the
same path the ship had been traveling, causing the unpleasant
death of five cows before dispersing. By the time a farmer came
out to investigate the sonic boom he'd heard from the milking
shed, Spike and passengers were long gone.
"I want this," Maul purred hungrily, stroking the arm of his
chair as he stared out the forward display screen, the sky
darkening as they punched through the upper atmosphere without
a bump.
"Sorry," Alex chuckled, "it comes with the Oilien..."
"I want you," Maul stated in the same tone, turning to
Alex with lustful eyes.
"That's a bit more difficult," Alex shrugged mildly, frowning
slightly as he leaned closer to the screen. "Spike?" he
continued before Maul could demand why. "Do you feel any
more of us out here?"
//Any more of us,// Maul repeated to himself, eyes
narrowing. He could tell a blatant distancing technique when
bludgeoned with one. Difficult--why should having Alex be any
more difficult than acquiring an alien rider that would turn
his eyes black, irradiated bystanders whenever someone tried to
Whammy him, and had a mindcall loud enough to set off speeder
alarms halfway across Coruscant?
He wondered if it would help if he rose up, struck Alex down,
and revealed himself to his mentor.
Before he could make up his mind to try--Alex would probably
strike him down, but...that wasn't exactly a bad
thing--Alex jerked suddenly beside him, flowing smoothly to his
feet and stalking towards the viewscreen. "Spike..."
With nothing else said, the stars beyond seemed to leap
infinitesimally closer as the view zoomed in on a tiny moving
blip that grew larger and larger as Maul watched, frowning.
Strange...it looked like...
"That has got to be the ugliest color of yellow I've
ever seen," Alex sneered, vaguely disgusted, as the chunky,
slablike ships soared ponderously into view.
//Oh shit,// Maul blinked as the Oilien ship sliced
serenely through the void towards the fleet. "Alex," Maul
cleared his throat quietly, suddenly noticing the perfectly
still, waiting ships they were passing as they
continued. The Oilien fleet was here and in place, but
they weren't the source of the disturbance in the Force Maul
had sensed in the airport. "Those are not Oiliens."
"No shit," Alex growled with something like a shiver. "If one
of our ships ever turned that color, we'd have to cull him from
the herd...I mean, what if it spread?"
"No," Maul tried again, "Alex. Those are not your nominal
allies. That," he shuddered in unfamiliar disgust, "is a
Vogon Constructor Fleet."
Sidious had once punished Maul by forcing him to listen to a
recorded recital of some very dense Vogon prose that had turned
out to be a budget proposal. Though it could have been far
worse--it could have been poetry--the scars would never
quite be erased from Maul's soul.
This...this had the possibility of being ten times more
devastating. These were Vogons, the most horrific race to ever
rise through the ranks of Civil Service. They were born
for Civil Service. It was in their blood and bone, their raison
d'etre, their plague on an undeserving galaxy...
And they would think nothing of unleashing the full menace of
forced rhyme and awkward meter on anything that stood in their
way.
For the first time in his life, Darth Maul felt fear that
wasn't his ally.
"Oh shit," Alex blinked, and Maul nodded silently to
himself.
His words exactly.
Methos made himself comfortable in the co-pilot's chair and
hummed a little tune under his breath. Qui-Gon was manually
piloting the craft, a necessary move after the shipboard AI
refused to compute ideas like 'stealth' and 'quiet' and 'as
quickly as possible' for their journey. Obi-Wan was already
headed down to collect their next target, so Methos just
relaxed and hoped for the best. He stretched his legs out and
was just settling in for a really comfortable sprawl when
Qui-Gon spoke up.
"So, what's this I hear about you pulling little disappearing
acts on your friends?" the Jedi Master casually inquired.
Methos didn't trust that 'casual' tone one single bit. And he
was really going to have to strangle Dawson for this...
"Oh, you know how it is. Sometimes you just gotta get away from
it all. Find new places. Meet new people. Have Force-driven
monkey-love..."
Qui-Gon stuck his tongue out and gave a credible Bronx Cheer.
"See through you, I can."
"So why did you bother asking?" Methos returned in a sweet tone
calculated to insult.
"Well, I could just tell you, but then you'd just come
up with some marginally acceptable excuse and never accept the
truth," Qui-Gon replied, stretching in his chair. "I just
wondered if you understood your own reasons."
Methos closed his eyes and dredged up some logic. "I'm very
old."
"Then you know the joy of living in the moment as well as being
mindful of the future," Qui-Gon sagely inferred.
Methos smoothly changed gears. "It's not as if I'm
indispensable."
"True, but what about merely being wanted?" Qui-Gon inquired.
Methos frowned, slowly remembering why he had stopped hanging
out with the Buddhists. "Look, where are you going with all
this?"
"Just wondering if your plans involve bailing out on me and my
Padawan on very short notice. We like you. We're going out of
our way to help you. We'd like for you to stay," Qui-Gon
settled back into his seat. "Problem?"
Methos frowned. "Why would there be a problem?"
Qui-Gon closed his eyes and hummed a little tune.
"Look, when five thousand years old you are, socially
stable you no longer will be," Methos crossed his arms
and turned slightly away from the humming Jedi.
"True. But I'll also not be drawing breath. I'll be one with
the Force and thinking fondly back on all the wild times we had
together. I'm just hoping you'll be doing the same."
"Hey, I never forget a friend," Methos smiled a little too
easily, both of them knowing it wasn't really an answer. "Look,
I could use a beer. Want one?" he asked as he rose, hesitating
with one hand still resting on the headrest of his seat. Not
like he expected--or wanted--to be asked to sit his
evasive, ancient ass back down...
"Sure," was all Qui-Gon replied, but the Jedi sighed a little
as he said it, not quite looking at Methos.
At the door to the bridge, Methos paused, turning reluctantly
back to the other man with a frown. Gods, he hated Nice Guys
sometimes... "I'm still here, aren't I?" he asked quietly,
waiting for Qui-Gon to turn and meet his eyes. "I have five
fast ships docked at Milliways, you know...I don't know how
much more in the Moment you can get than this, but I suspect
I'm going to find out if I keep hanging around you people. Just
try not to save the Universe too often with me onboard, all
right? I keep telling Duncan it's bad for the complexion, but
he never listens..."
This time he really did leave, heading down to the storage area
where they kept the important, potable cargo...but Qui-Gon was
smirking after him, and Methos didn't find anything in that to
complain about at all.
Obi-Wan tucked the newest passengers into cold storage and
locked it down, then turned to head towards the cockpit. Just
then, his comm link chirped. "Kenobi."
There was a voice, then static, then nothing, then more static
and finally the tail end of a lost conversation: "--get your
Jedi asses up here and do something!"
Krycek. Well shit.
"Didn't copy. Repeat, over," Obi-Wan frowned, keeping his voice
calm.
"That wasn't some fucking Oilien blip! There's a fucking Vogon
Constructor fleet out here and they're kicking our ass! Need
assist, repeat, need assist!"
"No can do, Villain One. One more pickup."
"What the hell are we going to do while you go tripping the
light fantastic around this fucking mudball?" Alex
demanded. An explosion preempted whatever he might have said
next.
Obi-Wan pressed his forehead to the doorjamb. Vogons. Vogons.
What did he know about Vogons? "Master!"
"Yes, Padawan?" Qui-Gon poked his head down the ladderway.
"Vogons attacking?" Obi-Wan shrugged his shoulders as if to say
'Totally stuck for ideas, here.'
"Poetry, Obi-Wan. Challenge them to a poetry duel," Qui-Gon
tisked and disappeared again.
"Did you copy that, Villain One?" Obi-Wan asked.
"Copy and commencing. You might want to shut down your
receivers for a bit."
"Copy. Kenobi out," he ended the call and Force-jumped up the
ladderway. No time to lose. No matter how evil, cunning, mean
and low-down Maul and Krycek might be, there was no guarantee
that they could hold out against the sheer bloodymindedness of
Vogon poetry. And even if they could, no one deserved that.
A short time later, in a different part of New York City,
Obi-Wan decided he didn't deserve this, either. "Please,
Mister MacLeod, if you'll just come down here and talk to me."
He did his best to project the Whammy through the speaker, but
it would appear to be a no-go.
"Be real! I'm happy, I'm safe, I'm not going anywhere. The
Kurgan's out there, and I'm just gonna wait a bit so he can
wear himself out on slightly fresher meat." Connor MacLeod was
singularly focused on his mission.
Obi-Wan stepped back and regarded the store before him. The
doors were glass, but were protected by thick bars. He sighed
and unclipped his lightsaber. He hated flashing his
weapon around on backwards planets. Somehow, the second he
fired it up, some idiot local would come asking questions. He'd
cut through the bottom of the bars when a click of heel and a
snap of steel alerted him to the inevitable intrusion.
"FBI. Put your hands in the...oh my god."
Obi-Wan cut the power on his saber and turned around very
slowly. "Good evening."
"Is that...what are...who..." The man seemed well and truly
stunned by what Obi-Wan held in his hand. "Ali...ali..."
"I am Obi-Wan Kenobi."
"That's...you've got a...you're not...from here...are you?" the
man finally formed a complete sentence.
Obi-Wan shook his head.
"Where, what?"
Obi-Wan sighed. "Did you say FBI?"
The man nodded. "Special Agent Fox Mulder."
Obi-Wan sighed again. "I have something for you. It's from an
enemy, I think, but he said you might like to have these,"
Obi-Wan reached into his satchel and pulled out a small jar, in
which swam a Babel fish. "Put this in your ear."
With shaking hands the earthman obeyed.
Then Obi-Wan pulled out a copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide.
"Don't Panic!" the cover suggested. Also blazoned there was the
information: "Improved! With Personal Thumb!" He narrowed his
eyes at Fox Mulder and all the pieces fell in place. FBI.
Alex's Fibbie, the one that put that defensive look on
the man's face whenever Alex spoke of him. And now, on the
brink of absolute disaster, Alex might not be able to take a
personal hand in pulling this Fibbie's ass out of the
fire, but Alex was handing the man a ticket out of this mess
despite everything Mulder had done to him.
Alex was no Black Hat. He was a soggy ball of sentimentality
that didn't know when to look away when someone took the rope
they'd been given and hung themselves.
//Jedi do not seek revenge,// he reminded himself.
//What about that 'Jedi protect others' thing?// his
mind promptly inquired, ignoring the irony of protecting Alex
from anything.
//Alex was very clear on his wishes,// he replied heavily,
wishing that hadn't been the case.
//It could be retroactive...// the small, stubborn voice
mused, dwelling lovingly on the idea.
//A bit late for that now!// he insisted to himself,
remembering the look in Alex's eyes above the airport terminal.
It suddenly occurred to him what he was doing. With a shake of
the head and a truly heartfelt sigh, he handed the Guide over.
The FBI man looked near to tears. "Is this...what is this?"
"Alex said to tell you that the truth was in there. I can't say
it's all in there, but parts of it are true." Obi-Wan stopped.
He'd done about as much as he could, in good conscience, bring
himself to do. The rest was up to Mulder.
The FBI man nodded mutely, clutched the small electric book to
his chest, and ran.
//Well. That was confusing...// Obi-Wan returned to the work of
cutting his way to Duncan's teacher, trying hard not to glance
up at the sky where his friend and his enemy fought to save all
their lives.
"No," Maul breathed, fixing utterly pleading eyes on Alex.
"Please. Don't do this..."
Alex scowled at his trainee, something very testy and very
dangerous moving behind his eyes. This time, it wasn't even his
Oilien. So. Maul had known about the poetry all along... "I'm
not going to ask why you chose not to share this with the
class," Alex hissed, turning away from his untrustworthy
Appre--his untrustworthy assignment. Hell, he was
trying to teach Maul how to be an utterly despicable
Sith--why was he so upset that Tattoo Boy had held out on him?
Maul grabbed his arm, but when Alex spun on him, Maul's eyes
were wide with trepidation and something else, something
unfamiliar. "You don't understand--even Sidious never used
Vogon poetry against me, Alex."
That gave Alex pause, he had to admit. Staring down at Maul's
strained, earnest face, his eyes narrowed though he felt the
glare slipping away, mollified by the other's obvious dread.
"You may be right," Alex shrugged after a moment, the battle
strangely calm around them, "but that's a chance we'll have to
take. We can't let them past so long as our people are still
down there. You know that as well as I do."
"What?" Maul demanded, incredulous, and Alex winced
internally. "You're--you're talking like a hero,
Master!"
Containing the unexpectedly pleasant rush of heat he felt at
Maul's strange little slip of the tongue, Alex shook his head
firmly, holding Maul's eyes without flinching. "No. I'm talking
like a Grey, Maul. A Grey with very firm career goals
which do not include having his plans wrecked by a bunch of
Civil Servants, and who knows the value of keeping useful
allies around." Maul still looked unconvinced, and Alex took a
deep breath, thinking, //What the hell, let him think what he
wants...// "You have to have somebody to look out for, Maul,"
he shrugged uncomfortably, but he didn't look away. "Without
that, it all ends up meaningless anyway."
"I look out for myself," Maul protested, but he didn't sound
entirely convinced.
"Yeah," Alex snorted with a wry grin, "and so does Sidious. And
let me tell you, even if he does end up Emperor
Palpatine, he won't be happy with it--you and I both know that.
Starting to get the picture? Real Black Hats live
longer, sure, but at least Greys get to die content. Most of
the time," he admitted with a shrug.
He could tell Maul was thinking about it. Great. Alex wished
him luck--and if they survived this battle, maybe they'd talk
again. "Open a hailing channel, Spike!" Alex called to the
ship, though it was perfectly unnecessary--the ship heard his
every thought, after all. But he didn't want to freak Maul out
with the silent operation he'd grown used to since making his
peace with the tagalong presence nesting inside his head. He
had enough ways to freak out his trainee all by himself, after
all...
"Hailing Vogon Fleet," Alex snapped harshly, sorting through
half a dozen of his favorite glares, including the all-purpose
764 (Amused Contempt) and his rather masterful 717-D (One Whom
Nothing Can Surprise), before settling on the 10-M (Leashed
Ire).
The image that flashed on the screen was...chilling. It was
green. Dark green. The skin, the tiny piggish eyes, the
ill-fitting uniform that looked like something a fast food
cashier would refuse to wipe the men's restroom down with, much
less wear--all a uniform shade of dark, rubbery green that Alex
would have expected to find lurking inside an anonymously
leprous plastic container on the bottom shelf at the very back
of Mulder's refrigerator. It was green, it was massive, it was
grossly twisted, and it was the ugliest thing Alex had ever
seen in his life.
And he'd seen surveillance tape of Sidious in drag, thank you
very much. The fact that Maul had seen it in person and
survived had been the deciding factor in Alex's decision to
take the Sith as a trainee.
"This is Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch of the Galactic Hyperspace
Planning Council," the apparition of unloveliness growled in a
grating, completely unmelodic voice. "You can't stand in front
of the Construction Fleet indefinitely, you know."
"Long enough," Alex growled back, fighting a battle with his
gorge and winning. He was strong. Let the Jedi practice their
meditations on serenity and the Sith honing their rage--he'd
been strengthened in the crucible of Shady Dealing and had seen
the worst the Galaxy and his not-insignificant surveillance
network had to offer. "This is a Pre-Contact world, Vogon, and
you look like you've got more than a flyby in mind--perhaps
you'd care to explain what it is you're doing here?"
"Oh please," Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch grumbled impatiently. "I'm
sure you're aware that this planet has been scheduled to be
demolished to make room for a hyperspatial bypass--"
"What?" Alex protested, feeling the strangest sensation
of a lot of eyes turning to him suddenly...turning to
him and looking through him. Suddenly, he knew exactly
what the proverbial fly on the wall felt like.
"The planning charts have been at your local planning
department in Alpha Centauri for fifty Earth years!"
//Fifty?// Alex thought with patent disbelief, feeling
his own surprise echo outward to unseen listeners. The other
Oiliens were just as surprised as he was, at least, he thought
with a dim sense of satisfaction--though being connected to
that eerie hive mind after having grown used to his own rider's
independent ways was unsettling, to say the least. Fifty years.
The Oiliens had been working with the Syndicate to take over
the Earth for roughly fifty years... It was unbearably ironic.
"Look, if you can't work up the interest to travel a mere four
lightyears away for the sake of your planet, I don't know what
to tell you," Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch grumbled. "And I know
perfectly well that none of you people are proper Earthlings at
all, so you've got no excuse--if you had interests in this area
of space, you should have taken it up with your Planning
Commissioner, gone through proper channels like everybody else.
Instead you're just making this unpleasant for everybody. Now.
Remove your invasion fleet from orbit around this planet, or
we'll have to demolish your crafts along with the rest."
//Dammit, why don't you do something?// Alex demanded to
the silent audience of his, er, adopted kin. //You wanted this
world--you can't just let them have it!// There was a
swift flicker of communication Alex himself was too slow to
catch, but whatever it was, it made his own Oilien waffle
uncertainly in Alex's thoughts. //What?//
The hive communication when it came was clumsy, strange, but
perfectly understandable.
{...so...long...and thanks...for all...the hosts...}
//You cowardly bastards!// Alex roared after them, but
the Oilien fleet was turning about in utter indifference, its
interest in this planet really very minuscule compared to the
many other irons it had in the fire. The problems of one
black--so to speak--sheep Oilien and its genetically superior
but overexcitable host were of no concern to them at all.
Alex could sense his Oilien's mental shrug, a hint of apology
from the thing as Spike shivered all around them, wanting to
rejoin the rest of the pack of its shipbrethren. //We are in
deep shit...//
"Is there anything I could do to change your mind?" Alex asked
quickly, showing no signs of the screaming stress he suddenly
found himself under. "A friendly wager or maybe
a...contribution to a charitable cause, perhaps?"
"If you're suggesting a bribe," Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch
grimaced sourly, "don't bother. They're going to put this pass
in one way or the other, you know. And if I beat my deadline,
I'm in line for a promotion, so you might as well just step
aside."
"I'm shocked," Alex said in his best 2-W (One Whose
Sensibilities Have Been Wounded). "To think that you'd believe
I'd stoop to bribery. In fact...I, Alex Krycek of the Fine and
Venerable Order of Deus Ex Machina, challenge you...to a battle
of poetry."
The awful silence that followed his words was thick enough to
strangle. Or perhaps it was simple horror that made Maul choke
like that just behind him. Slowly, very slowly, the Vogon
captain blinked at him, tiny little eyes narrowing in cruel
suspicion and glee.
"Poetry," Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch said slowly. If a rancor
could purr, it would have sounded like Rhusch's voice. "You.
Want to challenge me. To a battle of poetry."
"Whoever's left standing takes all," Alex agreed with a feral
grin that made even the Vogon sit back a bit in his command
chair.
"Agreed," Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch nodded once. "You challenged.
I start."
"You might want to brace yourself, Mas--Alex," Maul murmured
behind him, voice faint, and Alex found himself strangely
disappointed that Maul had caught his slip in time. Ah well. He
could puzzle that out later. Right now...it was time to see
just who was the best--well, worst--poet alive.
He just hoped inspiration would strike when it was his
turn, because he had no idea what he was going to say.
"I think you should know I have a gun and have no problem
killing you while you're dead," Connor MacLeod announced in a
conversational tone.
"Then pay attention," Obi-Wan suggested. "I'm not what you
think I am."
Connor cocked his head to one side, then laughed his trademark
chuckle. "No. I suppose you probably aren't. Well, you wanted
to see me. Here I am." He held his arms out and turned slowly
before Obi-Wan's steady gaze.
"Come on. We have to get you out of here," Obi-Wan said. "Get
your sword and a towel. We don't have time for your bad earth
humor."
"Whyever should I leave my little fortress? I'm safe here,"
Connor sat back down on his sofa and reached for his glass.
"I just cut my way in here. There's a six foot hole where your
door used to be."
Connor frowned, then shrugged. "Well then. Lead on, good
knight."
"Padawan," Obi-Wan muttered, tugging at his braid. "And way too
young for this shit." Obi-Wan led the way outside and up a fire
escape. The Fortnight Gannet hovered conspicuously above
the building, knotted rope dangling from the gangplank. "Why
don't you come with me on a magic carpet ride?" he invited.
Just then a lightning storm sprang up a few blocks away.
Connor's eyes glittered with the blue and white fury that
denoted yet another fallen warrior in the battle that raged all
around him. "You know, I think I will."
Obi-Wan followed him up the rope, ready to catch him if he
faltered. "So, how come you aren't out there slaughtering like
everyone else?" he puffed conversationally.
Connor laughed. "I took the gift of illusion from another some
time back. I know a lie when I see one--even one on as grand a
scale as this...Gathering."
Obi-Wan chuckled at that. "You and Methos are going to like one
another."
"Methos? He's here? The real Methos?" Connor demanded.
"I didn't know he came in six packs," Obi-Wan replied. "Though,
now that I think about it, it wouldn't surprise me if he did."
Qui-Gon peered out over the edge of the gangplank. "Hurry up!
They're not gonna last much longer up there!"
"Gimme a lift," Obi-Wan smiled, and let go the rope. Qui-Gon
caught him easily and lifted him to the safety of the Fortnight
Gannet. A moment later, Connor clambered over the side.
Qui-Gon helped him up with a strong hand on his arm. "I hope
you understand these are merely precautionary measures," he
graciously explained, while slipping a thin stiletto between
Connor's ribs.
"Perfectly reasonable," the Scot managed to gasp before he
expired.
Obi-Wan scrubbed his hands through his hair. "Okay, so. who
else do we have to save?"
"The bad guys," Qui-Gon reminded him.
Ah. Right. Obi-Wan resisted the urge to sigh.
A Jedi's work was never done...
"This one was sent to me on my birthday by my cousin,"
Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch chuckled in a gravelly, oily voice
vaguely reminiscent of a Hutt with a small bantha calf lodged
in its esophagus. Clearing his throat, Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch
drew himself up proudly, puffed out a shapeless chest, closed
his eyes and began:
"Oh freddled gruntbuggly thy micturations are to me!"
Alex jerked, eyes widening in shock as the most foul and
insidious miasma seemed suddenly to grasp his limbs, while his
skin tried vainly to cringe away from the terrible sound. "As
plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee."
"Oh ffff..." Maul hissed, unable to complete his gasped curse
as the Sith sank helplessly against the side of his abandoned
chair, knees turning to water. This was his fault, Alex
realized with a burning pang of remorse--Maul had tried to warn
him, but he hadn't listened, and if it wasn't for him, the Sith
could have cowed Spike into submission and gotten out while the
getting was good...his fault...
"Groop I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes," Prostetnic
Vogon Rhusch continued with rapacious glee, "And hooptiously
drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles..."
"Mas...ter...hurts...." Maul was groaning, clutching his horns
in one hand and hanging onto the chair arm with the other,
half-sprawled across the floor. Helpless, Alex dropped to his
knees behind his hapless charge, abandoning his own safety as
he covered Maul's ears with his own hands, gritting his teeth
against the deadly nausea that assaulted him with each word.
His fault. It was up to him to make amends any way he could...
The Vogon captain took no notice of their plight as he charged
towards the conclusion of his poem, taking a deep breath before
throwing his head back with a grimace of unholy triumph,
roaring: "Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my
blurglecruncheon, see if I don't!"
"Gaaah!" Alex gasped, his head falling forward as he
shuddered, burying his brow against Maul's strong shoulder. "Oh
fuck...I'm so sorry, Maul..." he breathed, willing his
stomach to stay where it belonged instead of trying to stage a
daring escape out his throat like it seemed tempted to do. They
were doomed, done for, one iambic pentameter away from joining
the choir invisible... "My fault...you would've made...a great
Black Hat...my Apprentice..."
Electrified, Maul jerked in Alex's grasp, turning his head to
face Alex with the most incredible expression of fierce pride
and determination burning in his lambent eyes. Reaching up
suddenly, he pulled Alex into a quick, stunning kiss, and then
the Sith was struggling up, tottering to his feet where he
swayed stubbornly, legs braced wide, so full of the Dark Force
Alex half expected to hear Transylvanian organ music start up
from the shadows. He was magnificent and menacing, and Alex
wished suddenly with all his heart that he'd met Maul first,
that they'd had more time, that he could get the Sith to strike
that pose again if they survived.
In a voice terrifying enough to convince a telemarketer to Just
Hang Up, Darth Maul, Sith Apprentice, snarled: "O inculpating
lanugo, with larghetto evicerations I court thee!"
Alex's jaw gaped open as his eyes went huge, staring at Maul
with the feeling of having been punched in the gut with a
diminutive green troll. Maul seemed to actually take
strength from the hideousness he invoked so recklessly,
his stance firming as the Vogon on the screen flinched away,
one slablike hand clapping over its side as if its appendix had
suicided.
"My messaline, my mesoglea!" Maul howled in unholy delight,
fists clenching, "that nestles all scrumptilliously / In the
deliquescing hecatomb leftovers. O thou rheumy
piroshki!" he cried to the horrified heavens, and Alex's
eyes rolled back in his skull as Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch
shuddered like a beached whale, gabbling an obscene collection
of choking noises almost as awful as the Sithpoetry. "I defame
your bowels with petunias," Maul raced to the finish with a
strength born of utter desperation and sociopathic joy, "And
bronze thy kebob for posterity, Excelsior!"
Chest heaving, Maul panted in animal challenge, chin up,
staring down the badly-shaken Vogon with the full might of his
Sithliness resting like a mantle of destruction on his broad
shoulders. Alex was as impressed with the atmosphere of
the moment Maul had created as he was with the Sith's guts.
He'd suspected that Maul had a neglected streak of loyalty
buried in him somewhere, but this...this was beyond all Alex's
imaginings.
It was actually kind of nice, in a rabid rancor sort of way...
Visibly gathering his strength, Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch drew in
a shaky breath and answered the challenge with a groan that
firmed slowly. "Ohhhh...mine!" he growled low as Maul quivered
in the blast, and Alex gritted his teeth, closing his eyes as
he stubbornly tried to wade it out. All he could do was trust
in Maul, and pray their Jedi friends got their asses up here
before it was too late... "My sweet duclateian," Rhusch spat
with a glitter-eyed snarl, "how brittyld are thy veens / But
bocamal will I thy ven-doonas if I catch you mangling the
predools once more," he howled with growing momentum, "And
grangled will be thy brindlwartls if / you kiss me with garlic
breath again!"
The bellow knocked Maul back two steps and Spike shook beneath
them, on the verge of turning tail or self-destructing in a
pitiful attempt to get away from the horror on all sides. This
was going to be close...Alex could feel it already, and
something in Maul's steeling spine told him to beware the
worst. Death before defeat... //Oh no...//
With a serpentine hiss, Maul raised his hands in a series of
truly terrifying motions, rasping: "I am a little Palpy / Short
and stout / Here is my Sithrobe / Here is my--"
"Noooooooo!" Alex howled, tackling his apprentice to the
floor before he could do the unthinkable and sacrifice himself
for a lost cause. Nothing was worth the agony of that
recital--nothing.
"I can take him!" Maul cried in protest, and sure enough, Alex
could hear the thud over the viewscreen as Prostetnic Vogon
Rhusch slid out of his chair, going into convulsions on the
deck of the Vogon ship. "It's the only way, Master! Let me go!"
"No, Maul," Alex shook his head firmly, unwilling to be swayed.
"Not like that. Not at that price. Even if we fail--"
"K-kk-kkkkkii--" Prostetnic Vogon Rhusch was trying to choke
out from the Vogon ship, orders for their execution, and Alex
could feel the muddled shock of his own ship, Spike
floundering in space like a poleaxed bantha. There was no
escape...not this time...
Like the sublime choirs of drunken, debauched angels, a deep,
gruff voice with a burred pseudo-Cockney lilt filled both ships
with a mellow echo, sliding smooth as silk into every ear.
//Qui-Gon...// Alex recognized through his own startlement, the
Jedi Master's crooned words wrapping him in warm velvet.
"Why what can I say,
My Obi-Wan
And what explanation could I give
When ask'ed by the Councilors I am
On why thy rosy lips are snowy white?
And what words can deny
The answer you provide?
Pink tongue lapping my remains...
my cat in cream...
No dissimulations nor obfuscations can I make
While standing here discovered and amazed
While standing here beloved and love-crazed
While kneelest thou there giving loving praise
While smilest thou at me, so sweetly glazed
in this broom-closet."
With a collective scream, the Constructor Fleet turned as one,
the Vogons fleeing as the shock to their systems threatened to
implode their major organs where they stood. From the height of
Sithly majesty to the depths of Jedi eroticism in seventeen
brief seconds--it was too much for them, far too much, and only
Alex and Maul's own adamantine constitutions preserved their
sanity from the spiritual "bends."
"Alex? Are you all right?" Obi-Wan's voice came over the
communications system as Alex and Maul lay gasping on the
floor, groaning faintly. "Maul? Is Alex with you? Anybody?"
"Guh..." Alex huffed, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath.
Maul's head was turned towards him, glazed golden eyes staring
with an intensity that seemed strangely satisfied, even
content. Reaching out without thinking, Alex grabbed the Sith's
shoulder, sliding his hand up to rest at the side of Maul's
strong neck. "Hrrrr..."
"Alex?" Obi-Wan demanded again, beginning to sound truly
concerned.
"What--what took you?" Alex growled in a stronger voice,
some of the tension finally draining out of him. They were
going to be okay. Really. Perfectly okay.
"You're welcome," Obi-Wan snorted, sounding more affectionate
than annoyed. "Maybe you ought to consider coming back on over
to the Gannet again...you don't sound too good..."
"Oh hells, he's going to play doctor," Maul groaned beside
Alex, but quietly, and he laughed when he said it. The thrill
of victory, Alex decided with a grin of his own...
"Me first," he purred at his apprentice, and smiled when Maul
dragged him closer, rolling Alex on top of his hard, wiry
frame.
Obi-Wan piloted the Gannet to hang above the Oilien ship Alex
had somehow gained control over. Oiliens. Ew. Obi-Wan shivered
reflexively. He'd read somewhere that someone had developed a
shot for that. Maybe Alex should look into the possibility.
"Master... I'm confused," Obi-Wan confessed as he put the ship
in park. "Why did that work?"
"Well, it occurred to me that you didn't have to fight
fire with fire," Qui-Gon shrugged.
Obi-Wan nodded uncertainly. "Okay, so...how do we get them
onboard? I never did get around to fixing the airlock."
"Good question. It is an Oilien ship, after all. They
have some rather...bizarre social habits," Qui-Gon allowed.
"Better check with your friend."
Obi-Wan nodded and opened a hailing frequency.
In some universe running parallel to this one, a dark-skinned
woman in a microscopic skirt frowned at the presumption.
"Alex, look...are you going to follow us or what?" Obi-Wan
asked.
"Um...I don't think so. Spike wants to get back to his
brethren, I think."
A loud creaking noise overpowered Krycek's voice.
"Make that 'definitely'. Look, may we have permission to
board?"
"Sure, if you can figure out how to do it without exposing
yourself to the cold vacuum of space. My airlock's out, and I
didn't see one on yours. How are you getting from...there...to
here?" Obi-Wan asked.
"Lemme work on it," Krycek replied and hung up. A long moment
passed before he came back. "Okay, tell your ship we're
preparing to board."
Obi-Wan mentally steeled himself for the upcoming torture and
said: "Computer?"
"Hi there! I'm so glad you have some job for me
to do and I just can't wait to do my level best at
achieving your goals. What ultra-spiffy task can I perform for
you today?" the computer chirped.
Qui-Gon strode swiftly from the cockpit. Obi-Wan shot a glare
at his retreating back, then thought better of it. Better his
master take a powder than express his displeasure with some of
the more eclectic Force-manipulations he was famous for. He
never had convinced the Habitat Controller in their
rooms at the Temple not to dim the lights and play burlesque
music every time Qui-Gon stepped out of the 'fresher... "Look,
our friends are coming aboard. Do as you're told."
"Righty-ho!"
"Ship's name is Spike," Obi-Wan said.
"I'll just give him a great big hello!" the computer enthused.
"Whatever. Gimme a visual of their operations," Obi-Wan leaned
back in his chair, preparing to troubleshoot any interface
problems.
The Oilien ship had flipped over and a long...Obi-Wan refused
to admit what it looked like. A...tubelike appendage was
extending towards the Gannet's boarding ramp.
"Hi there, Spike! This is such a great day to transfer
passengers! I just hope you're having as much fun as I am,
because...OOOoooh! That tickles! Don't do that!" the computer
tittered. "Hey, now...I'll just open up the rampway here, and
your buddies can come right on over!"
Obi-Wan switched to internal viewing and saw a rather worn and
abused pair of blackhats crawl up the ramp. He smiled with
satisfaction, glad to see his friends safely returned to his
ship.
"Hey, Spike! That's quite a grip you have there! I don't think
you're supposed to be...hey, don't do that...hey, stop!
Obi-Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhh....."
And with that, the computer was no more.
"Alex!" Obi-Wan bellowed.
Qui-Gon stared at the ruins of the AI program with a
combination of horror and guilty joy. Krycek was shamelessly
unapologetic, a quality that was quietly winning Qui-Gon's
approval. "I can't believe your ship killed our computer."
"Not your computer," Alex corrected. "Just the personality
interface."
Obi-Wan pinned him with an angry glare. "Without a personality,
it's just a hunk of metal. We can't even land properly without
it."
"Well, don't you have a backup?" Darth Maul demanded with a
sneer.
"Would you keep more than one of those on your
ship?" Obi-Wan shot back archly.
The Sith inspected the Sirius Cybernetics logo and chuckled
wickedly. "Not on my ship, no...but one day, when I have
an Apprentice..."
"Well, there's always your little side project," Qui-Gon
suggested before the Sith could wax poetic about the joys of
rage-honing and Apprentice-tormenting and Jedi-revealing. Just
let him get Obi-Wan alone for a while, and there'd be more than
enough of that last going on around here, thank you...
"It's unstable," Obi-Wan said unhappily.
"So is every other program in history," Krycek pointed out.
"It's...untrustworthy," Obi-Wan returned, a trifle desperately.
"We don't really have a choice, Padawan," Qui-Gon reminded him.
"This is a very, very bad idea," Obi-Wan insisted.
"Why?" Darth Maul inquired, looking suspiciously pleased.
"See...Renton has a little problem," Obi-Wan hedged, looking
around the circle of expectant faces without much hope that
they'd see reason.
"Can you be more specific?" Alex wanted to know, eyes
narrowing.
"Poor impulse control?" Obi-Wan tried, not missing the way Alex
nudged Maul before the Sith could comment. All right, so there
wasn't a man here who didn't have poor impulse control...
"Meaning...?" Methos purred slowly, arching a single brow.
"He's given to...recreational pursuits inadvisable to most
personalities?"
"Oh just spit it out!" Qui-Gon huffed.
Obi-Wan shook his head no. It was just too embarrassing...
"Look, Padawan...I'm sure you didn't mean to program a
Ethernet addiction into your nice AI, but there it is. The
question is whether or not we can live with that." Qui-Gon
folded his arms. "I'm sure it's better than hanging out in
orbit around a star system scheduled for demolition, anyway."
"So you're all saying I should do this?" Obi-Wan asked with a
sigh.
"Yes."
"And you're all certain it's the best course of action?"
"Yes."
"And you're all going to hold me responsible the very second
something goes horribly, totally wrong, despite the fact that I
have warned you most vigorously, right?"
"Yes."
"Just so long as we're absolutely clear, here," Obi-Wan
shrugged morosely. He knew he should have spent more
time working on that Sith-spawned program...if he'd just
finished tweaking Renton's code instead of going out for that
'special' case of Goldshlager, they'd never have been in this
mess... "I'll start the installation while you get the Immies
out of cold storage. Start with Duncan--he's going to need the
most thawing-out. We should be far enough away from Earth
atmosphere for them to be safe."
Obi-Wan turned towards the too-silent terminal, trying to tell
himself he didn't have a bad feeling about this and
thanking the Force he'd thought to disable the Ethernet link
before installing Renton. Since he hadn't been able to program
the addiction out of the AI, it would just have to go
cold-turkey.
No, he didn't have a bad feeling about this at all...
"Where we're going to put them all, that's what I want to
know," Alex mused as he ambled along the corridor, just half a
step behind the Jedi master. Maul had been volunteered to help
Methos with the bodies of the other Immortals, a task the Sith
didn't seem to mind at all, though Qui-Gon suspected he wasn't
the only one who had hopes of getting a partner alone sometime
in the very near future.
"In the passenger's quarters, of course," Qui-Gon replied.
"I thought we were in the only passenger's quarters," Alex
returned.
"No, you're in the guest quarters. 'Guest' is the Jedi term for
'freeloader' so that's where we put...your sort," Qui-Gon
replied.
Alex sniffed. "So, where are these passenger's quarters?"
"Down there," Qui-Gon gestured towards a corridor lined with
nondescript grey doors. "It's not much, but I think they can
make do."
Frowning, Alex regarded the line of doors, looked up at the
ceiling and down at the floor, and then glared at the doors
again. The man wasn't stupid--Qui-Gon knew Alex had probably
just realized exactly how much bigger the ship was on the
inside compared to the outside. "Ah," Alex nodded sagely. "The
Gannet is a Taardis-class ship."
"Exactly," Qui-Gon nodded, grudgingly pleased. Well, it was no
fun being in a battle of wits with a one-armed man...
"So, what's behind them, then?" Alex asked, curious. "Do they
all lead to bedrooms, or somewhere else?"
"Why don't you open one up and have a look?" Qui-Gon couldn't
resist offering, trying not to grin.
Turning, Alex leveled a wary stare on Qui-Gon, eyes coldly
defensive behind a mask of affability as he tried to decide
whether Qui-Gon was threatening him or just kidding around. //I
will not 'saber my Padawan's friend,// Qui-Gon reminded himself
a trifle uneasily, wondering what had possessed him to joke
with the man without anyone else around to serve as a
distraction. Like it or not, Alex was a part of
Obi-Wan's life, one that wasn't liable to go away--and the
sooner they learned to get along, the happier Obi-Wan would be.
For an instant, something dangerous flickered in Alex's eyes,
but just as suddenly it changed--and Alex, with eyes narrowed,
stalked towards Qui-Gon with lifting hands, fingers crooking
into claws aimed right for Qui-Gon's most ticklish ribs.
Resisting the urge to shriek and run like a Padawan, Qui-Gon
was quite simply forced to defend himself.
Qui-Gon entered the cockpit with a tiny smile on his face. He
knew Obi-Wan wouldn't ask. His Padawan had a keen intuitive
sense for things that were better left unsaid. "How's it
going?"
"Do you really want to know?" his student returned.
"How bad is it?"
Obi-Wan flipped the audio toggle, and Qui-Gon sat down hard.
"Bunch of mutherfooking shyte! Ah cahn't work wi' thes
noombers, Ah'll have ta do'm up ahgain!"
Obi-Wan turned the 'voice' back off. "I just mentioned we were
a bit hungry, asked him to take us out of here, then
this started..."
The ship moved with a sickening lurch, trembled and stopped
again.
Qui-Gon frowned.
The ship did all that, again.
"Renton?" Obi-Wan's voice was utterly calm. "How's it going,
man?"
"Nae goot. Ah'll be wi' ye in a sec. But look--ye wanted a
bite, an' yer man Renton, 'ee delivers. 'Ere ye go, mates..."
Obi-Wan took a look at the navigational readout. "Well,
food...okay, I guess so."
"What?" Qui-Gon demanded.
"We're hovering over the Interstellar House of Pancakes."
"The which?" a disbelieving Alex protested behind them, still
tugging his leather jacket back into place. "I don't guess it
strikes anyone else here as ominous that your ship just plunked
us down at the front door of Junkie Munchie Heaven..."
"Why no, Alex," Obi-Wan growled ironically, "the thought never
occurred to us..."
"Hmm," Alex frowned mildly. "Then I won't bother mentioning
that it looks like your Ethernet link has been enabled
again..."
"Aww, Renton!" Obi-Wan groaned, banging the console once with
his fist. "Don't do this to me, man!"
"Hhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmm..." the ship bubbled dreamily. "Joos'
checkin th' systems, mate... Ah'll be wi' ye in nnnnooooo
time..."
They looked at each other. They looked back at the computer.
Shrugged.
"Looks like we're making a munchie run," Alex shook his head.
"I wonder if they still sell that syrup by the bottle..."
"Hmm," Amanda said slowly, still hanging on Nick's arm in a
rather charming display of possessiveness. Methos wasn't sure
if she was doing it more for his benefit or Nick's, but Duncan
seemed to take it perfectly in stride. 'Amanda and I were never
exclusive,' Duncan had tried to reassure Methos earlier, 'not
like we are...' Nick was manfully trying not to
glare a needless warning at Duncan, who was presently leaning
into Methos' shoulder in their booth, still faintly chilled and
shamelessly seeking warmth.
"Welcome to the Interstellar House of Pancakes," the scrawny
kid who'd given them their menus drawled, bloodshot eyes fixing
on them without much curiosity. "Today's specials are Corellian
toast with your choice of bacon or a breakfast bantha steak,
and the Padawan Plate--two eggs over-easy and all the sausage
you can eat."
"Hmm," Amanda said again, and Methos decided he'd better order
for the lot of them before Alex or Maul could ask for Ewok
omelets or worse.
"We'll take five bantha-bacon omelets with hash browns, two
Corellian toast specials with the steak, two Padawan Plates
with white toast, a croissant, and ten coffees."
"For here, for then, or to go?"
"Here, please," Methos smiled as they handed their menus back,
hoping the cook wouldn't misread the spacetime designation. He
hated getting his food rerouted back to his present
time--the damned machines always screwed up just how far back
they should take the eggs, then broke down trying to figure out
where the chicken had come from.
"So," Connor stared around at the others, who all just managed
to fit in the largest booth the restaurant had. Methos hadn't
questioned why they'd decided to pile in like a drunken frat
house playing at Chinese Fire Drill, not when it was so much
warmer this way. Being stuffed dead in a freezer wasn't
a whole lot of fun, that was for sure...but thawing out was
infinitely worse. "Where are going from here?"
"Well," Amanda smiled with a hint of wickedness, "Obi-Wan told
me the shopping's just fabulous on Coruscant, so I thought that
might be a nice place to start..."
"I guess I'm with Amanda, then," Nick shrugged, not looking too
unhappy about it, or the fact that Duncan seemed singularly
unenthused with the idea of shopping.
"And Joe," Methos interjected with a private grin, "you might
be interested in a nice little place up the road a
bit--Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe..."
"The end of the Universe?" Connor and Joe repeated as one, and
Methos was hard-pressed to contain a smile. Hooked, the both of
them...
"What Methos is forgetting to mention," Duncan added, rolling
his eyes at Methos, "is that he owns the place. It's only fair
he pick up the bar tab if anyone plans on going..."
Methos snorted, but it wasn't worth arguing. //'Fair'
indeed...// "Just tell them I sent you," he shrugged, "and
they'll take care of you royally..."
"Well," Alex glanced at Maul with a faint smile, "we've still
got his traini--"
"Hush," Qui-Gon snapped suddenly, his voice so intent
the booth fell silent as one. Frowning, Methos realized Qui-Gon
had been watching the news on the Sub-Etha Net stationed on the
far wall, and he frowned when he recognized the greying Senator
from the banquet where they'd picked up Alex and Maul.
Palpatine was waving to the crowd outside a tall, stately
building, holding the shoulder of a gold-haired urchin of
ominous cuteness. Watching the little boy grin and wave like
his guardian, Methos found himself tensing, certain he
was about to hear the terrifying clamor of "It's A Small World
After All" start up at any moment.
"And today, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine of the Galactic
Senate announced the very real and legally-binding adoption of
his new ward, Anakin Skywalker, lately of Tattooine--"
"New ward?" Maul hissed, and for the first time, Methos
could believe that this surly, slouching, tattooed freak was a
Sithlord, one of the most dangerous creatures in the Galaxy.
"Master," Obi-Wan nudged Qui-Gon nervously. "Isn't that the
slave you won in that pod race...?"
"It is indeed," Qui-Gon scowled, looking more than dangerous in
his own right. "I don't like the looks of this, Padawan..."
"New ward," Maul repeated, growling as he slid out of
the booth, Alex just behind him. Stalking closer to the hapless
screen, Maul fairly vibrated with tension, and Methos felt
certain there was a very good reason for this, beyond the
obvious possibility of sibling rivalry. "He's not going to get
away with this..."
"So you have a brother," Obi-Wan shrugged, a trifle too
casually to Methos' ears. "My Master's had two other Padawans,
and you don't see me complaining..."
"That's because your Master didn't have to kill the others to
take you on," Maul sneered without turning, and though the Jedi
both jumped in shock, Alex didn't look surprised at all.
"Are you insinuating..." Qui-Gon began slowly, rising from the
booth as Obi-Wan nudged him hard, Obi-Wan's eyes betraying a
stricken pity at odds with his determined expression.
"No," Maul snapped, turning on his heel to glare at the Jedi.
"I'm telling you that my guardian, Senator Palpatine, is
also my Master, Darth Sidious. And that if he's taken
another...ward," he spat, "it means he's decided to
eliminate me."
"Excuse me," Alex smiled with exquisite politeness, "but the
fuck he is. I'm training you," he stated before anyone
could protest. "If anyone eliminates you, it's going to be me.
And I think you have potential. If he wants a shot at you, he
has to come through me."
"He has to come through us," Obi-Wan corrected, daring
Maul to contradict him. "We're Jedi," he said to the world at
large and his Master in particular, just in case Qui-Gon had
any notion of disagreeing with him. "We're sworn to wipe out
the Sith. That means your former Master and his new
Apprentice. Like you people say, there can be only two, no
more, no less..."
"And you think that makes me any less of a Sith?" Maul snarled,
glittering eyes narrowing in challenge.
"I think," Qui-Gon smiled serenely, perversely relaxing some of
the fighting wariness in his stance, "that you'd better
re-examine just where your training bond lies."
"Training bond!" Maul scoffed derisively. "Sith don't form
training bonds! We Whammy and terrorize our
Apprentices...into...it..."
Watching the stunned realization take over both Maul and Alex
was the best entertainment Methos had had all day. Maul turned
on Alex with an expression of utter shock, whereas Alex looked
suddenly far too pale. "Excuse me?" Alex protested strongly.
"I'm not a Jedi or a Sith! How the hell can I have a
training bond?"
"You're a Grey," Methos pointed out remorselessly, still
leaning together with Duncan for warmth. "You're even Greyer
than I am, and that takes some doing. Who knows, maybe
you have your own Code and everything. Who cares? The thing is,
your ex-employer and his ex-Master is going to be
gunning for you, and hanging out in the local IHOP isn't going
to help your chances of survival any. So, why don't we just get
breakfast to go and head to Milliways for a planning session?
After all, if he shows up there, we can just pitch him outside
the Temporal Field or ply him with Pan-Galactics until he
passes out."
"That sounds like a very good plan," Obi-Wan nodded
enthusiastically, watching Alex and Maul out of the corner of
his eye. "In fact, why don't we just pile on board the
Gannet before a pack of Republic shock troops show up,
hmm?"
"Padawan, are you having premonitions again?" Qui-Gon asked
solicitously, but Obi-Wan shook his head.
"No, actually, I'm watching a really big battleship pull into
orbit over the parking lot," Obi-Wan nodded out the window, and
everyone turned to look. "Ship, guys? Now? Yes?"
"Yes!" the others cried as one, leaping up to follow
Obi-Wan back to the Gannet at once, Methos and Duncan
careful not to outstrip Joe. //I have got to see what
they can do for him with a regeneration tank and bacta
treatments,// Methos promised himself, already plotting to see
how they could keep the Watcher out of this mess. He
didn't mind tagging along for the ride, but getting Joe
involved was something altogether different...and meeting
Duncan's eyes over the Watcher's head, he knew Mac felt the
same way.
As soon as the landing ramp closed behind them, Obi-Wan, who'd
dashed for the bridge immediately, began steering them away
from the IHOP manually, ignoring the strange moanings of the
AI. "Ach, wha'...wherrerr ye takin me? 'Ello?
'Elllloooooooooooohhh tha' feels joos' fookin..."
"Didn't Methos say he used to be a doctor?" Obi-Wan scowled as
he fumbled with the hyperdrive controls, trying to manually
plot a path for them that would take them back to Milliways.
"Maybe he could prescribe a twelve-step program for this damned
thing..."
"Methos who?" Renton demanded in a sudden burst of clarity,
near-drunken belligerence in his tone.
"Check your internal surveillance," Obi-Wan advised.
There was a long silence from the AI, then yet another
lurch, this one more like the ship was suddenly trying to
remove itself from some offense contained within itself, and
then all was still.
Alex poked his head into the cockpit. "What the fuck is going
on here?"
Obi-Wan checked the action readout and whimpered.
"What???" Qui-Gon shouted.
"Tactical error. Renton tried to calculate the Improbable
Interpersonal Relationship Factor while analyzing the crossover
threshold. We're...it says he's going someplace that makes more
sense."
"Where are we, Obi?" Alex leaped to his side and studied
the printout.
Obi-Wan just whimpered again.
"I don't get it," Alex shook his head. "Methos! See if
you can make any sense of this," Alex tore the printout free
and handed it to the Eldest Immortal as he entered.
Methos frowned.
He looked at the distraught Padawan.
He frowned some more. "This is not good, Obi-Wan."
"Tell me about it! They made me do it!" the
younger Jedi wailed.
"Where. Are. We?" Qui-Gon demanded once more.
"Noplace fun, I'm afraid," Methos switched on the outer
scanners. "Gentlemen, may I welcome you to Denmark?"
There were a group of stunned men and wo--no, those were men
too--standing just outside the ship, which had planted itself
smack in the middle of a tree-lined dirt road and their motley
procession. The draft horses hauling a tall, huge cart were
rearing in the traces, but half-heartedly, as if too stunned
themselves to make a proper show of it. Slowly, a man with long
greying hair and a neat greying beard stepped closer, seeming
to sense their scrutiny as he doffed his plumed cap, spread his
arms wide, and cried--
"At last! An audience!"
And so the Fortnight Gannet hunkered in a dismal forest on the
road to Denmark, where a Prince, his mom, her husband and a
moody chick waited to provide more adventures and, lord love
them, more crossovers.
End? Not hardly.
And for the brave, there's a ton of Sithly poetry at:
http://www.slashcity.com/ciceqi/hitchme.htm
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