The Eternity Legion
A Crossover Saga Starring Characters From A Myriad Fictional Worlds
Book One: The Gathering
Featuring Characters and Concepts from:
Alien (Movie Series)
Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV Series)
Charmed (TV Series)
The Chtulhu Mythos, by H.P. Lovecraft et al.
Doc Savage, Man of Bronze, by Lester Dent
Hercules, the Legendary Journeys (TV Series)
Highlander (TV Series)
Indiana Jones (Movie Series)
Sliders (TV Series)
Sherlock Holmes, by Sir Arthus Conan Doyle
The Riftswar Saga, by Raymond E. Feist.
Star Trek: Next Generation and Deep Space Nine (TV Series)
Teminator I & II (Movies)
Xena Warrior Princess (TV Series)
By J.C. Lords (
jclord96@aol.com)Copyright and Trademark Disclaimer (Long)
Alien
and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Fox and related entities.Buffy the Vampire Slayer and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Fox and related entities.
Star Trek and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Paramount Pictures.
Highlander and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Rysher Entertainment.
Xena Warrior Princess, Hercules the Legendary Journeys and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Universal Pictures and/or MCA Universal and/or Renaissance Pictures.
The Riftwar, Serpent War and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Raymond E. Feist.
Terminator and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Carolco.
Doc Savage and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Conde Nash Publications Inc.
Indiana Jones and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Lucasfilms, Ltd.
Star Wars and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of Lucasfilms, Ltd.
Sliders and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of St Clair Entertainment and/or MCA Universal and/or USA Networks.
Charmed and associated characters, concepts and names are @ copyright and ® trademarks of WB Television Network and/or Aaron Spelling.
Chapter One: Getting Together
Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, formerly of London, Empire of Great Britain, and loyal subject to Queen Victoria, rose from the dead with a yawn and a stretch. It took him one heartbeat to ascertain he was no longer falling to his death, locked in mortal struggle with his arch-foe, the diabolical Professor Moriarty. In the space between that heartbeat and the next, he surveyed his surroundings and his current state, and reached the only possible conclussion.
"Most remarkable!" he exclaimed out loud, amazement and delight clear in his voice. "I awake from the dead, in what must surely be the far future!"
A door slid open, powered by some unseen mechanism, and a man entered the sparsely furnished room. Holmes had awakened wearing some kind of bathrobe, made of a silk-like material, lying on a white table of unknown make and design. The only other furnishings in the room were a smaller table with a device that flashed words and numbers somehow projected onto a screen, and a large mirror.
The newcomer was a young man, wearing an unusual grey, black and white one-piece suit that would, except for the unusual pattern, have easily passed for underwear in Queen Victoria's time. His green eyes flashed with intelligence and confidence, and his smile, though friendly, was somewhat guarded. "Mr. Holmes! I'm glad to see you awake, and already making inferences about your current situation."
"I merely observe the obvious," Holmes replied dryly. "Neither the table I rest upon, nor that electrical device there could be the products of my time; they are far too alien in character, and too plain in design. Given that the trend in human affairs has been towards the betterment of Man's station on this world, I can but conclude that this place must lie sometime in the future, and that I have been transported -- or more likely reconstituted in some fashion, for I see some scars and sign of aging in my body seem to be gone – to the future, which means that even in ages to come there will be need for someone with my talents."
The stranger bowed. "Very well done, sir. Your current location is over one century ahead of your own time. And we have need of your talents. One could say that the whole of humankind, past, present and future, is in need of your talents, and of several other men and women."
Holmes nodded thoughtfully, his impassive face masking his growing eagerness. Challenges such as this were what he lived for, the time in between a mere eking out of a boring, indolent subsistence.
The game was afoot.
At the end of every slide waits a hard landing.
Quinn Mallory, former college student and inventor, now wanderer between dimensions, was catapulted out of the vortex, and barely missed knocking down Maggie Beckett, formerly of the U.S. Army, now fellow Slider. Rembrandt "Crying Man" Brown, a once-famous R&B singer before his accidental stumbling into dimensional wandering, had landed far away to avoid the humiliation of serving as a landing mat for his two companions.
"That wasn't too bad," Rembrandt said, dusting himself off. Pretty soft, actuall…" He caught himself. Maggie and Quinn were already looking around in amazement.
They were in a large, featureless white room with padded floors and walls. Insane asylum, was the first thing Rembrandt thought of. There was no visible door, however. The room was about twice the size of a racquetball court.
"What is this place, Cueball?" Rembrandt asked.
"Remie, you tell me. I just hope that it's not a…"
"Don't even think it, Quinn," Maggie said. "If this was a Cro-Mag facility, they wouldn't have given us a chance to get our bearings."
"Then what..?"
An opening appeared in one of the walls, and a woman entered. She was wearing a form-fitting bodysuit, in a black white and gray pattern. She was blonde and blue-eyed, and could have made a living as a professional model if she had been a little taller, and skinnier. She was built like an athlete, however, lithe and strong. Quinn and Rembrandt were somewhat taken aback, while Maggie became instinctively defensive.
"Greetings, Sliders," she said with a smile.
"Uh, greetings back," Quinn said uncertainly.
"Where are we, and who are you?" Maggie said, rather more directly.
"You are at New Hope Base, at a somewhat improvised landing facility for parachronal traveling. My name is Lydia Worldwalker. My brother Lucian and I manage this facility."
"Okay," Maggie said, not very mollified by the answers. "A nice chunk of information that still tells us very little."
"Maggie, let's take it easy, okay?" Mallory broke in. He stepped towards the woman, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you." My name is Quinn Mallory, and these are my friends…"
Lydia shook his hand vigorously. "I know your names and careers, Mr. Mallory, and it is a pleasure to meet you face to face." She let go of him, and Quinn surreptitiously rubbed his hand; she had a grip like a pro wrestler. "In fact, we just extracted somebody you may want to see. She looked at the opening and two people rushed in.
Wade Wells and Professor Maximillian Arturo. Two fellow Sliders, one dead, the other captured by the barbaric Cro-Mag. Alive and well.
For several minutes, Quinn and his companions did their damnedest best to make five people occupy the same space at the same time. There was much laughter and many tears of joy. Maggie, the newest addition to the group, was a little less moved. She glanced towards Lydia, who had stood away from the reunion. Her expression was happy and satisfied, and her blue eyes were misty. She seemed genuinely happy to get the Sliders back together, and Maggie's suspicions dimmed. She hugged the Professor, and tried to enjoy the moment.
In the back of her mind, however, she kept one fact in mind: few people perform acts of kindness without expecting something in return.
Whatever their benefactress expected from the Sliders, Maggie suspected it would not no be neither easy, nor safe.
"This doesn't look good," the short man in the robe said. His name was Pug, and, unlikely as it was, he was also the most powerful wizard in the world of Midkemia.
His companions were an attractive woman who stood behind her, her aura glowing with magical power; a bald, homely man in a blue robe; and an imposing warrior in golden chain mail. They were Miranda, a powerful magician in her own right, and Pug's lover; Nakor, one of the wisest – and craziest – humans in the Universe; and Tomas, part human, part Vallheru, the last remnant of a godlike race of world-makers and world-destroyers.
"Nope, not good at all," Nakor said in agreement. He looked down. "You know, I don't think I've ever been this high up in my life."
Midkemia floated below the four friends, a blue and white disk suspended in black space, with stars dotting the darkness beyond. A protective shield Miranda had erected protected them from the cold and lack of air at this altitude.
It also barred the swirling energy ball they had come up to investigate from consuming them all.
"I've cast a containment spell upon the -- energy sphere," Pug explained. "The sphere is trying to expand, and it may yet break free."
"That's nice," Miranda said pertly. "And what exactly is it?"
"I'm not sure," Pug replied. "But it seems to be the exact opposite of matter."
"Uh-oh," Nakor said. "That's not good. When matter touches its opposite, they destroy each other, and they explode."
Pug nodded. "I can sense that. Even the small particles that have hit the sphere have unleashed energies that would devastate a city. If the containment shield and Miranda's defenses were not in place, not even Tomas could survive the energies being released right now."
Tomas looked thoughtful. "It seems I am of little use to you, my friend. There are no enemies for me to strike."
"Not necessarily. I may need to use your power to do what I'm planning."
"And that is…"
"Open a Rift and send this thing back to where it came from."
"Yes! That's a good trick," Nakor said.
"What about me?" Miranda asked.
"I may need to lower the containment field. You are going to have to protect us from the worst of the heat and… I don't know exactly what else, small particles too small to see, but which will play havoc with our bodies if allowed to pass through us. The shield must be so dense that nothing can pass through. Think of something very heavy – gold, or maybe lead – can you make a shield with a similar consistency?"
"Why don't you ever ask for something easy?" Miranda said, and the protective bubble around them became thicker and more opaque. She concentrated. "All right, I hope that does it."
Pug's left hand took Nakor's and his right grasped Tomas'. "Lend me your strength, my friends." They both nodded, and Pug sent forth mystical energies, surrounding the negative matter, even as he carefully opened a hole in the fabric of reality, a Rift that would connect to another world.
A random Rift would never do. This thing had the potential to lay waste to entire planets. Instead, Pug tried to forge a link between the anti-creation globe and the Rift, using contagious magic to send it back to its place of origin. If its creators were able to dispel it safely, all well and good. If not, they, and not Midkemia, would pay the price for their actions.
Pug felt pressure, as an alien force resisted him. He redoubled his efforts. The power he had been able to drain from Nakor and Tomas had melted away. He took from his own reserves, regardless of the cost.
For an instant, he touched the mind responsible for the globe of anti-creation, and he screamed in despair. In all his years, he had never encountered such naked malice, such hungry, blind power reaching out to devour all before it. With the last of his strength, he pushed back.
The Rift opened and the anti-creation globe fell into it. A final burst of searing energy burst from the Rift as it closed, battering the protective shield.
"Too much!" Miranda cried out. The shields grew red, and the inside became intolerably hot. "It's… breaking… through…" She looked at Pug, who had been brought to his knees by the power expenditure. "I'm sorry," she said, followed, in what she thought were her last words. "I love you."
"Look!" Nakor shouted, pointing behind them.
A swirling vortex of blue light had opened right up against the protective bubble. It was like a Rift, and yet unlike one, but Nakor immediately sensed that it offered them a shred of hope. "Jump towards it, everyone!"
Tomas grabbed Pug with one hand, Miranda with the other, and leaped, a prodigious bound that would have gone over a castle wall. Miranda opened the rear of the bubble even as she focused the last of her strength on the front, to keep the heat and radiation from overwhelming them. Nakor jumped last, and experienced a thrilling ride through a insanely shifting tunnel of light and color. He landed next to the others in a white room. A man in an unusual costume awaited for them there.
"Welcome, Pug of Stardock, and your companions as well," the stranger said. "You have just confronted our common enemy."
Pug rose wearily to his feet. "Then I believe we have much to discuss."
"This is beginning to get interesting," Nakor said.
Miranda and Tomas gave him a disbelieving stare, but Pug merely nodded.
Jean-Luc Picard, Captain, United Federation of Planets, Starfleet division, was irked beyond measure.
The Federation was barely recovering from the Dominion Wars and the Borg invasion. Its fleet was a mere shadow of its former self, and the Romulans were already beginning to test the waters, seeing what they might snap up in the chaos and anarchy that reigned over much of the Alpha Quadrant. The Enterprise had been on an extended patrol – a "show the flag" cruise, to be more precise – with just the aim to discourage the Romulars (and the Ferengui, and the Tholians) from becoming overly ambitious, when a peremptory summons back to Earth had arrived.
The orders themselves were galling enough. The fact that no explanation had been attached to them made it worse. Unfortunately, orders were orders. Picard could have been an admiral many years ago, but he was not ready to command away from the bridge of a ship. Thus, he was at the mercy of those who were willing to do so.
The bridge crew studiously avoided noticing his cloudy expression as he joined them and sat down. Commander Riker's grim face seemed to mirror the same emotions, at any rate. Data was impassive, despite his still-new emotion chip, but he had much more practice at keeping a straight face.
"We are five minutes away from Earth orbit, Captain," Data reported. "There are no signs of disturbances or anomalies." Picard relaxed minutely; at least, this wasn't another emergency situation. His last visit to Earth had been extremely stressful. "However, sensors confirm the presence of the Defiant on Earth orbit."
"The Defiant?" That ship's station was very far indeed, at Deep Space Nine, where it had played a vital role in the war against the Dominion-Cardassian alliance. Its presence here could only mean that something urgent and dangerous was at hand. And secretive to a fault, as well. Picard did not like being caught unprepared.
"We have received a request for two to beam up, Captain," Data added. "Admiral Corliss and one other. They wish to brief you and the command element."
"Very well. Have the Admiral and his companion escorted to the ready room. Number One, Counselor Troy, Doctor Crusher, Mr. Laforge, and Data, to the ready room, if you please." Riker greeted the order with a slight frown, but nodded in agreement. By rights, Picard should have greeted the Admiral himself. This breach in protocol was a not very subtle show of displeasure. An ordinary ship captain would never have dared do this, and, if he did, could expect a short and unmemorable career ahead of him. But Picard, with all due modesty, was no ordinary captain.
"This," he said as the turbolift doors closed behind him and his command team, "had better be good."
"Aye aye, sir," Riker agreed.
The Admiral was accompanied by a young woman, dressed in a patterned bodysuit of unfamiliar make. "Ah, glad you could make it, Picard," Admiral Corliss said. "This is Lydia Worldwalker. She, a few other people, and an acquaintance of yours met with assorted members of the Federation and Starfleet."
"And who was this 'old acquaintance' of mine?" Picard asked dryly.
A man appeared in the ready room in a flash of light.
"Picard! Surely you haven't forgotten me!"
"Q!" Picard spat the name out like a curse. And Q it was, complete with sardonic smile, near-omnipotence, and annoying personality.
"Well met, old friend," Q said. "I wish I had time to chat, but your presence – and that of your boon companions – is urgently needed elsewhere."
"Urgently? What could be so urgent that it moved Q to honor us with his presence?" Riker blurted out.
"No just Q," the Admiral said. "The delegation we received included an Organian, and a Bejoran Prophet."
"The Organians are such dreadful bores, aren't they?" Q said. "And don't get me started on the Prophets. Try getting a straight answer out of those people."
Picard did not scare easily, but the mention of three of the greater powers of known space in the same breath did little to set his mind at ease. None of those beings had cared a whit about the Borg's rampage across the galaxy. Whatever brought them together had to be something worse and more far-reaching.
The Admiral continued, doing his best to ignore Q. "The delegation convinced the Federation to fulfill its requests. You, Captain, and assorted other Federation personnel – you will probably be happy to see Lieutenant Worf again, I'm sure – are going to go on detached duty. You, and the Enterprise, that is."
"The entire vessel? On detached duty to this mysterious third party?" Picard could hardly believe it.
"Relax, Picard," Q said. "If it's any consolation, you won't be seeing much of me where you're going."
"That is no small consolation," Riker retorted.
The woman, who had remained silent until then, finally spoke up. "I want to apologize in advance, Captain, to you and to the rest of your crew. At this point, I would like you and a number of your officers to come with me for a full briefing. After that, anyone who wishes to decline our invitation can do so. And I hope you will extend the same right to the rest of your crew once you know what the situation will be."
"The Enterprise… Admiral, is this wise?" Picard said. "This is hardly the time to remove a capital ship from our order of battle."
"Believe me, Captain, the Federation did not come lightly to this decision."
"Very well, then. We are at your disposal, Ms. Worldwaker."
"Thank you." Lydia stood up and gestured. A tunnel-like structure appeared out of thin air. "If you and your officers would step through? My brother is currently leading the other personnel through another vortex."
Picard glanced at his people. They were clearly filled with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, but they would follow him into the unknown. "Let us go, then," Picard said, and boldly went through the vortex.
[RESET.
Systems Reboot. Stand By.
Systems Activated. Visual scan initiated.
Designation: Cyberdine T-100 Anthropomorphic Combat Unit, "Terminator."
Status: Operational. All systems 100%.
Retrieving Memory.]
The man in the robe sat down slowly, with the economy of motion of an athlete – or a predatory animal. As he scanned his surroundings, he remembered – and remembering, he felt pain.
His last memory, as recorded in his cybernetic brain, was of searing heat as he was lowered into a vat of molten iron, hot enough to dissolve even the reinforced alloys of his humanoid chassis. He had been terminated, by his own choice if not by his own hand.
[Status: Operational. All systems 100%.]
One logic switch tripped, then another, before the third shunted questions about his current state off to a closed loop where the lack of answers could not impair the T-100's performance. He turned to the matters at hand. The room he was in contained a bed, made of a synthetic composite. His sensors found the material to have twice the tensile strength of industrial steel. Attempts to fashion a weapon out of it would fail, however; if enough force was applied to exceed its structural strength, the material would collapse into harmless powder. Another table of the same material contained a processing device with a visual interface screen. The symbols flashing across the screen did not translate into meaningful information, even after running them through the linguistic sub-routine. A door slid open. The Terminator turned towards it.
"I am not armed, and I mean you no harm!" a male voice said. "I am coming in. Please do not attack me."
A humanoid entered the room. The T-100's sensors scanned him.
Human variant. The thermal readings showed a metabolism rate 60% higher than a normal human, with abnormally high reaction timing likely. Bone density was almost 40% higher, and muscle-to-fat ratios exceeded human maximums. The man held his hands open in an appeasing gesture, but his stance was that of a trained hand-to-hand fighter. His combat sub-routine ran a quick analysis.
[Probability of Success, Hand to Hand Engagement: 73%, +/- 10%.]
If Terminators could be impressed, the T-100 would be. No organic bipedal being he had ever encountered had rated such a high possibility of failure, and such a great uncertainty rating.
"State designation and purpose," the T-100 demanded.
"Lucian Worldwalker. My purpose is the preservation of the human race, and of the Universe."
[Voice Stress Analyzer: Subject is being truthful -- probability 87%.]
"Purpose compatible with T-100 mission," the Terminator said. "I will not initiate hostilities until proven otherwise."
Lucian relaxed minutely. "Glad to hear it. There are two people outside just dying to see you." He looked towards the door. "Come in! It's safe."
The door slid open again, revealing the last two people the T-100 had seen before his termination. Sarah Connor and her son John. Sarah looked grim and reserved. John, however, shouted happily and embraced the Terminator. "You made it! I'm glad to see you again, you big lug!"
"I am back," he replied. Joy was alien to him; it took him a moment to recognize it.
Sarah Connor turned to Lucius. "Okay, we're all together again. Now I hope you can tell me what the hell is going on in here." She did not appear joyous at all.
Lucius dipped his head. "My apologies, again. I know you were hoping for a normal life after the Cyberdine incident – as normal as being on the run from the law could be, of course – but believe me, you were not safe."
John turned around. "Hey, as far as I know, I owe you one for saving Arnold, here."
The T-100 looked dubiously at John. "Arnold?"
"You need a name, pal, and for some reason, you look like an Arnold."
Sarah shook her head. "Whatever. I'm still waiting for the explanation."
Lucian nodded. "If you follow me, I will take you to someone who will explain everything."
"As a reunion, this sucks!" Ioalus shouted, barely making himself heard in the din of the battle.
Clawed fingers sank on his back, and smashed him head first into the ground.
"Shut up and keep fighting!" Xena of Thrace, Warrior Princess, hissed. Her chakram leapt from her hand and decapitated the fanged, scaly monstrosity that had grabbed Ioalus. He rolled, leapt to his feet, and stabbed a creature about to tear open the throat of Gabrielle, Xena's friend and companion. The monster twisted and gibbered as Ioalus stabbed it again and again. Gabrielle looked sickened, but said nothing to stop him.
Hercules Son of Zeus swung a two-ton column stone like an oversized mace, smashing three of the reptilian creatures. That mighty blow gave the monster pause, allowing the four companions to withdraw a little further into the cavern, gaining some breathing space.
The demigod lowered the column and leaned against it. He was exhausted; they all were. "They are taking a short break," he announced, peering into the darkness. "When they attack again, I think they will be more careful."
"We should attack them now," Xena said, wiping clean her bloody sword with a rag. "If we give them time to regroup, they will hit us all at once, and we'll be finished."
"Xena, we are finished," Gabrielle said wearily. "I mean, aren't we?" If she was hoping for empty reassurances, she got none. Ioalus avoided her eyes and sharpened his own sword. He had done more killing in this day than in his entire career with Hercules, and it would not save them in the end.
The creatures who called themselves the Scions of Set had appeared suddenly off the coast of Thebes, slaying all who came near them, be it men, women or children. Every time one of the retilian monsters killed a humam being, it split off into two identical warriors. By the time Hercules and Ioalus arrived to the site of the massacre, there were dozens of them. When Xena and Gabrielle joined them, there were over a hundred of the monsters. The men of Thebes had fought well, but for every monster they killed they had lost two or more warrors – and the Scions' numbers had increased with every battle.
Hercules and Xena had concocted a desperate plan. Lead the creatures towards the Tarterssian Caverns, and set off a bag of the Chinese black powder Xena had brought back from her travels and stashed away from an emergency. The explosion would trap the creatures inside, while the four companions escaped through a narrow secondary tunnel that Hercules would collapse after they exited.
The plan had worked, mostly. They had fought the creatures and beat a hasty retreat, a hundred monsters howling for their blood. The Scions had not noticed the bag with the lit fuse crawling towards it, and the explosion had sealed the cave's entrance and entombed the demonic army.
The same explosion had also caused the escape tunnel to collapse, trapping the four companions with the Scions of Set.
For hours, they had fought the creatures to a standstill, and killed over a dozen of them. The narrow confines of the caverns had prevented the creatures from using their numbers and size to their best advantage. Still, the four companions were bloody and battered, and they had been pushed steadily into a wider part of the cavern, to a forgotten temple to Zeus.
During a lull in the battle, Hercules had asked his father for help. He only did it for his friends; he would have rather died than ask Zeus for a favor. The god had remained silent, in any case.
Xena knelt to Gabrielle, who was sitting with her knees drawn back against her body. "Here's some water," she said, handing her friend a flask. "Our last, so take only one sip."
"You drink it," Gabrielle said bleakly.
"It's not over yet," Xena said.
"Yeah," Ioalus agreed. "We still have some fight left in us."
"It's all right, guys," Gabrielle said. "You don't have to sugarcoat it for me. There are too many of them, and they don't seem to tire as much as we do, and we have nowhere to run. What...?" She paused as light flickered over them.
Hercules hefted the stone pillar again. In the light, he could see the Scions of Set gathering themselves for another charge. There were at least sixty or seventy down there, although they could only come in ten or twelve at a time. Twelve would be enough; they would lose Gabrielle, at least, in the first charge, and then Ioalus. Then it would be a tossing match as to whether he or Xena fell next. Hercules would bet on Xena, himself. And then there would be none.
The Scions advanced tentatively, their scales glittering in the light.
Wait a moment. What light?
Hercules turned, and saw his companions gaping at a tunnel of light that had appeared in the back of the cavern temple. Hercules had seen a similar apparition; that tunnel had led him to another world.
No choice. "Run towards it!" he shouted.
They did.
After an unsettling and chaotic trip, they landed on a white room, where a smiling woman awaited.
The natives were restless.
Dr. Henry "Indiana" Jones knew that because they had been doing their damnedest to kill him, with machetes, spears, and a few Martini-Henry rifles some enterprising British supply sergeant must have "lost" for a tidy profit some decades ago. The tribesmen in this remote area of Central Africa were dedicated to guarding the remains of the temple of Ashep the Devourer, a mysterious deity that only showed up in African lore as a demon of the worst sort. Some tedious research, a gunfight in Egypt, and a great deal of legwork later, Indy had reached the ruins – only to have his guide, a treacherous half-Portuguese, half-Algerian thug, betray him at the worst possible moment, leaving him stranded in the middle of the jungle.
Indy paused behind a large tree and went over his assets. Nine bullets for his .45 revolver. His trusty bullwhip. A good Bowie knife. A couple of chocolate bars, and some dry fruit. A half-full canteen. And his Fedora hat. Not a hell of a lot.
Someone big dropped from the tree and landed behind him.
Indy reacted without thinking, lashing out with a fist. He connected solidly against something, and the newcomer staggered back half a step. A heartbeat later, a fist with the power and consistency of a sledgehammer smashed into Indy's jaw.
Jones could take a punch. He had taken many a punch, as a matter of fact, from the likes of Irish bruisers, Nepalese martial artists, and Masai warriors, and come back swinging every time. This blow planted him on the ground, pretty bright lights flashing all around him. For several seconds, he didn't care about much of anything.
A strong hand helped him to his feet. "Sorry about that," a deep, powerful voice said. "Here, take this." A large pill was thrust into his hand. Still half dazed, Indy swallowed it. The pounding headache he had not known he was feeling started to fade away, and the pretty bright lights dissipated. "The pill should diminish the pain, and prevent the possibility of a concussion. I apologize again. When you hit me, I reacted instinctively."
Indy blinked and looked at the newcomer. He was a giant of a man, although so well proportioned that if he had not been standing next to him, he would not have thought he was so tall. His skin was deeply tanned, his hair a deep shade of bronze. He was muscled like a Greek god. Indy's eyes narrowed in recognition. "Doctor Clark Savage, is it?"
Doc Savage nodded. "And you are Doctor Jones. We have a common acquaintance, I believe."
"Yes," Jones said. "William Harper Littlejohn, from Miskatonic University. One of your assistants, if the magazines got it right. How's Johnny?"
"Very well, thank you. He wanted to come with me on this expedition, but I deemed the risks to be too great."
So this was the Doc Savage, whose fame had spread through a series of pulp magazine articles by Lester Dent. Dent had actually contacted Indy once, offering to write a serialization of some of his activities. Jones had turned him down at once, of course. He was a university professor, and one did not get tenure by appearing on some nickel magazine with scantly-clad gun moll on the covers. He wondered how Littlejohn's academic career had suffered from his exposure to popular literature. Maybe the folks at Miskatonic were more tolerant of eccentric behavior.
"So, Doctor Savage, what brings you here?"
"The temple of Ashep the Devourer, same as you."
"Oh. I didn't know you were into archeological research."
"Not exactly. You have heard of the Black Dust of Ashep?"
"Well, according to some of the oral legends, the high priests of Ashep blew the Black Dust onto their victims. Inhalation was invariably fatal."
Savage nodded. "Someone has been using the Black Dust to commit a number of murders in New York. It appears to be a dried fungal agent, but it decays too quickly for a good analysis from autopsy samples. I am here to find the raw materials here, at its source."
"I see," Indy said. "Uh, maybe you can ask those natives."
"Which natives?"
"The ones about to charge us."
"The servants of Ashep had found them.
Indy and Doc sprang into action. The .45 revolver barked harshly, knocking down two of the native riflemen. Doc's machinepistol accounted for the remaining three gunmen, none getting a chance of firing a shot. Then it came down to hand to hand combat. Indy would have been overwhelmed in seconds, if he had been alone. Doc Savage was a living whirlwind of fists and feet, however, cutting a swath through the swarming cultists. With Indy watching his back, it seemed likely that he would fight off the entire tribe.
Some men in elaborate robes moved forward, however, and put long tubes in their mouths aimed at the struggling duo. Clouds of a thin dark powder vomited forth from the blowguns, enveloping both the cultists and the two Americans. All who were touched by the dust fell down almost instantly. The ground rose up and slapped Indy in the face. None of his limbs were working, and he couldn't breathe. Doc Savage was also on the ground and –
Darkness.
Light. The two adventurers woke up in a strange white room, and were greeted by a man in unusual clothing.
Any successful caper has three main ingredients. First, you have to plan it very carefully. Secondly, you have to have the skills and experience for the job. Finally, you have to be lucky, because the best laid plan can be totally ruined by the smallest, stupidest things.
Amanda, also known as the Raven, was perhaps the greatest thief that ever lived. She had been plying her trade for centuries, after all. So the first two elements of the caper had been taken care of.
Not even an Immortal can control the third, however.
The current target was another Immortal, J.P. Carruthers, wealthy and cruel, with a fondness for ancient Chinese jade figurines, which he had developed shortly after the Opium War in the 1840s, and a taste for torturing young women, also acquired during his years in the British Army. Amanda was interested in the former hobby; she didn't care much for the latter, but she was no crusader.
Every Thursday night, Carruthers spent the night at an exclusive brothel that catered to his taste. This particular Thursday, however, he would find, not a helpless girl kidnapped for his pleasure, but a very angry and well-armed Immortal. Duncan MacLeod, who, unlike Amanda, was a crusader, noble and true.
While Carruthers was getting his just desserts, Amanda would burgle his apartment, and depart with several dozen jade figurines, each worth a few hundred thousand in the collectible market. She was toying with using an Internet auction service for this batch; she might make a few thousand more that way.
For a month, she had watched Carruther's movements. In the last week, she had discovered where he spent every Thursday night, motivating a call to MacLeod, who took a dim view of Immortals committing crimes. She had planned her moves carefully. Breaking into the apartment had been child's play; Carruthers had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars in the security system, but Amanda was the best at what she did.
Finding the miniatures had taken all of fifteen minutes.
Amanda was putting them in a case when Carruthers had unexpectedly returned to the apartment, quietly and quickly, so that by the time Amanda felt the presence of a nearby Immortal, he had already entered the apartment and caught her in his bedroom with the loot.
"Why, a thief! And a pretty female one, too." Amanda's hair was short, recently dyed blonde, but the black skintight suit left no doubts as to her gender. "My good luck, forgetting some of my toys and having to come back."
"Maybe we can talk about this," Amanda said, playing it dumb. She had no sword. If she acted stupid and helpless enough, Carruthers might get careless, and give her an opening.
Carruthers unsheathed his sword, a heavy cavalry saber. "I'd like to play with you first, but Immortals are too troublesome to keep around," he said. "I'm afraid it's off with your head, m'dear."
He lunged. Amanda dodged away, somersaulted past him, and ran for the door. Before she could unlock it, she had to leap away or be impaled by a brutal thrust. She avoided one, two three vicious slashes; on the fourth, she got a nasty cut on one arm. Amanda staggered backwards, tripped on an armchair, and fell down. Carruthers stood over her, blade pressed against her throat, breathing heavily. "That was mildly entertaining, but it is time to finish this."
"Yes, it is," Duncan MacLeod said behind him.
Carruthers stepped away from Amanda, facing the newcomer, dark-haired Scotsman MacLeod, armed with a Japanese katana blade. "I've heard of you, MacLeod," Carruthers said. "Something of an errant knight, no? Pity."
"Let's see how well you do against an armed opponent," MacLeod replied.
"Oh, I shall do wonders," Carruthers said. Instead of squaring off against the newcomer, he started chanting, a toneless cadence that sounded like no language MacLeod had ever heard.
The world disappeared, replaced by thick, impenetrable darkness. MacLeod looked around himself. He could see but a weak gleam of the sword in his hand, and nothing else.
"A little trick I picked up in Asia, my dear chap," Carruthers said. His voice echoed through the darkness, giving MacLeod no clue as to its source. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth than us Immortals, you know. If an enterprising lad learns how to serve them, the rewards can be quite satisfying."
A tiny glint of metal behind and to his left warned MacLeod just in time to pitch forward. The sword, instead of taking him in the neck, cut deeply into his back. He slashed back, only to hear echoing laughter as he hit nothing.
MacLeod concentrated, but the darkness seemed to deaden all senses, not just sight. He had not heard the telltale swish of steel cutting through the air, or footsteps, or even the breathing of his foe. His only hope was to catch a glimpse of the sword, and try to strike even as he was struck.
"What the devil?" Carruthers shouted angrily. MacLeod felt a rush of heat, and saw, faintly, flames. A figure was outlined against them, holding a blade. MacLeod moved, sword flashing forth. Carruthers screamed in pain.
The darkness vanished. Carruthers was on his knees, run through by MacLeod's sword. Behind him, a set of expensive curtains burned merrily. Amanda dropped the flare gun she had used to set the fire. "I use it to spoof infrared sensors," she explained.
MacLeod pulled out the sword, and brought it back and down in a sweeping circle. Carruthers' head rolled away.
When an Immortal died, the unearthly energies keeping him alive – his Quickening – flowed into his killer, often with spectacular results. This time, however, no sparkling arc lights emerged from the body – instead, dark serpentine strands surged forth, swirling towards MacLeod and Amanda.
"Stand back!" MacLeod shouted. Instinctively, he struck at one of the semi-solid tentacles of darkness. His blade flashed, and he felt some of his own Quickening flowing through the sword, burning the darkness, which recoiled as if in pain. Behind him, Amanda screamed in agony as one of the coils touched her. MacLeod slashed at the phantom limb, and it released her.
"It's cold – burns," she gasped.
"We have to get out of here!"
The two Immortals gave way, pressed by the darkness. MacLeod seemed able to keep it at bay for some time, but, finally, they were cornered, back to back, surrounded by lashing tendrils.
And then a tunnel of light opened on a wall. A beam of energy emerged, striking at the tendrils, and banishing them. A female voice could be heard through the light. "Quick! Enter the gateway if you wish to live!"
"Sounds good to me," Amanda said, and jumped through. MaLeod felt more dubious, but he couldn't let Amanda go by herself. He leaped after her.
He half stumbled out of the swirling lights, and found himself, with Amanda, in a white room with the woman who had called out to them.
MacLeod studied their rescuer. His Quickening-sharpened senses had never encountered anything like her before. At first, he thought he was facing another Immortal, but there were differences – she was not Immortal, but she had Quickening within her, and she was very old, older perhaps than Mythos himself.
"Ah, thanks for doing whatever it is you did," Amanda said.
"You are quite welcome," the woman replied. "My name is Lydia. I am not happy about leaving that situation unresolved for now, but maybe when you return you might help put it to rights."
"What situation? That dark Quickening?" MacLeod asked.
"Yes. A great danger threatens your world. In fact, we are intent in stopping it. We want to make you an offer, to join an organization that deals with this type of situation."
"I'm not much of a joiner," Amanda said apprehensively.
"We only ask that you hear us out. You will be free to make up your mind."
"That seems fair enough," MacLeod replied. "We will hear what you have to say."
Qui-Gon Jin staggered from the pilot's seat, smoke and fire everywhere around him. Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing, his flight instructor had told him, all those many years ago. It remained to be seen if anyone would walk away from this one.
The modified fighter's inertial shields had saved the two passengers from being crushed on impact, but the ship had been wrecked. The main control panels were on fire. Young Obi-Wan Kenobi was scrambling for the emergency extinguishers. He extended his hands, and the extinguisher leaped into them. A few short sprays killed the flames.
"Are you all right, master?" Obi-Wan said between coughs.
"I will live, the Force be thanked." He examined the wreckage. Not even the Force would make this vessel fly again. "It appears that our diplomatic mission to the Trade Federation has been postponed indefinitely."
"What happened, Master Jinn? And where are we?"
"As to the second question, I believe when we were thrown out of hyperspace we fell into the gravity well of the third planet of star Kellebar. Unfortunately, the planet is not friendly to human life. As to the first," Quin-Gon rubbed his forehead, and tried to marshal his thoughts. "It appears that my suspicions, my fears, have been confirmed in a most definite way." He looked at his student. "My only regret is that it appears I have doomed us both in the process."
"I sensed you were worried and disturbed about something, Master Jinn," Obi-Wan said. "But since I am to be schooled in patience, I waited until you saw fit to tell me what had upset you so."
Quin-Gon nodded approvingly. "Well done, my friend." His expression grew grimmer as he continued. "The conflict between the Trade Federation and Naboo was manufactured by someone within the Republic, someone who seeks to weaken and destroy it. And this attempted murder has identified the traitor."
"And he was..?"
"Senator Palpatine. I had my suspicions about him. The exact time of the trip, and the vessel, were known only to him and Master Yoda, but we led him to believe that others knew of it, so he felt he could strike with impunity. Now, Yoda and Master Windu will deal with the traitor as he deserves."
"And what about us?"
"We, I fear, are doomed. Life support will not last very long, and then the searing cold and poisonous gases of the planet will have their way with us. Using the Force, we may survive for a few days, a week at the most. Then we shall succumb."
Obi-Wan considered his own mortality in silence for some time. "I believe this was a worthy sacrifice. Senator Palpatine is one of the most powerful men in the Republic. If he has fallen prey to the Dark Side, he had to be found out, or he could have done untold harm."
"I miscalculated," Qui-Gon said glumly. "I thought that Palpatine would try to strike in more direct way. The explosive device he hid on board was effective enough, I'm afraid."
There was little else to say. The two Jedis sat cross-legged and waited for the end.
Neither was prepared for the vortex and the appearance of Lucian Worldwalker, but both were willing enough to go with him.
"What should we do now?" Annalee Call, android, LM7 Class, former crewmember of the starship Betty, asked.
"I don't know," Ellen Ripley, former Lieutenant of the Space Merchant Marine, now a cloned Alien-human hybrid, replied. "I'm a stranger here myself."
They had just had the same exchange, a few days ago, on Earth. Things had gotten nasty, after their narrow escape at the Auriga. First, the authorities had arrived, and they and their companions had had to run for it. They had lived as fugitives, Call an illegal android, able to feel emotions and behave independently, Ripley, a hybrid the government would pay a fortune to capture.
Then, in a flash of light, they had been transported into a featureless white room, where a woman awaited for them.
"Hey," Call said, looking at herself. "All the damage in my body has been repaired."
"It's the least we could do," Lydia said. "Since we wish to ask you for help."
Ripley looked at the woman much like a cat considers a mouse. "What do you want?"
"First of all, to thank you, on behalf of all of humankind. On four different occasions, you prevented the xenoforms from spreading towards Earth and obliterating our species. You have made the ultimate sacrifice once already, and then were brought back to life. Governments and corporations have tried to use you, time and time again, and you have fought against them as fiercely as you battled the aliens.
"Yes. So?" Ripley had seemingly reverted to the emotionless creature she had been before Call and her had fought for their lives.
"So we would like your help. Both of you. All we ask is that you listen to what we have to say. Should you refuse, we can send you back to Earth, or anywhere else you'd like to go."
"Soup and a sermon, eh?" Ripley said. "Well, you fixed my friend," Call smiled a little bit at that, "so I guess that counts as the soup. We'll listen to the sermon."
Call nodded in agreement. "As long as we can change our minds later."
"Certainly," the woman said. "We consider freedom of choice to be a sacred right."
The last stand of the Scooby Gang had begun.
"Stay behind me, and just cover my back!" Buffy Summers, a.k.a. the Vampire Slayer, shouted as she smashed a demon's face with a devastating kick. Rupert Giles, her Watcher, student of the occult, and all-around fountain of wisdom and moderation, shouted wordlessly and fired a crossbow bolt into the chest of yet another demon. Xander Harris, nice guy, friend of Buffy, smart-mouth who had magically gained skill in all military hardware, emptied a clip of his AK-47 assault rifle (which he had stolen from a survivalist hoard a few days back) into the demons. The hail of bullets took down half a dozen of the demons and forced back the rest. Things were not looking well, though. The hordes of hell were loose, and the only hope for Sunnydale – for the entire planet -- lay in the hands of the three newcomers who had arrived a few days ago.
Tha Haliwell sisters – Phoebe, Prue and Piper – had come calling on Willow Rosenberg – Buffy's best friend, budding witch, and loyal member of the Scooby Gang. Apparently, Willow and Phoebe had met each other at a Wiccan chat room, and struck a fast friendship. Turns out that Phoebe and her sisters were the Charmed Ones, another mystical title that, like Vampire Slayer, involved getting into a lot of trouble for little or no pay, and certainly without any benefits or medical plans. Phoebe's precognitive powers had sensed the imminent opening of the Hellmouth, the dimensional gate that led into the homelands of all manner of nasty critters. Unless the Hellmouth was closed, some 666 billion demons were going to pour out into the streets, and proceed to eat everything alive on the planet.
A few hurried introductions later, the seven of them had gone into the Sewers of Sunnydale, which as Xander said sounded like the title of a really lame song, or an even lamer movie. They had been attacked by vampires and demons along the way, and the Haliwells had earned Buffy's respect; Prue's telekinesis had knocked down almost as many demons as Buffy's kicks, Piper's ability to freeze creatures in time had saved Xander's life, and Phoebe had predicted the attack just in time. They had made it to the Hellmouth.
And found a horde of demons waiting for them.("How many demons in a Horde, Giles?" Willow had asked. "One hundred and sixty-nine," the Watcher had replied right away.) In an epic struggle, they had cleared enough room for the Halliwells to open their Book of Shadows and try to use the Power of Three to shut down the dimensional gate. The Hellmouth stood in front of them, looking like a circular gateway made out of flames. Buffy and her friends had to hold the demons off until the spell was complete.
Xander slammed another clip in his rifle. "Last one!" he shouted.
"I'm down to three crossbow bolts," Giles announced.
"I'm still doing all right with the incense," Willow reported. "But the aversion spell isn't quite as good as I hoped it'd be." The little incense burner's smoke touched a demon who hadn't pulled back far enough, and it hissed in pain, but seemed relatively unhurt.
Buffy wiped sweat and blood off her forehead. "Well," she panted. "Nobody said this would be fun."
Xander glanced behind him. "Hey, twisted sisters! Are we there yet?"
"Don't rush us!" Phoebe said. "We are gathering the power to do it."
"Less talking, more concentrating," Prue hissed.
"Don't push me, Prue," Phoebe hissed back.
"You know, neither of you is helping here," Piper said. The three nodded, and resumed the soft chanting.
The demons charged again. Buffy did a double spin kick, which snapped a demon's neck when it connected. Upon landing, she drove a stake into a vampire's heart, and on the follow-through stabbed another one. "Now that's a 10!" Xander shouted, and fired a short burst into another demon. Willow fanned the incense burner, and the smoke prevented the creatures from swarming, and forced them to come in a few at a time. Giles shot a vampire that tried to do just that.
"Hey, we're doing okay," Xander marveled. "Better than okay, we're kicking royal ass!"
Phoebe screamed in pain. Dark energies flowed from the gates, striking at the sisters.
"Oh-oh," Willow said. "The force behind the Hellmouth is attacking them."
Without another word, the young witch dropped the burner and made a pattern in the air. The hostile energies were diverted away from the Haliwells – and struck her. She collapsed in a heap on the floor.
"Willow!" Buffy screamed. A demon knocked her down with a punch that would have killed a normal human. Giles took it out with his last crossbow bolt, and knelt over the Willow. "She's just unconscious!" he shouted as Buffy recovered and took out two more vampires.
"By the power of Three!" the Holliwell sisters shouted – and Piper froze time for everyone but the seven of them. "Oh, no," Piper said.
"Oh no what?" Xander said.
"We've shut down the Hellmouth. For good. Most demons on Earth will be destroyed, and many vampires. And they'll never get reinforcements, ever," Phoebe announced.
"I'm still waiting for the 'oh, no' part," Xander snapped.
"The resulting backlash is going to kill us all," Prue replied. "As soon as Piper lets time flow again, we'll be fried."
"Can't we run for it?" Giles asked.
Phoebe shook her head. "Either we cancel the spell, and the Hellmouth opens up, or we finish it, and this entire section of sewers is going to become hot enough to melt steel."
"Jeez," Xander said.
"It appears we have no choice," Giles said.
Buffy knelt over Willow, who was stirring feebly. "There has to be another choice, there has to! Cancel the spell, so that Gilles and Xander can escape with Willow, and I'll stay."
"We can't," Piper said, as gently as she could. "It's all or nothing. If we cancel it, the demons win and we die. If we don't, the demons lose."
"And we die," Xander said.
"And we die," Prue repeated.
Willow stirred feebly. "Did we win?"
Buffy held her tightly. "Yes, Will. Now hush, hush and go back to sleep."
"'kay," Willow muttered, and closed her eyes.
"Well, old chap," Giles said, shaking Xander's hand. "It's been an honor."
Xander hugged him. "Been an honor, you old windbag, you."
"Yes, quite," Gilles said, a bit taken aback.
The Halliwells looked at each other. "No choice, is there?" Phoebe said.
"I love you both very much," Piper said as her answer.
Prue blinked away some tears. "When?"
"A few more seconds."
Gilles put his hand on Buffy's shoulder. Xander knelt next to them and hugged them.
The temporal freeze faded away.
They woke up, each of them lying on a table, in a white room, wearing something nicer than a hospital gown, but not that much nicer.
"Where are we?" Willow said sitting up.
"What is this? Heaven for poor people?" Xander said. "Where are the angels with the harps and the wings and the harps..?"
"Shut up, Xander," Buffy said, and leaped from the table.
A man entered the room, and things got even weirder.