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(Chorus) More than friends We will be lovers In the dark I change my skin One last kiss And it will be over May your sweet dreams Come to an end In this hideaway In the land of darkest night I'll take your breath away The pleasure and pain is mine If you'll be with me You will sleep forever Dream of an ecstasy The pleasure and pain More than friends We will be lovers In the dark I change my skin Change my skin 'Change My Skin', Christopher Franke, "Raven" soundtrack Headhunting for the Board By Aaron Knute Was this how the Game would end? Sherri thought to herself. After a wonderful three hundred years of travelling, learning and making her art, and defending herself against others like her... was she finally going to lose? She brushed her blonde hair out of her blue eyes, wishing she could take the time to tie it back. Her opponent was somewhere in this dockside warehouse; the throbbing trickle of power zipping around the back of her head confirmed this. She paused for breath, setting her back to a steel girder and raising her blade up in a guard position, trying to sort through the scents of fish and oil, the sounds of the sea and machinery... ...creaking wood? Her body reacted, and in an instant she found herself three leaping paces away from her enemy, feeling air rush through her shirt from the thankfully bloodless gash in it from the stealthy, backstabbing thrust that had almost gone through her thorax. There would be no more tricks, no more running, she could see that in Eric's cold hazel eyes. She knew him well enough, after being lovers fifty years ago. Then he'd learned that his mortal family had been killed in a fire and he'd changed... became sullen and angry and brooding. She'd tried to bring him out of it, but when he'd taken another Immortal's head for no reason other than the Game, she'd left him. "Why, Eric?" she pleaded, tears welling. "I thought you were dead, I heard you'd fought..." "Sherri Keller, the Board needs you," Eric said, his voice raspy... crazy... dead. And he attacked. The dance was long, with ringing metal echoing through the deserted warehouse. Finally, an opening presented itself, and a sword went flying... followed in short order by a head. Outside the warehouse, about half an hour later, the last of the daylight busses stopped to pick up a pretty blonde girl in a blue sweatshirt, carrying a baseball bag. The driver caught a glimpse of her shirt as the girl pulled out her fare. "Ought to get that fixed," he told her, glancing down at the tear in it. She gave him a dazzling smile. "Thanks. I'll do it when I get home, I'm kind of wiped out right now." He nodded and turned back to his route. Pretty girl, he thought. The girl found a seat and set her bag down carefully at her feet. She looked back at the warehouse as the bus pulled away from the stop, letting the colors of the sunset dance in her hazel eyes. ***** The ATM balance was getting low; pushing my self-imposed bottom limit. Time to look for some work. I pocketed the cash and my card, then picked up my backpack as I walked away. Let's see now... relatively informal establishment, not terribly professional but not a dive, preferably run by someone who wouldn't mind an employee vanishing into the night with next to no notice... Seacouver was a great place to lie low for a few years. Lots of places to hide, easy access to planes and trains and busses... even boats, for crying out loud. I wouldn't need to split town unless I got a good half-dozen people after my head, and there'd be no way for them to track where I could run. It's not easy being a pacifist, especially when I'm also an Immortal. Work was relatively plentiful; the local universities were in session and all the students had either found their semester jobs or weren't worrying about money. But finding a place that fit my own, more stringent requirements, was a little harder. For the next five days, I set out job-hunting. Naturally, I tried to find a place near a church or a mosque... I was in no mood to be bigoted. I would settle for a synagogue or Wiccan glade or even just a graveyard. There were a couple of good candidates, like a big sporting-goods store a couple of blocks from a university (and three... three!... chapels in easy running distance) or a chain drugstore near the local Buddhist temple. I almost made it into a bookstore actually operating on a Unitarian church-ground, but somehow I got beat out by another applicant. I made a note to myself to visit often, to find out what she'd had that I didn't. Was it something I could learn? Probably not, I thought. I just didn't have any of those kinds of smiles in me. I may regenerate teeth I loose to decay or a couple of fights, but keeping them blinding white like hers is something else again. On Saturday, I had submitted an application to a promising 'avant- garde' music store (two floors below a quiet little ashram) and was heading back to my place for another thrilling dinner of macaroni and cheese a la Rockford when a 'help wanted' sign caught my eye. I paused to consider the place: Jazz and blues club, live music almost every night if the posted schedule was right. That might mean working the late shift, and probably brushing up on my rusty bartending skills... Suddenly, the back of my head started aching with that familiar, terrifying, electric zing. I glanced around, trying to spot whomever had just stepped into range, and failed to see anyone. I didn't want to get caught in the open just then, and I'd been thinking of going inside anyway, so I ducked through the front doors and got my first glimpse of the interior of "Joe's". Right off the bat, I could tell that this was a popular spot for its regulars. There's a special kind of vibe you get from places, especially when lots of people feel similar, strong emotions often and for a long time. Churches where genuine worship takes place (which is not the same as being genuine holy ground, more's the pity) almost inflict reverence on you, while I'd found myself cracking jokes in an empty bar before someone mentioned that the comedy club didn't open for another hour or so. Joe's was... well, relaxed. Friendly. "Cool", to coin a phrase. The d?cor was working-man rough, but there were softening touches with posters of Chicago or paintings of New Orleans here and there... "Help ya?" came a rough but somehow friendly voice from the bar. It was an older guy, the hair on his face and head more salt than pepper. His eyes were drooping a little, but the slight glimmer in them said he was plenty sharp enough to handle a twenty-one-year old like my humble, apparent self. He had just entered from the door to the storeroom, bar rag in hand, when he'd apparently seen me. "Uh, yeah. I saw the help wanted sign and thought I'd check it out." The guy put the rag away below the bar. His arms were sturdy and sure; he was probably the bartender, if not 'Joe' himself. "Well, I'm expecting to meet with a friend in a few minutes, so why don't I get your number and we can talk more later?" "Sounds good." I moved toward the bar and leaned on the brass rail as I wrote my current phone number on a little sticky-note. "Walter Rockford, huh?" the guy said, reading the note. He nodded to himself and put out a calloused paw. "I'm Joe Dawson." "Pleased to meet you." We shook... and at that precise instant, my head started zinging again. I couldn't help myself; without letting go of Joe's hand, I glanced at the door just in time to see a wiry little guy with a short haircut come up short in the doorway and give me a fast, appraising look. Somehow, Joe pulled his fingers out of my grip before I could relax; I guess he'd figured I was a little panicked about something. Not like I was in any shape to conceal my feelings at the moment. "Um, uh," I stammered, groping for an 'out'. "This must be your friend. That you were expecting." My mouth went into overdrive. "Uh, right, well, you've got my number and I'll talk to you a little later then, okay? Thanks." The guy in the doorway got the weirdest look on his face, sort of like he was surprised and confused and a little amused, all at once. He put up his hands in a placating gesture. "No need to rush off on my account," he said in an English accent. "Perfectly happy to stand a new friend to a drink." I looked at him, then my eyes flickered to Joe. "I was just looking for work, friend," I said, drifting away from the bar and toward the nearest fire door. "Not trouble. Don't do nothin', don't say nothin', just keep rollin' along." The Brit's smile widened, and I almost started to think that I might walk out of here without refusing a challenge. "I don't mean to scare you this badly, 'Old Man River', but if you're this uncomfortable in my presence I should let you go." He glanced at Joe. "I wouldn't want to put Joe here off his... 'mojo'?" Joe cracked up at that. "Adam, 'mojo' is for rock and roll. You know I'm a blues man." Then he turned to me. "Look... Walter, whatever problem you may have with Adam, you don't have to worry. He's my friend, and he knows better than to use my place to issue challenges." I sent a sharp look in Joe's direction. "What did you say?" Joe shrugged. "I meant that if you want to disappear, Adam isn't going to stop you. It won't be the first time a new guy decided he doesn't want a piece of him." He locked eyes with me for a beat, then turned around with an odd gait for a couple of glasses and a bottle from the bar behind him. "Can I at least offer you a drink before you go?" he said when he faced me again. A polite refusal was on my lips before I caught a glimpse of the distinct label on the bottle. Scotch. Glenmorringie, to be precise. My favorite, and it had been... well, too long since I'd had a proper glass. "You drive a hard bargain, Joe," I said, glancing at 'Adam' one last time. "You don't mind?" He laughed and shook his head in a disbelieving gesture as he approached. "There's always time for a good drink," he said, taking a stool and settling himself just at arm's length from me. He accepted the glass from Joe and turned to me, nodding at him. "It's okay, Joe knows about us." He leaned toward me and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Don't spread it around, but we're sort of a hobby for him." I settled onto my own stool and accepted my glass with a raised eyebrow. "How did that happen?" I asked as I let the lovely, burning scent of the Scotch fill my nose. Joe leaned back against the rear counter and tapped his thigh. His fingers impacted on plastic under his jeans, which I was pretty sure wasn't some kind of armor. "I was in 'Nam. One of you guys was my sergeant and saved my life after I lost an argument with an anti- personnel mine. After that, I started collecting stories..." He nodded at Adam. "...And every so often, friends." He leaned back toward us and rested against the bar. "Do you have any idea what kinds of adventures some of the other Immortals have had?" he asked, and I could see a light in his eyes that had nothing to do with jealousy. I sipped my Scotch. "Well, I've got some idea, yeah..." I tried. Shifting a bit so I faced Adam, I bounced the question to him. "And you? You tell him stories and keep the other Immortals in line? At least, when they come here?" He took in a breath as his eyes narrowed to a pensive expression. "Sort of," he allowed, taking another sip. After another moment, he continued. "From the way you act, you've probably not met many of us who think that there's more to eternal life than collecting heads and keeping your own atop your neck." My silent nod confirmed his guess. "Well, it is possible for us to at least co-exist. Occasionally for a very long time." The look on my face must've been a cue to try a different approach. "So tell me, how old are you?" I didn't see the harm in telling him; there was just something in his whole bearing that made me want to trust him with that much, at least. "I turned 60 last April. Died the first time in a freak storm off the coast of Fiji and washed ashore on New Zealand. I still have nightmares about sharks, sometimes." Joe had been sipping his own drink, content to let us 'old guys' share stories, but then he paused. "Wait a minute..." he said, setting his drink down to get a better look at me. "Tropical storm? 1975?" I glanced up at him in surprise. "Yeah." Apparently, something clicked in his head. "You're Wayland Rivers!" he said, snapping his fingers. "I remember reading about your family's memorial service for you. Shoved the Seacouver Sentinels' pennant game back to the third page of every paper in town..." I rolled my eyes in embarrassment. "Dad always was a sentimental sort. And since he was sitting on the Board at Dow/Corning with dividends up to his neck, he could afford a pretty lavish send-off for his 'adopted heir'." Adam looked back and forth between us, confused. "Wait a moment, I'm missing something." Joe looked at me, but I waved him on. "You start; I'm still a little sketchy on the public details." He smiled and turned to Adam. "Well, twenty years ago, Gregory Rivers, Vice President of sales for the Pacific branch of Dow/Corning Chemicals, took his family on their hundred-foot yacht for a month- long cruise through some of the nicer parts of the South Pacific. Well, the 'family' part apparently included a couple dozen friends and associates, and about a week into the trip they held a big party to celebrate a couple birthdays, how well the company was doing... hell, probably because the sea was green." Adam snorted around his own Glenmorringie. "Typical. Posh upper-crust types..." "Anyway," Joe went on. "...partway through the party, a tropical storm blew up out of nowhere. They managed to get almost everyone inside and high-tailed it for a safe port to wait out the storm, but not everyone made it. They lost an R&D guy who was dating Rivers' biological daughter Allicia, two deckhands, and Wayland, Gregory River's adopted son. The usual rumors cropped up about Wayland trying to defend Allicia's honor or the two of them being just too drunk to make it inside..." "Hey, let's not speak ill of the dead," I said, trying to make it sound light, but from the looks the others gave me I wasn't doing such a good job. Without a word, Joe refilled my glass, and I took half of it off the top without stopping. I set my glass down and lowered my head to stare at the varnished wood of the bar. "I don't remember if I was drunk out of my mind or just too full of myself to care about the storm; to this day I have no idea how I got into a life-preserver or why I hadn't ripped it off for spite. Dad would take care of everything, he always did. But money won't protect you from fifty-knot winds or waves that are almost trying to shove themselves down your throat. All I remember is that after what felt like days of just wrapping my fingers around that damned handrail, I just couldn't hold on any more, and the waves took me. The boat kept getting farther and farther away, and I finally just gave up. And I died. About two hours later, I woke up, still in the middle of the storm, feeling like I'd had eight hours' sleep and I was still going to die." I sent a sick grin toward Adam. "Turns out I was right... though not for long, as you can see. "The way I figure it, the storm blew me completely over most of the usual currents that would have landed me on one of the closer islands and plopped me within range of New Zealand. I spotted land after my fifth or sixth time 'back' and made for it. The next thing I knew, I was staring up at the face of a middle-aged Samoan woman from a cot in her room, and there was this electric buzzing in my head. I just wanted it to go away so I could finish dying." Adam nodded, his comprehension showing in his eyes. "And then the woman touched me, and... I didn't know how I knew, but she was what was making my head hurt." I took another sip to steady myself, holding my free hand out, open, in a sort of shrug. "The rest you can probably figure out. She fed me, got me some new clothes, and taught me about the Game. Grossly oversimplifying, I spent the next ten years in New Zealand, learning humility and diligence and picking up a bit of an accent that still slips out now and then. It took me that long to get money for a way back to the States that didn't involve a passport, since Ella... my teacher... didn't have the connections to get me a new one." "I take it she also made it quite clear that there was no going back to your mortal life?" Adam asked in a soft voice. I nodded. "Yup. Too many questions that I wouldn't be able to answer, and I'd picked up a news clipping about Dad's memorial and suchlike." I tried a grin. "Seemed a shame for him to have spent all that money on such a lovely service and have it all go to waste." A couple of forced chuckles, but... somehow, it seemed to be enough. Joe smiled and gave me an approving nod. He tried to freshen my drink, but I covered it. "Water or soft drinks only from here on out, please," I said with a rueful little smile and a completely un-faked longing glance at the rest of the Glenmorringie. "I don't want to make a bad impression too quickly." "Fair enough," Joe agreed, fishing out a bottle of Henry Weinhard's root beer from a cooler and pouring it into a chilled mug for me. "Thanks." I tried to pull out a fiver, but he waved it away. "My pleasure. So, what brings you up to the great northwest?" he asked. "Need a change of climate?" Instantly, the fragile mood of conviviality broke. Not irreparably, but... "I'm on the run," I said, letting a deep breath out. "Who from?" Adam asked. I turned to look at him and ticked names off on my fingers. "Andreas Kalluta, Chrystina Kragen, Del Korne, Lexington Keilley, Marcia Killearny, Niels Karloffson..." I shrugged. "A couple of others, too." Joe cut me off. "Wait a minute, Wayland. I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but I know a little about all of those guys. Kragen and Keilley aren't the type to hold grudges unless you've done something pretty rotten." I kept my face blank. "What about the others?" I asked conversationally. Joe paused in thought, but Adam chimed in. "Karloffson's a nasty piece of work, I will admit. If he was after me, I'd be a bit touchy, too. Kalluta's a weird one, tries to pick his duels according to his Egyptian horoscope, so maybe you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. "Korne..." He stared off into the distance, squinting and patting his thighs as if trying to figure out a bit of barroom trivia. Which, for this place, I guess it was. "Korne's a sweetheart unless you insult his taste in clothes. And considering that his favorite colors are various shades of neon, that isn't hard." "...And the best way to get on Marcia Killearny's bad side is to turn down one of her come-ons," Joe finished. "Even so... You aren't in the habit of running away from challenges, are you?" "Well, if I'm not properly cornered, yeah," I admitted. Their disapproving looks were about par for the course. "Look, I have a serious problem with taking heads, okay? I've experienced three Quickenings in my entire career... three, over a span of thirty years in the Game... and not once was it under the best of circumstances." "Go on," Adam encouraged, nudging my Weinhard's closer to me. I took a sip to steady myself. "Ella was my teacher, but she was also very matronly. Took care of all the kids on the island, helping out around orphanages, that kind of thing. Making up for being unable to have kids of her own, maybe. She had no idea exactly how old she was, but I found out that she did figure in a lot of the Maori myths... the really old ones... as a helpful spirit-figure. She learned about the Game from a Korean hwarang... their version of samurai... who washed up on the shores of her home island a lot like I did." "Got a name for this hwarang?" Joe asked. "I've got a good supply of stories on file, maybe get a more precise date of when this all happened..." "Not necessary," I said with a wave, "...but thanks. I do know that she never offered to introduce me to him, so I assume he left the island well before I arrived, one way or another." Neither of the other two did more than glance at each other; it was a sure bet that they caught my meaning. "So, anyway, after I'd been under her care for about three years and living out in the 'civilized parts' of the island for another seven, she read a newspaper article about the last surviving member of some ancient tribe passing away. Turns out that it was her tribe, and she couldn't handle the idea that her people were gone. So she told me to take her head." Adam's shock was palpable, and even Joe looked a little taken aback. "I couldn't, of course. It went against everything she'd ever taught me, everything I'd learned in my life up to that point. So she drew her own blade... which wasn't a Korean-style cutter, by the bye... and attacked me. We fought for about half an hour, longer than it should have because she kept leaving these gaping holes in her defenses and I kept trying to keep my head on straight... to say nothing of 'on', period. Finally, she just seemed to lose it completely and... well, she managed to scare me enough that I took her opening and her head. The Quickening destroyed the little house where I'd spent the most peaceful ten years of my life and forced me to scrape up the money to get back Stateside. "I spent about two years in San Diego near the docks, just adjusting to how the world had changed. And how I had changed... killing Ella, my ten-year 'vacation' in New Zealand, and so on. And then I met up with Maximoff Crane." Joe and Adam both nodded. "I guess I don't have to tell you guys much about how hard it is to get that guy to let go once he's set his sights on a head. Well, I did well enough to beat him, but I couldn't kill him; still dealing with the trauma of killing my teacher, I guess. I disarmed him and shoved my blade through his heart, but left him alive; y'know, with his head still attached, I mean. I ran to the heart of deepest, darkest Los Angeles, hoping to hide in a ghetto or two, but after a couple of months he found me again. He took my landlady hostage and demanded I fight him. "Well, since he put it that way, I couldn't refuse. I beat him again, and when I looked into his eyes, I knew that if I didn't put him down he'd keep coming until either I killed him or he killed me. So, again, the Quickening destroyed my home, though in a more metaphorical sense; my landlady and her four burly brothers came for me the next morning and, very politely, packed up my stuff and put it out on the curb. "So, I pawned whatever wouldn't fit into this large backpack..." I tapped the battered thing on the floor near my feet. "...And headed for Texas. I figured I could get a job as a cattlehand or something. I spent the next few years moving from one job to the next, and I wound up working as a janitor at the University of Texas in Austin. I'd managed to pick up some tips on making fake i.d.s, and I made my first 'paper life' good enough to get me into the University; I figured that I needed some useful skills, and janitorial work definitely helped support me and my classes. I was thinking about pursuing a career in the industrial arts for a lifetime or two, so my janitorial duties in the metal shop were a great chance to supplement my studies. "Anyway, after I'd gotten halfway through my second semester there, I was challenged by Kory Piollar, who'd rather neatly trapped me in the shop for our duel. I didn't actually kill him, just knocked him backwards into a bandsaw he'd turned on with a careless elbow-jab." I drew my hand across my neck to indicate where the bandsaw had cut him. "But the Quickening happened anyway. Somehow, I was able to convince the campus cops that he was some crazy guy who wanted to kill janitors and I'd gotten very lucky; I think some other Immortals were pulling a few strings behind the scenes, since the story didn't even make the t.v. news. "So, I took just enough time to finish work on my pet project, dropped out of sight, and hit the road again." "What 'pet project'?" Adam wanted to know. "Thought you'd never ask." With slow and exaggerated motions to indicate that I was drawing a weapon for show, not use, I opened my coat and withdrew the Baton. It was exactly forty-eight inches long, one inch in diameter, with half-spherical ends. I'd coated the entire thing with a matte-black finish and filled in the cross-hatched pattern of eighth-inch-deep grooves with sections of matte-black rubber for a strong grip; it basically looked like a very large flashlight with no light. "Carbon steel, in hollow honeycomb configuration," I said, holding it out for their inspection. "Perfectly balanced, neutral buoyancy, wicked strong, and completely without a cutting edge." I pointed out a few nicks to indicate that it could withstand a sword-strike very well, thank you. Adam snorted. "Well, I can see why you've got so many people after you..." But Joe cut him off. "Wait, wait, I just realized what's been bothering me. I've got some friends who share my... hobby. I could've sworn I heard that Karloffson and Korne had both died about two years ago. Photos of the bodies and everything. Are you sure it's them?" I took a deep breath. "This is going to sound crazy, guys..." Adam rolled his head, a twinkle of laughter in his eyes. "Try me. I've seen and done some pretty crazy things in my time. If you can top me, the next round's on me." "Better have your wallet handy," I told him. "Either of you ever hear of a guy named Ben? Terrence LeLacques?" "I have," Joe said with a grunt of disapproval. "Guy makes me crazy. Gets into duels all the time, Quickening light-show and everything, and my friends keep seeing his opponent for a couple of days after the fight, but then LeLacques shows up again and the other guy vanishes... with no Quickening." "Well, all those folks I mentioned earlier? LeLacques has fought them all." Now both Joe and Adam looked doubtful. "I've got a bad feeling about this..." Joe murmured. "Well, I'm going to have to get a whole lot weirder before I'm done," I warned them. "Basically, LeLacques has a very serious self-identity problem. When he takes an Immortal's head, the Quickening doesn't work for him the way it seems to work for most everybody else. He says that there's a Board of Directors in his head, and the souls, for lack of a better word, of every Immortal he's ever killed sit at it. He calls himself the Chairman, naturally, since he's the only one who can make the others work together and teach him what he needs to know to survive. "Basically, he goes around to other Immortals and tries to figure out if they're 'good guys' or 'bad guys', no slur intended on the fairer sex..." Adam gave a pretty healthy snort at that, but I pressed on. "... and 'install' them on his 'board'. With a balance of good guys and bad guys in his head, they're too busy arguing to bother him too much. Of course, when he asks one of them to teach him what they knew, he lets them take control of his body to do it. The problem is that he's got an incredible gift for impersonation. And since he has access to the memories of the Immortal he's impersonating, it gives him an extra edge. That's what... or who... your friends are seeing all the time, Joe." "So what does he want with you? And how do you know all of this?" "He wants me to be his Executive Vice President, or something equally corporate. I'm a pacifist, generally speaking, but I'm able to kill if and when there is no other option. A lot of the folks in his head are pretty willful characters, and it's getting harder to play individuals or groups against the other. He figures that with me in command, I'll run interference and set up a sort of d?tente in his head while he keeps the body going. "And as for how I know this? He told me." ***** "Wayland Rivers, the Board needs you," the gorgeous redhead intoned in a voice better suited for an executioner. Her straight-edged Viking scramasax gleamed in the dying sunlight streaming through the grimy windows overlooking the abandoned stockhouse's killing floor... a name I found altogether too appropriate. "I told you before, Killearny, I don't want to fight!" Her response was a double-feint that looped straight for my neck... which I quickly moved below the path of her stroke. The Baton slithered for her chest, forcing her back and giving me a heartbeat of a breather before she came slashing in again. A small part of my mind took careful note of her footwork, the balancing motions of her other hand, and the rest of her fighting style while the rest of me focused on keeping the Baton between my tender neck and that damned sword of hers. Her eyes kept distracting me; flat hazel glass showing almost nothing as she threw attack after attack from every conceivable direction. Finally, though, she took a single misstep on a particularly slick patch of moldy, blood-stained wood, and the sound of Baton meeting skull rang through the arena. Before my conscious mind could completely catch up with my victory, I'd already knocked her blade halfway across the room; if she ran for it, she'd be one mass of broken bones before she reached it. She dropped to her knees, facing me. "Please," she whispered, her voice like a frightened little girl's. "Got that right," I answered, clutching the Baton in my left hand and letting the main shaft run up my side, behind my shoulder. I moved to stand between her and her blade, well beyond kicking range, and hunkered down so we'd be eye-to-eye. "My payment for letting you live," I told her. "...is an explanation. Why are you trying to kill me?" "Because the Board wants you," she said, voice going flat again. This confused me no end. "Not that 'there can be only one'?" "The Board needs you," she amended, one hand going to her forehead and tapping it significantly. "I need a strong-willed peacemaker, a pacifist who can be pushed into fighting, to keep the rest of the Board under control." "Killearny, you still aren't making any sense." And she proceeded to tell me a story. ***** In 1235, a respected spice merchant named Alphonse Giancarlotti took an orphan as his errand boy. Saying goodbye to his adopted family, a commedia del'arte company, the boy set himself to the task of assisting the great Giancarlotti in his endeavors. The boy performed his duties to the best of his abilities, and the merchant rewarded him well. After a few years had passed, the boy reached manhood, but he remained of smaller and slighter stature than most his age. At the time of his eighteenth birthday, the merchant gave him a flagon of spiced wine, which included enough hemlock to kill Socrates fifty times over. After that came the introduction to the Game, followed by swordplay (first Venice-style with a saber, followed quickly by Florentine with a wicked dagger in the other hand), which led to the changing of identities, and the proper use of an Immortal's most useful material tool, money. Sometimes, late at night, when the wine had flowed and the day had been long, there was also time for tales of their people from long ago: the Four Horsemen and their reign of terror, the Methuselah stones, and story after story of Immortal exploits both heroic and base. Too soon, though, it was time for the young student to face his first real opponent: the Teuton, Gunter Dagenham, whose experience was not much more than his own but whose arrogance far outstripped anything the young man had ever encountered. The battle was long, but in the end, Dagenham lost. Or did he? The Quickening began, and the young man... Ben? Terrence LeLacques... heard Dagenham's voice in his head. "You've taken my head, boy, but I'll take your soul." Ben? felt his stance changing... his expression hardening into Dagenham's sneer as he put Ben?'s saber and dagger away and retrieved Dagenham's broadsword. "Ben??" came Alphonse Giancarlotti's voice ... his teacher and mentor and friend... witness to his student's passing the gauntlet... "Are you well?" "He's stepped out for a moment," Dagenham's voice came through Ben?'s lips. "But he's let me take the reins." Giancarlotti read the attack almost too late, so great was his shock at seeing the loser take the victor's place. It would prove to be his undoing, and soon Giancarlotti took his place in Ben?'s head. Now with all of Giancarlotti and Dagenham's skills, memories and resources at his command, Ben? set out into the world. Giancarlotti's disappearance would have raised questions that Ben? was not prepared to answer. So, he purchased paints and false hair and padding to take on Giancarlotti's appearance, long enough to disappear in a more conventional fashion. His next head came from Kassini al-Akhbar, who had known Dagenham and wished to court his assistance in a business transaction. In Dagenham's place, Ben? took the Moor's head... and the Board came into being. Ben? was growing concerned. None of the others in his head had ever heard of anything like what was happening to them. Dead, but far from gone, they suffered. Suffering, they tormented Ben?, who learned to placate them by wearing their faces to achieve mutually-satisfactory goals... and to play one against the other for an all-too-rare moment of peace. More heads rolled, more seats were put on the Board. Ben?'s resources and skills grew; close friends who had known his victims for lifetimes were deceived... for just long enough. Finally, though, the Board members began to separate into two camps: the hardliners who wanted a share of the Prize, and those who wanted to consolidate their interests into one, more acceptable company. The hardliners were constantly badgering the C.E.O. for new members, to expand the Board's power; a seductive urge, Ben? had to admit. Their opponents felt that something should be done about the fractured nature of the Board itself, and constantly motioned to seek outside help. So far, Ben? had been able to keep them from gaining a majority, but he walked a delicate tightrope: if he allowed too many new hardliners onto the Board, his position as CEO would be in jeopardy; but if he inducted too many consolidationists, they might carry a motion to pool their shares into a collective that Ben? couldn't control. ***** "So why do you want me?" I asked, when the redhead... who I still thought was a woman suffering from the most bizarre hallucinations I had ever heard of... finished her story. "You can help me keep the members in control," she said. "You don't want more power, but you also want to be yourself. I have seen this. It places you neatly between the two camps. While they're trying to seduce you to one side or the other, I can have some peace." "What you need is a long stint in a rubber room, sweetie," I advised her. "You can't expect me to believe..." She reached both hands up to the back of her neck, never breaking eye- contact with me. I saw a quick frown of concentration cross her face, then I heard a weird tearing sound. Her face started to crumple, that lovely liquid-fire hair bunching forward... and then the mask came off. Behind Marcia Killearny's face was that of an androgynous boy of just over twenty... but the flatness in his eyes marked him as much older. "The Board is not very happy with you, Wayland," he said, somehow dropping his voice into a masculine timbre as he finished pulling Killearny's face off his head and letting it fall onto the floor. Then he leaned closer, a smile tugging at his lips. "But you've passed my test. I want you for Vice President of the Board." I stared, bringing the Baton up into a guard position. "Hey, Mister C.E.O., need I remind you that I'm standing between you and your blade? You've lost." "My name is Ben? Terrence LeLacques," he said. "I must keep the Board under control or... Or..." His face twisted, then he whipped his hand into his shirt... with Killearny's faux breasts still pressing out of it... and pulled out an ugly-looking dagger. "Time for Karloffson to finish this," he growled. I backpedaled, staring at his face... which was now somehow hanging differently on his skull. It was like there really was a completely different mind in charge of the muscles controlling the expressions. "Karloffson" started whipping the dagger back and forth in an almost hypnotic opening maneuver. I knew how to use the Baton against someone with a shorter-range weapon, but I was still in shock from the transformation. It wasn't Karloffson's fancy knife-dance that gave him his first opening, but the sight of Killearny's face on the floor, still framed with that fiery hair... The knife slashed across the back of my right forearm, and the pain was enough to snap me back into the fight. I ducked under his next two attacks and rolled backwards, stopping next to... LeLacques'... blade. I kicked it skittering to a stop next to a wall about twenty feet away. "Coward," Karloffson growled, pressing the attack. "Why do you not try to kill me?" I let the Baton and a snap-kick to his shin talk for me. I managed to knock the knife out of his hand, but he moved his leg before I could put him out of action. He feinted for the knife, then sprinted for... the mask? At that moment, a couple of security guards pushed on the doors, which "Killearny" had wedged shut. They started shouting. "Hey, you kids in there! Open up!" "Not bloody likely," I told them, then turned back to face... whomever was in the driver's seat. With the mask back in place on LeLacques' head, it seemed to be Killearny, until 'she' opened her mouth. "I'll find you again, Wayland Rivers" she said, in a woman's voice but a man's threatening promise. "Count on it." ***** "...Of course, after that, I kept meeting different Immortals who turned out to be LeLacques in disguise," I finished. "One or two who aren't for every five or so who are, but it's getting to be a habit." Without breaking eye-contact with me, Adam signaled for another round and unblinkingly laid down a twenty. "How did you know what was going on?" Joe asked. I shrugged as I sipped the fresh drink. "I got a good shot to the cheek of 'Andreas Kalluta' once, with the pommel of his own blade, and it ripped the mask. I had to fight Chrystina Kragen twice before I got her in a head-lock, which she broke with the simple expedient of letting me pull the mask off LeLacques' head. After that, I've been pretty careful to go for my opponents' faces pretty regularly." "So what makes you think that I'm not LeLacques in some new disguise?" Adam asked, lips pulled back in a grin. "Body type, for one thing," I said. "I can see that you're about six inches taller than him, and your shoulders are wider. Granted, you're also a little trimmer than I've ever seen him in any of his guises, but the fact that you haven't started talking about the Board yet also gives me hope." "Fair enough," Adam said, turning back to his drink. "I'm just a bit more concerned about your habit of not killing your opponents. There can be only one, you know." I winced. "Look, I have a real problem with killing, okay? I mean..." I paused to gather my thoughts. "I won't ask you how old you are," I stared, noting Adam's suppressed smile. "But it's a safe bet you've been around for a while longer than I have." "Sucker bet," Joe commented, also suppressing a smile. "Anyway, in the course of your long experience, you've probably learned a few things that most folks these days can't do, or even remember, right?" "Maybe," Adam allowed. "So, where is the benefit to mankind, mortal and not, if... God forbid... I take your head, for example? The knowledge isn't lost, but I'm just one guy, right? Wouldn't it be better all around if you taught me something, and then you could go on and teach somebody else, and I could do the same, and spread the knowledge that much faster?" Adam stared at me as if I'd grown another head. "Are you quite mad?" he asked. "Nope, it's worked more often than not," I told him. "Obviously, I've never lost a duel, but I've only deliberately taken two heads for losing to me. I've learned about falconry, beer-brewing, goldsmithing, quartermastering... and a few other things. And I've gotten more jobs in more fascinating places than I would ever have dreamed if I'd gone through the mortal career track that my dad had laid out for me. "Look, call it my style of playing the Game, but I want to see eternal life as a learning experience. Maybe I'm wrong, but Immortality can't be about nothing but hunting and killing. It just can't." Joe looked at me with new eyes. "Remind me to introduce you to a friend of mine," he said in a thoughtful tone, before glancing at Adam. "Rivers and MacLeod would probably have a lot to talk about." Adam nodded, giving me an appraising look. I shrugged. "Hey, I'm all for meeting someone else with no particular desire to take my head." "Actually, I think we should probably do something about LeLacques, first," Adam said. "Have you ever heard of a Dark Quickening?" I blinked and shook my head. "Haven't had much time to collect lore about us," I said. "At least, not much more than what I could get from my own Quickenings." "Well, Immortals can be some real monsters, and then other Immortals of a slightly less pragmatic bent..." "He means to say the 'good guys'," Joe chimed in with a smile. Adam frowned at him, then gave a slow nod of agreement. "All right, sometimes the 'good guys' go after the 'bad guys' because taking the bad guy's head is the only way to end the trouble he or she makes once and for all. Now, the problem comes in when there's so much hate and bitterness and evil inside the bad guy that it overwhelms the good guy..." "...Making him a bad guy," I finished, nodding as I understood. "You got it," Adam said in a slightly stiff delivery; he must've just learned the expression, I figured. "So how does this apply to LeLacques?" "I'm not sure." He grimaced. "I've... dealt with a Dark Quickening in the past, but I don't know if it would work on LeLacques. I've never heard of an Immortal suffering from... what on earth would we call this? ...Multiple personality disorder brought on by Quickenings? Anyway, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but even if you took his head, there's a chance that whatever's wrong with him might move on to you." "Great. An even better reason to stay the hell away from him." "Not necessarily," Adam said, waving a warning finger. "Unlike you, LeLacques obviously has no compunctions about taking heads. The fact that yours is particularly valuable to him simply means that he'll just go after more from other Immortals until he acquires enough strength and power so that can take it, your objections notwithstanding." "So what do I do?" Adam and Joe glanced at each other. "Didn't... he talk about what happened?" Joe asked. "A little," Adam said in a confessional tone, spreading his free hand in a helpless gesture. "He had trouble describing it. But then again, he never was much of a storyteller..." I looked from one to the other and back again. "Uh, guys?" I asked. "Who? What are you talking about?" Adam nodded for Joe to freshen my drink, then turned back to me. I promised myself to leave at least a fiver, if not a sawbuck, in the tip jar. "Like I said, I've dealt with a Dark Quickening once before. My friend... well, we had to use some pretty weird measures to help him deal with it, and I don't know if we can lure LeLacques to Europe to try it on him, especially since he doesn't seem to want to be cured." "And so...?" Adam sighed. "I don't know, Rivers. I guess that I'm the world's foremost authority on this subject, but I've only cured it once." I sighed and settled back down to my root beer, thinking very seriously about asking for another Glenmorringie. "Listen, Wayland," Joe said. "Sooner or later, LeLacques is gonna track you down with enough juice to beat you. If it were me, I'd say you'd better do it sooner, while you still can." "But what if whatever's wrong with him goes into me? I don't want the Board in my head with him as my Executive Veep, or whatever." No one said anything after that. We sat for a little while, finishing our drinks. Joe glanced up at the clock. "Hey, the first shift's gonna start arriving in a couple of minutes," he announced. "Need some help setting up?" I offered. Joe looked at me, one corner of his mouth rising. "Think you can handle it so fast?" he asked. "You just walked in a little while ago." "Please, it's the least I can do after you've spent a generous helping of Glenmorringie and so much of your valuable time with a young 'un like me." Adam grinned. "An Immortal working for a watcher," he said. Strangely, I could have sworn I actually heard a capital 'W' at the beginning of his last word. A look of panic crossed his face for a second. "Someone who watches Immortals," he amended. "Eh, I'm sure it's happened before," Joe said, smiling at him. Something was going on here, but it felt more like an inside joke than anything else. "Is there something I should know about?" I asked, taking off my jacket. "Private joke," Adam confirmed as he gathered up his things. He tossed fifteen dollars on the bar. "For the drinks," he told Joe. "Good to meet you, Rivers. Good luck with LeLacques, when you see him." he added in my direction. Nodding at us both, he headed out. ***** The next three weeks were wonderful. Seacouver was enjoying a spate of warm, sunny weather, and I got into the swing of things at Joe's in record time. I also let Adam introduce me to a few fellow Immortals... and was quite pleased to pass the time with 'brethren' who didn't immediately try to give me a haircut down to my shoulders. I hadn't been on the scene long enough to build up much of a reputation, so most of my interaction with them was very much of the 'sitting at the feet of the master' variety, learning about ancient history, long-term investment advice, and other relevant matters. Overall, it was a welcome change from my life of the previous six years. And surprisingly, there weren't many Immortals who focused their lives on collecting heads. Perhaps the Gathering, as Adam called it, had moved off to another city for a while; that was fine by me. Still, I couldn't get rid of the feeling that something was coming. Something... or someone. I hadn't told this to Adam or Joe (or Amanda, or Cornelius...) but I was pretty sure that LeLacques was tracking me again. Maybe I'd just been in his sights so long, I could feel it when they were back on me. But talking to Adam and Joe once, and then a few more times, had somehow convinced me that I had to face my situation and deal with both of my fears: of Quickenings in general and LeLacques in particular. So, I poked around my new neighborhood and found a quiet spot near my apartment where I wouldn't be disturbed. Then, I started working out with the Baton more and more frequently, sometimes even filling it with water or sand to increase the weight and build up my strength and speed. Old habits die hard; I didn't tell this to Adam, either, worried that LeLacques would track me down through someone he told. But after being caught by 'Lexington Keilley' two years ago, through that casual encounter with a student in Boston... I wasn't about to take any chances. Still, there was time enough for work, and study, and planning... and possibilities. A youngish Immortal, a student of Amanda's who had finished her training, stopped by Joe's one night. I still wasn't sure about the etiquette for Immortals dating, so I let her have her space. With Adam playing 'matchmaker', I kept things going with Lola to help me learn how to open up to other Immortals. "It's not like we have to worry about such inconveniences as unwanted pregnancies or disease," Adam had dryly pointed out. I agreed, though I was still dealing with my 'trust among Immortals' issues and Lola was content to let the matter rest. In fact, keeping a bit of distance from her left me free to make preparations for my own little plot. From the pure strategic standpoint, I knew that letting LeLacques pick the time and place would mean handing him an advantage, and since he'd had six years to do his own preparing, I wanted to keep as much of my own edge as I could. Therefore, I had to make him come to me. I figured that the one way I could draw LeLacques out would be to claim that someone else had beaten LeLacques to the punch. It was an intricate deception, and one that relied on taking a page for LeLacques' own book. I'd been doing well at Joe's, along with a few other odd jobs around town, and my bank account was swelling again. And I had Lola and I had been easing into each other's trust. Pieces were coming together. All I had to do was lose my head to her... temporarily. [Note: this is the part where I wanted to write about Walter making a mask of Lola's face, along with other appropriate prosthetics, and taking her place in an effort to coax LeLaques out of hiding. I lost the narrative thread, though, so anyone who feels like re-writing the story along those lines is welcome to do so.] ***** After my shift wrapped up, I decided to stick around and have one last bite of the buffalo wings before heading back to my apartment. That night's act, a Brazilian foursome calling themselves 'P?leboom', was winding up their third set of salsa-influenced jazz. Definitely danceable, and I'm sure that Joe was more than middlin' pleased by all the dancers working up a thirst. I had a succulent, fiery lump of meat between my teeth when she walked in... and the zinging started up in my brain. Our eyes met, and... she stifled a giggle when I realized that I still had the buffalo wing in my mouth. I set it back on my plate motioned her over. "Welcome to Joe's," I shouted over the din when she arrived. "Thank you," she answered. "Good food?" I held up both thumbs. She smiled, showing a row of bright, white teeth. I got Leona's attention and put in an order for another bowl of buffalo wings. "I'm Walter Rockford," I told her. "And you?" "I go by Sherri Keller, these days" she responded. I nodded. "You're not after my head, are you?" She released a laugh that cut through the music like sunlight through glass. "Not right now, I'm enjoying the music," she answered, with mock indignance. Sherri and I talked for a while after the music ended. She claimed to have never worn clothes that she hadn't made, with the exception of shoes. "Sometimes I even knit," she said, holding up the arm of her mustard-yellow sweater. "But I always come back to weaving." "I'm just a student, these days," I answered. "Just landed a job here at Joe's a few months ago, in fact." Her eyes widened, followed by a smile. "Excellent taste in clubs," she commented. "Are you off-duty?" "Yeah. It's been a pretty full day for me, and I was just about to head home." "Well, when can I see you again?" "I haven't actually set up this week's schedule with Joe yet," I admitted. Grabbing a napkin, I scrawled my name and phone number on it. I held it out to her, but pulled it back just as she was about to tug it from my fingers. "And yours?" I asked, arching an eyebrow. She grinned back and gave me her own information. "I'd like to speak with you again soon," I said, tucking her half of the napkin into a pocket. "I'd like that, too," she said. "It's been too long since I've met... someone in our little club that likes good music." I looked at her blankly. "'Little club'?" "You know," she said, glancing around at the mortals in the vicinity. "Our circle of history buffs." The light dawned, and I blushed. "Oh, yeah, right." I stood up and offered her a hand up out of her own seat. "I really should get going," I told her. "But I'll definitely see you around." Her laugh was delightful; low and giggly at the same time. "I look forward to it." ***** "May I walk with you?" Her face was open, and her hazel eyes were warm and trusting... Hazel eyes... My own eyes widened in shock as slid away from her. "LeLacques?" I gasped. She looked at me. "What are you talking about?" I glanced over her form in a lightning-quick appraisal. Body-type, height, weight... Without another word I stood up. "I gotta go," I told her. Without turning my back to her, I moved across the floor and ducked into the employees' area for my coat and bag. Joe saw me go past him from his spot behind the bar and followed me. "Hey, uh, Walter, what's your schedule like next week?" he asked. I started, producing the Baton as I spun around, then lowered it as I realized who it was. "Hey, easy, there," he asked, hands rising to a surrendering position. "LeLacques is here," I said, jamming my coat on and tucking the Baton into the harness I had rigged for it. Joe stared at me. "What? Where?" "The blonde I was talking to earlier," I said. "She's got a guy under her skirt, and I don't mean metaphorically. I told him that I'd just gotten a job here, so I probably won't be coming back... Joe put his hand on my shoulder and turned me around. "Look, Rivers, I'm hardly qualified to tell an Immortal how to play the Game, but I do know that you can't keep running from your problems." I stood, letting my bag drop to the ground. "Look, you've said yourself that LeLacques wants you pretty bad, and he's not gonna give up. Not with all the other guys he's got in his head. Why don't you just do what you've already proved you can do and solve his problems for him?" "And have the Board set up shop in my head?" I snapped back at him. "No thanks." "Whatever LeLacques calls it, those people are already dead," Joe insisted. "Even if it does move into you, I've got a feeling that you can deal with it." "How?" I asked, a little plaintively. "I dunno," Joe admitted. "But there's gotta be an answer." "There is," came Keller's voice from the doorway. "Join the Board." Joe and I both spun to face 'her'. I stared, seeing my death in those hazel eyes... and heard the wisdom in Joe and Adam's advice. I sighed. "All right, 'Keller', I guess I'll have to give your offer the consideration that it's due." I nodded at Joe. "One way or another, I'll be back." Stopping to stand next to LeLacques, I added. "Just make sure that when I do, I'm the right height," indicating the eight inches of difference between my hunter and myself. And with that, we turned and walked out without another word. ***** LeLacques pulled steel on me as soon as we were in the alley a couple doors down from Joe's place. The Roman cavalry sword and the associated sword-style his current personality used wasn't quite up to lethal blows in such cramped quarters, and I was able to fend him off for a good long time with the Baton. The alley wasn't much of an arena; maybe twelve feet wide by fifty feet long and narrowed by dumpsters and assorted trash along the edges. I made a point of retreating away from the alley mouth and into a loading area where we wouldn't be interrupted. Once we were in the open area, though, all bets would be off. I raced in first and darted around the corner, knowing that I had at least another two seconds before LeLacques joined me. I took the time to clamber up onto a parked van to survey this killing ground: alleyway for foot traffic, one other lane for trucks. Five loading-bays in five different buildings, and five normal-sized doors next to each. Three more doors at ground level, all of solid wood and probably locked tight. Two fire escapes, one on each side of the alley... WHUD! Swoosh! LeLacques had arrived in the loading area. He'd spotted me doing my recon and tried to take a running step up the side of the van I was standing on, followed by a slice to my ankles. Which weren't in the path of his strike, as I had jumped back when I felt his foot impact the van's side. LeLacques ran around the side of the van towards a garbage dumpster next to it. Would he come up, or wait for me to come down? I decided not to let him force the issue and dropped on the far side of the van, a hurled chunk of wood just missing my scalp. Not good, flashed through my mind. He's found junk to throw at me. I dropped to my knees, risking a quick glance under the van to check for feet; I saw none. Rising, I also saw almost no cover in the loading bay, other than the dumpster next to the van and four or five others pushed right up against the walls. I sprinted for the fire-escape furthest from the van, gambling that it would take a precious second for LeLacques to get close enough to hit me with anything more than an annoyance. The moldy head of lettuce striking my left shoulder ended that thought, however. I managed to keep my fingers wrapped around the Baton, but I did fall and scrape a knee. No more running for another minute or so, dammit, and LeLacques wasn't going to let an opening like this slip through his fingers... or the fingers of whomever was calling the shots at the moment. I rolled sideways and got to my feet, noting that he'd tried to skewer me through the back. "Karloffson?" I asked, trying to taunt him. "That you?" "Dagenham," came grunting out of 'Sherri's lips. It was followed by something that sounded vaguely German, which in turn was followed by a feint at my face and a stomp-kick to my leading foot. "I've made a small wager that I can defeat you, even in this..." He gestured at his disguised form, frowning at the sword, then striking a pose that still looked like a fencing stance to my eyes. He arched an eyebrow at me, then threw a vicious series of overhead slashes that almost sent me sprawling. Great, I thought to myself as I backpedaled. Am I going to have to fight my way through the entire Board? I had no idea how many 'people' I would be facing, but the numbers seemed pretty high... Then I realized that it might not be as big a problem as I had thought. Dagenham was sneering at the Roman sword in his hand and spitting something that sounded rather insulting. He reached under 'Sherri's skirt and retrieved a plain but lethal-looking dagger, then did a lightning-fast juggle with the sword and the knife to put the shorter blade in his right hand and the longer one in his left. I had just enough time for the question Dagenham is a southpaw? to flash through my mind before he attacked: a neck-slash with the sword while he tried to pierce my ribs with the dagger. I ducked under the sword and whirled the Baton to block the shorter blade. Dagenham and I closed in, trying to rush each other at the same moment. The Baton switched to cover his sword while I grabbed at his knife-hand's wrist. He grunted as I squeezed the pressure point that forced him to drop the knife. I let him land a weak tap my cheek with his sword-pommel; I could recover from a hit like that with bad leverage behind it in a moment, and it was a small price to pay in exchange for kicking the dagger under a pile of garbage. Dagenham broke away, glancing around while trying to find his extra knife on the ground. He saw where it had skittered and bellowed some kind of war cry at me as he attacked my arms. The Baton found its way into the soft part of his throat while I danced around his sword; he backed off, gasping and choking, until his windpipe opened up again. Which wouldn't happen in time. I faked a rush of my own, and he tried to block an overhead slam to his head. Instead, I swirled around his guard and put everything I had into a crushing blow to his spine and kidneys. Now, his howl of pain and anguish seemed to fill the world, made even more sickening by the snap-crunching of bone. I forced myself to focus on the sight of his sword sailing out of his grip, ignoring his screams and helpless fall onto the slimy brick floor of the loading area. I retrieved his blade and stood over him, regarding the ghastly sight. 'Sherri Keller' was covered with dirt and oil. Her eyes were open but saw nothing but her own pain. Her hands spasmed as she writhed on the ground. Her cries of agony were like nothing I had ever heard before. The absolute worst part was the fact that her legs weren't moving; I had no idea if we could regenerate a broken spine and it sickened me that I would never find out from this example. In a single moment of weakness, I reached down and ripped the pretty blonde woman's face off of LeLacques's head. I wanted to be absolutely sure that this death was being dealt to the right man, and I wanted to see that man's real face as I did it. When the mockery of Sherri Keller's hair and face were hanging from my hand and LeLacques was staring up at me in crazed comprehension, I nodded. Then I chopped his head off with a single stroke of Sherri's sword. The shrieking stopped, but the echoes were a long time fading. I threw the useless mask away and picked up the Baton as the Quickening gathered itself around me. I could feel it building in the stones and the very air. I wanted so very badly to get rid of the sword, the damned sword, but my fingers spasmed around it and the Baton... ...And then my own shrieks began to echo throughout the arena. The power rose from LeLacques like a mist, then it swooped into my chest. What felt like a large luxury car made out of electricity slammed into me. Lightning danced from the corpse to the vans, to the windows, to the metal handrails. Another impossible impact of energy with too much mass, straight into me. Dumpsters exploded, showering their contents everywhere. Impact, again; vision blurring. Glass shattered, pools of water erupted into steam. I blacked out. "Stand and take your place at the Board!" The shout roused me from... whatever kind of mental state I was in. I opened my eyes. I was in a dark place with walls made of a mist that somehow looked like wood paneling. There was a table in front of me, fine mahogany and artful frills carved in it, stretching back for almost a hundred feet. There was a collection of ornate chairs, almost thrones, ringing the table. Face after face turned to look at me: men and women from every era of history, all with expectant expressions. I glanced down at myself. I was still holding Sherri Keller's sword in one hand and the Baton in the other. My clothes were the same, though they looked brand-new; none of the stains or rips or other signs of wear they'd had during the duel. I looked up again at the 'Boardmembers' and found myself taking a few steps toward the largest chair at the head of the table. Ben? Terrence LeLacques looked at me from the seat just to the right, his face a mixture of pain and relief. As I took another step toward the seat, I took a few seconds to survey the faces more closely. What was wrong with them? They were all expectant; some were curious, some were sizing me up, some even looked sad. But they were all... what? Pale. The colors were washed out of their clothes, even their skin and hair. What did that mean? Another step. The Chairman's place was only a few feet away from me. Another step. What would happen if I sat in it? Another step. Would I be trapped in this hallucination for the rest of my life? One more step between me and the Chair. Ben? leaned forward. "You'll grow to enjoy it," he said. His voice was surprisingly serene. "I did, in time." I felt tired from the duel, and all I wanted to do was sit and rest. I raised my hands, as the Chair turned itself slightly so I could sit in it... Sherri Keller, the real one, suddenly sat a few places away from me. I raised my hands and realized that I still had not dropped either of my weapons; I met Keller's eyes over the edge of her blade. Alone among everyone else in the room, her eyes were brimming with tears. I turned toward the Chair, then looked at LeLacques. He had a split- second to realize what I was going to do befo