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There Can Be Only... None?
by Steve Anderson
SGAcreative.com
(c) 1992-2005, Steve Anderson, Writer@SGAcreative.com
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction,
posted solely for
entertainment value, and is in no way intended to infringe upon
the intellectual
property rights of the creators or owners of
the Highlander or Terminator franchises.
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This was the final showdown, and both men knew it. They fought viciously, sparks exploding from
the tips of their swords as if their fight were a kind of magic. The platform beneath their feet was
literally disintegrating from the impacts of countless wild swings with the deadly blades. They both
knew it had to happen sooner or later, but still they were both caught off-guard when the platform finally
did give way, spilling them through the tremendous skylight into the abandoned soundstage.
They
cried out as they fell, of course, but the fall itself was nothing compared to the passing vortex which
swallowed them as they fell and deposited them not on the smooth floor far below, but in a gravel-bedded
alley in another city entirely.
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A figure clad in a spiked leather jacket and lugging an incredible profusion of weaponry strode
down the middle of the empty street, looking at the world through glowing red eyes. The rebel leader
was supposed to be here somewhere, so the legends said. The legends also said he was destined for greatness--but
that was about to change.
As if to emphasize that point, the red-eyed man chose that moment to
draw back the bolt of the uzi he was carrying in his left hand and let off a volley of shots into the
still night air. A pigeon squawked at the sound, but otherwise he was greeted only with silence.
And then, as he turned a corner, he suddenly saw a man slink down a dark alley, obviously trying not
to be seen. Only one man would be stupid enough to be creeping around outside after curfew, and that
was the man he wanted.
The figure in the leather drew himself up to his full height and called
to the man in the alley: "Connor!"
The man froze, then slowly turned and approached. "Yes," he
answered warily, "I'm Connor. Who are you?"
"I... am a Terminator."
"A Term--?" Connor
repeated, uncomprehending.
"Yes," growled the machine. "And I have been sent to dispose of you."
With that, it pulled the trigger of the Uzi that was already pointed at Connor's chest. The young
man was thrown back against the brick wall by the force of the bullets, and he seemed almost to dance
as the lead poured into his body.
Finally, the Terminator stopped firing and Connor dropped to
his knees. This was a normal reaction, and the Terminator turned to walk away and allow its quarry to
bleed to a slow and painful death.
But instead of dying, Connor gathered himself, stood up, took
a tottering step forward, and reached under his trenchcoat to pull out a broadsword.
The Terminator's
eyes swiveled wide. This was definitely not normal behavior for a bullet-ridden man. It checked its
databanks, then reached around behind its back and pulled out a grenade launcher. Reaching forward with
its left hand, the machine grabbed Connor by the hair and held him while, with its right hand, it levered
the launcher up and under his chin and cocked the trigger.
Wide-eyed and panic-stricken for the
first time in his long life, Connor thrashed and struggled for all he was worth, but he could not free
himself from the Terminator's steel grip. Helpless, he closed his eyes, surrendering to fate much as
his teacher, Ramirez, had done so many centuries before.
A pull of the trigger, an explosion of
sound, a shower of gore, and Connor MacLeod, the Highlander, was dead.
The Terminator almost smiled.
Its prime directive had been fulfilled; John Connor was dead. With the human menace neutralized, it
could focus on its secondary objective, having some fun at the local Triple-X shop, instead.
But
as it turned to go, another dark figure dressed all in black, spiked leather peeled itself away from
the wall of the alley. The figure, a tall, muscular man, approached the Terminator from behind. Moonlight
gleamed against the figure's shaved head and glinted off of something metallic at his throat, but the
deep shadows of the alley made the figure himself little more than a silhouette.
And there was
something else about him that caught the moonlight, too--an enormous, two-handed broadsword with spikes
at the hilt. The man crept forward, the steel glinting in his hand.
He paused a moment, waiting,
waiting for the right instant to strike.
And then, with a blood-curdling yell, the Kurgan charged
the Terminator.
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The Kurgan closed with the Terminator, swinging his sword madly to and fro, laughing hysterically
as the Terminator poured more and more lead into his body. Ignoring the bullets almost completely, the
Immortal moved forward, always forward until, at last, his blows began to strike his adversary, ripping
its skin to shreds.
And yet, to his amazement, the vile creature who had dared destroy the Kurgan's
own Immortal enemy seemed not to feel it.
Very well, thought the Kurgan. He’ll damn well
feel this! And with that, he thrust his broadsword through his enemy’s heart, ending the duel as he
had his confrontation with the ex-Marine some days earlier when he had—
Instead of killing his
opponent, however, the Kurgan’s sword stopped in mid-thrust with the dry, clanking sound of metal hitting
metal. Ah, the foe wore body armor, then. No matter. All the better, in fact. That only meant the
Kurgan could inflict bodily anguish upon his adversary before ending his pitiful life once and for all.
And so he stepped in and delivered a series of blows, each calculated to pare the skin away from his
helpless enemy and leave him a bleeding mass of skin, bone, and oh so much beautiful, beautiful blood.
The Terminator, for its part, was at a loss for what to make of its attacker. It had not been built
for sword-fighting, and this man—this human!--had rendered all the weapons it did have useless, managing
to survive uncounted hits from pistols, rifles, shotguns, submachine guns, and every manner of portable
projectile weapon available in this city. Perhaps the grenade launcher would have worked as it had on
Connor, but the Terminator was fresh out of grenades.
The Kurgan was shocked. He had indeed skinned
his opponent, only to discover that he—that it—was not a man at all but some kind of horrible, skin-covered
machine. A very, very dangerous machine, for the Kurgan was beginning to tire—his broadsword was, after
all, not the lightest weapon in the world—and a machine like this, a mechanical warrior, would never
tire. Sooner or later, it would overpower him and rip his head off, and then it would all be over.
Desperate, the Kurgan launched one final, all-out assault. Sparks flew every which way as the Immortal’s
blade struck the machine again and again and again. The Terminator abandoned its offensive posture and
parried with the barrel of its shotgun; the Kurgan, smelling blood—or motor oil, at least—put still more
of his black heart into the attack. For the first time in the existence of its kind, a Terminator was
seen to cower.
And then, finally, the Kurgan saw his chance. He kicked the Terminator in the face
to get its attention and then, when it responded with blind fury and leapt to its feet to attack, he
reared back, swinging his enormous sword in a full, round-house arc, like a baseball player swinging
for the fence, and buried its razor edge into the neck of the hideous creature. Its head, he expected,
should sail away into the next county, perhaps even the next state.
Instead, the blow simply embedded
the ancient sword deep into the Terminator’s neck.
For a moment, nothing seemed to be happening.
And then the Terminator froze in place, a low whine coming from a mechanism somewhere deep inside its
chest. Sparks flew from the gash in its neck, and lightning played along the blade of the Kurgan’s sword
like an artificial Quickening. And at last the fierce red eyes of the machine faded away to black, and
it crumpled, broken, to the ground.
Unfortunately, the lightning playing along the Kurgan’s sword
was not a Quickening. It was 20,000 volts of electricity coursing out of the power plant in the Terminator’s
chest, heading for the high-speed computer in its skull, but now redirected to course through the conductive
metal of the sword and sear through the hands, and arms, and chest, and heart, of the Immortal.
As
the Terminator’s eyes faded, the Kurgan’s eyes bulged; as the machine went silent, the man screamed...
and screamed... and screamed. And in the end, they both collapsed, the Terminator a pile of useless
metal, the Kurgan a pile of scorched flesh. Both were, to coin a phrase, quite dead.
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The scene in the alley was, according to every known law of the Gathering, illegitimate and impossible.
Connor MacLeod and the Kurgan had been the last two, and they both now lay dead. There could be only
one, that much every Immortal knew. But what no one had ever stopped to consider was: what would happen
if none survived? Who would get The Prize? This was not supposed to happen.
The Highland gods
scrambled for their rule-books.
The answer was quick and clear. If the last Immortal were killed
by a non-Immortal, the rules said, the killer would get the Prize. But the Terminator itself was also
dead.
The gods kept looking.
Ah! Here it was! "Mutual Destruction," they read. "In the
event that the last Immortal and whoever kills him/her should die together, the Prize is to go to whomever
is deemed to be most in need of it."
Now, the problem was one of determining whose mind was
most in need of augmentation. Who, the gods asked themselves, was the one mortal most in need of having
his or her intelligence, insight, and wisdom all doubled?
And that, of course, was an easy question
to answer.
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Warm breezes ruffled through the young politician's hair as he paused for a moment before answering
the reporter's question.
Press agents from all over the country were gathered here on the island
to hear the man speak and, more importantly, to bring back bits of his "wisdom" for their comedic value.
The politician was, to them, little more than a trained seal, a court jester, a clown. His very name
was almost a joke; mention it, and people would start laughing before the joke was even begun.
The
question had been why the national government was thinking of building a military base here in this tropical
paradise, especially considering the fact that this was a time for peace and disarmament.
The
politician cleared his throat, leaned forward slightly to be heard clearly through the thirty or so microphones
that covered the podium before him, and spoke. "Hawaii," he said, "is very important to our Pacific defense
plans--"
He stopped. A strange look came into his eye; it seemed to glow with a kind of magic.
He shook his head and went on, speaking with the air of someone who has just had a major revelation.
"Hawaii," he said, marveling in his own wisdom, "is in the Pacific."
Far away, the Highlander
gods sighed. Some things, it seemed, were beyond even their power to change.
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