From: "Celeste Hotaling-Lyons" Subject: One Of Those Centuries Chap First, let me say this: James Kitty-cat Walkswithwind is a B-a-a-a-ad Influence. You see, James started this story (originally entitled "One Of Those Days"), then motivated me to pick it up, add Avon & Vila from Blake's 7, and finish it. James' bit is pretty much what you find in Chapters 1 and 2--a light re-write on my part made our two stories work better together. Please note: the evil headings (poems, songs, whatever) that being each chapter are kind of a trade mark with me, and are mine, aaaaallll miiiiiine. They have absolutely nothing to do with the story, they're just there to make me think I've got a subtext going. If you like "One Of Those Centuries", and you are interested in reading stories relating to it, look up "Bodie's Choice" by James Kythe Walkswithwind (it goes after Chapter 2, I dropped it from OOTC because there were no FK or B7 characters in it) and "Another One Of Those Centuries" which will be written by either Catherine Siemann (if she picks up the round robin) or by me, and will be finished by mid 1996. That story will be set in the B7 universe, with LaCroix, Janette & Nick running afoul of the evil Federation. Both OOTC and AOOTC will be in D.S.V. 3 (with illustrations). D.S.V. is a Blake's 7 zine I publish annually. celeste_hotaling-lyons@iqj.com ONE OF THOSE CENTURIES A Forever Knight/Starsy & Hutch/Blake's 7 crossover story, with a cameo by Bodie & Doyle by Celeste Hotaling-Lyons & James Kythe Walkswithwind CHAPTER 1 Should olde acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind; I would be happier by far, I'd jump into my acqua car-- Forget on whom I've dined. So many lured into my pot, I flash-back to each one; Each horror, in my soul to keep. LaCroix is an annoying creep; And I'm his vampire son. (An excerpt from Nick Knight's poem entitled, "My Life, and Why I'm So Depressed All The Time." Stick to the piano, Nick.) It was a dark and stormy night. A cliche, yes; but highly accurate. The sky was unusually windy and Nick Knight, Toronto vampire cop, was having a hard time navigating. It could have been the storm, but he knew he'd flown through worse. Perhaps Janette had spiked his blood? It had tasted like cow, but she'd been pretty ticked off when he refused to bring her along on this business trip. She could sometimes be quite vindictive. He remembered, ruefully, how after he'd introduced her to Natalie that first time, she'd slipped him a mouse-blood cocktail as a 'joke'. Ha-ha. Just her little way of slipping him a 'mickey'-he had *so* hoped that that brief phase of punning she'd gone through in the mid-1800's would have been her last. He dipped alarmingly, trying to adjust for the fierce gale. If this kept up he'd simply have to land, and hope he could make it to the conference on time after the storm let up. He'd actually managed to get Captain Cohen's permission to take a few days off work and attend this convention, the 1995 International Law Enforcement Operatives Conference, in New York City. While Schanke, as well as the other detectives, had derided him--the conference was well known to be long, dull, boring, pointless and basically useless--Nick had his own reasons for wanting to attend. Not the least of which was meeting some old friends whom he hadn't seen in years. He probably wasn't going to see them until tomorrow, he thought, as the winds pushed him in a dozen directions at once. Sighing as he felt gravity play havoc with his sense of direction (. . . down? it asked him. Oh, it's this way! No, wait. . .this way? Hang on, I know 'down' is around here somewhere . . . ,) Nick angled towards the large expanse of dark earth that was the Bronx, thinking perhaps hailing a cab might be a better idea. He put his feet down beneath him, coming in for a landing; but just as the alleyway took form around him, a last-minute ten-force breeze knocked him head over heels. After his landing, he lay still for a moment, regaining what would have been his breath had he still gone in for that sort of thing (breathing). Then he gingerly picked himself up out of the dumpster and brushed himself off. Retrieving his duffel bag, he shook it clean as well, and walked slowly towards the street. Yes, he thought, a cab *would* be safer. Even in a gypsy cab, in the Bronx. Nick had no intention of staying in the conference hotel, or even attending the conference. If immortality had *any* advantages, it was getting to play hooky from the boring parts of life. Granted, a nice, long flashback could do much the same thing, except, bizarrely, those tended to occur during the more interesting parts of life. Or while driving. He directed the cab (yes, our boy managed to flag down the *only* cab in the Bronx) to the Salmagundi Club on Fifth Avenue and 12th Street in Manhattan. CHAPTER 2 "The worst thing about the '70s was disco. Disco, and those chunky shoes. OK, the two worst things about the '70s were disco, those chunky shoes, and those sideburns with a moustache--the *three* worst things about the '70s were disco, chunky shoes, the facial fuzz, and those stupid, psychedelic, black-light posters of Frodo Baggins; God, I hated them. OK, let's all get a bead on this; amongst the worst things about the '70s, we'd have to include disco, chunky footwear, facial fuzz, . ." (Detective Starsky in his rambling, drunken 'good-bye' speech at his & Detective Hutchinson's retirement dinner, in the late '90s.) At the conference hotel, things were in full swing. Young officers from every agency imaginable were wandering around, notebooks in hand, chatting about lectures and talks and books they couldn't wait to get home and recommend to their superiors. Here and there a few people could be found huddled together--mostly in the bar, drinking and pretending they didn't know anyone. These were the ones who'd been here before, who'd been tricked or blackmailed into attending. One of these huddles was comprised of two middle-aged cops from L.A., wearing well-worn leather jackets, frayed jeans and scruffy sneakers (the epitome of 'cool' in some bars in the SoHo, but out-of-place in this mid-town hotel), sitting together in a corner, drinking beer and talking about the ridiculous price of alcohol-based beverages in Manhattan. Around 1 am, when all the eager, young (think puppy dog and you have the image) officers had retreated to their rooms in anticipation of getting up at 6 am for the first lecture at 7:30 am (joy!), the scruffy duo paid their bar bill and headed outside. The weather was clearing up nicely after that brief squall. "'Proper Procedure On Questioning Alleged Perpatrators'. . . ," read the scruffier of the two cops, from the conference itinerary, "'. . .why the Miranda Warning can be a cautious police officer's best friend.' Yeah, right. I can't believe the captain made us come to this thing." He crumpled the itinerary in his hand and tossed it in the general direction of a trash receptical. Two points. "Relax, Starsky, it's only a few days. Even *we* can survive a few days at a law-enforcement conference," his partner, Detective Hutchinson, consoled him. "Yeah, but will we still be card-carrying members of the Dirty Harry fan club when we get home?" They laughed, and headed down the sidewalk, searching for something vaguely interesting to do in The City That Never Sleeps. Their choices were severely limited, not because there was nothing of interest to do, but because doing anything at all in New York City requires beaucoup bucks, which they did not have. Their combined cash had just about paid for the hotel, travel, and tonight's bar bill. They'd made up for it by getting an old (way old) friend to cough up a few bucks, one who could well afford it (see, I'm being disingenuous and not saying 'Nick was the friend who'd paid for it'--clever, huh?) Anyway, they went wandering in search of amusement. "Let's check and see if Nick's in yet," suggested Starsky to Hutch, "I think his club's down this street. . .?" The two detectives wandered hither and thither, up and down streets more and more empty of pedestrian and automobile traffic, until they found themselves on a block that was positively desolate. Finally Starsky pointed. "I think it's that way." "You said that two blocks ago." "Yeah, well, we're still going the same direction, aren't we?" "And we're still lost. Come on, why don't we--" Hutch's sensible suggestion was cut off by a muffled scream. Both turned towards the noise, which had come from the direction of a long, dark alley. Naturally, being cops, they ran towards the sounds of trouble. They skidded to a halt when they found themselves faced with ten young punks who were quite obviously waiting for them. "I think we're in trouble." Starsky said, as five advanced upon him, and the other five went towards Hutch. Neither of them had time to pull out their guns before fists began to fly. Feet began to fly, as well, and entire bodies once in a while. The fight progressed, until the punks were well on their way to winning. Then, inexplicably, bodies began flying again. Only this time, they flew a lot farther than before. After a few minutes the alley was filled with bodies lying motionless, some of which were moaning, others of which were bleeding quietly. The vampire cop who was resposible moved quickly towards a body that belonged to a friend. "Starsky. . .are you all right?" Nick's eyes faded back to their normal sky-blue, and he saw his friend nod. "Oooooh, the colors, the colors. . .someone clonked me on the head with a trash-can lid. I'll be all right." (After all, to get brain-damage, you have to have a brain to damage.) Starsky looked around. "Where's Hutch?" They searched amongst the bodies until they found Hutch leaning against a wall, moaning softly. They crouched down beside him, and Starsky felt his stomach lurch when he saw the blood. Nick felt something, too, but roughly pushed back down the ravening beast he liked to imagine as his Hunger, as it whimpered, 'oh, please, just *one* itty-bitty sip?', down into the recesses of his soul. There'll be some lovely cow's blood for you later, if you're good, he told It. It muttered 'spoilsport' back at him. Hutch clutched his arm to his chest, as if trying to staunch the blood. . .or the pain. Omigod! His right hand had been completely severed at the wrist. Swiftly, Nick located the extremity and wrapped it in a handkerchief. "We've got to get him to a hospital." "Yeah, but. . . ," Starsky looked as if he were in as much shock as his partner. Nick interupted. "Trust me, the hospitals nowadays are much better at this sort of thing. They even once re-attached a man's. . .er, well, nevermind. But they're really good." Starsky only nodded dumbly and allowed Nick to pick up Hutch, then himself, and soon they were whizzing their way through the sky. Normally flights like these were a hell of a lot of fun--how many humans got to fly without benefit of a plane? Not counting Lois Lane, very few. Not even Nat had ever gotten to fly with Nick. It was a sore point, just waiting to be resolved (though probably only in fanfic.) * * * * * * * The hours that passed for Starsky and Nick in the hospital waiting room seemed more like days. Fortunately they had gotten to the hospital in time, and the doctors predicted great success--of course, Hutch would have to take an early retirement or (much, much worse in Starsky's opinion) a desk job--but he'd probably get as much as 75% mobility back in his hand. Starsky and Nick were immensely relieved to hear this, and finally let themselves relax on the benches where they'd been awaiting word. Starsky found a coffee machine, and came back muttering about *three* quarters for a lousy cup of coffee. "That's nothing. Schanke says a cup of espresso costs more than two dollars in New York." "What's espresso?" Nick's reply was cut off by a voice calling his name. At first he thought it was a flashback, since the voice belonged to someone he hadn't seen in years. Then he realised it *wasn't* a flashback (the look Starsky was giving him told him that, if nothing else). Nick turned and smiled as he recognised the man who'd called, then frowned when he smelled the familair scent of the man's blood. He walked over to where the man sat. Nick noticed that he held one hand over his abdomen. Starsky followed, curious. "Hey, Nick. Long time no see." Doyle sounded a bit winded, but unperturbed by the flow of blood dripping between his fingers. "Ray? . . .what happened?" "Ah, this? Bit of a mishap, this is. Got in between Bodie and his eggroll. Got skewered with a chopstick." "W-what?" Nick was surprised, then realised he shouldn't be. Bodie *could* be vicious, especially when eating. He was glad to discover his other two old friends had made it to the conference. He also knew he should probably offer to stand them a few dinners, as well. CI5 was notoriously skimpy when it came to doling out funds. "Who's your friend?" Doyle nodded at Starsky. Nick quickly made introductions and explained why they were here. "Glad to hear your friend's gonna be ok." Doyle expressed his sympathy. He'd been in similar situations before, (at least I imagine he had even if I have only seen four episodes of The Professionals.) "You blokes gonna wait around here 'til morning, then?" "Oh, yeah, 'dawn'," Nick suddenly realized why he'd had a feeling he'd forgotten something (you could say it 'dawned' on him.) "I've gotta get outa here. Maybe I could catch up with you two this evening--bring Bodie, if he promises to behave. I'd be a pleasure to stand you fellows a round or two of drinks; that is, if the doctor says you're allowed to drink, Ray." "Sounds good to me," Doyle nodded. "Sure," Starsky agreed. "I have one question, though, before I leave," Nick exercised his Vampirically Perplexed Expression # 41, which made him look noble and world-weary, if confused. "What's that?" Starsky asked, as Doyle really was in a bit of pain and was hunkered down in a momentary spasm at the moment. "Isn't this kind of depressing? I mean, for *humourous* fan fiction?" Nah," Doyle shook his head, glad to be the source of exposition and thereby increasing his on-page time. "You just gotta be a bit twisted. Or really, really tired." CHAPTER 3 "The plot thins. . . ." (Supreme Commander Servalan, when the second Travis shows up in 'Weapon', having lost his looks, his physique, and his mind.) Poke, poke, poke . . . Kerr Avon became aware of an insistent fore-finger making repeated contact with the region of his back located directly between his shoulderblades. He knew who was doing the poking and why, and had been ignoring Vila Restal's entreaties to *hurry!* for about a half-hour now. "Will you *cease*?!" he hissed, delicately lasering an electronic connection from the device he'd brought with him to the library viewer he was invading. The computer links were actually a bit sturdier than they looked, but even so, he hated doing more than breathe heavily on them. The Delta thief must be frightened, indeed, to attempt to get his attention by risking actual physical contact, especially considering that Avon was wearing a gun under his coat. The thief jumped back a pace, which was all the distance he could manage in the small viewing booth the felonious duo were hiding in, then sniffed miserably. Rubbing his sleeve across his red and dripping nose, he wailed, "Avon, this is *stupid*!" Avon's sharp eyes darted to the glass separating him and his associate from the rest of the New York City Public Library, checking to make sure it was truly sound-proof, then stood to loom over the Delta thief as best he could (they were exactly the same height, but Vila's perpetual cringe fooled the eye into thinking he was the shorter of the two.) "Could you be more specific?" Avon said in the deceptively gentle voice he always used just before blowing his stack. "Is it the fact that we've gone back in time to the year 1995 that is stupid? The fact that Blake thinks we can thwart the creation of the Federation as we know it, by stopping an event that is due to occur sometime in the next few days? Is it the fact that all this activity has been expended on Orac's say-so alone? The fact that you and I are now in the ancient city of Manhattan, on the fabled 42nd street and Avenue of the Americas, *not* gathering artifacts that will fetch a great price as antiquities back in our future; but instead hiding in a viewing-cabinet in the Public Library, trying to tap into the city's computer records, because Orac is largely useless in a tarriel cell-free society such as this one?" His voice had risen with each question, and Vila began trying to shush him at this point. "Is *that* what you are trying to tell me is `stupid'? Or had you something *else* in mind?!!" "Uh, no; that about covered it, Avon; nice plot exposition," Vila whispered, eyes darting up and down the corridor running outside the glass door. He wondered why the heck Avon had bothered to lay out their entire itinerary up to this point for him just now, he'd *been* there when it happened, after all, he didn't need telling. "I'll leave you to it then, shall I?" he continued, making for the door. "Where do you think you're going?" Avon asked, grabbing his arm. "I'm gonna go and get some more of that soft-paper," Vila answered reasonably, sniffing in emphasis. At first, he'd been irritated that the noxious gases making up the ancient New York City atmosphere had caused him to sneeze wildly, his eyes streaming; particularly when the, in his opinion, much larger nose of the `snooty' Alpha had been totally unaffected. But, easy-going as ever, Vila had simply accepted that he was allergic to the hydrocarbons given off by the charming, old-fashioned automobiles stalled and honking in the city streets; Avon was not, and that was all there was to it. Besides, when they'd gone past the regal stone lions flanking the long, stone stairs and into the air-conditioned library building, he'd begun to feel much better, especially once he'd found a roll of thin, soft paper to sneeze into in that room marked with the galactically-recognizable symbol of a little stick-figured man. Avon let go of his arm, the only sign of assent he'd give, and turned back to the task at hand. Vila sneezed and got while the going was good. Little did they know all they had to do was call "411" on a pay phone to get the information they sought. Oh, well. * * * * * * * Nick registered at his club (he had attended The New School For Social Research in 1934, and their records were so badly kept nobody noticed that the young-looking man been a member of the school-sponsored Salmagundi Club for 51 years) and spent the day in his small but attractively appointed room, sleeping. At about 7:30 pm, a few moments after the sun had set, his three friends (Hutch was still in hospital) came knocking, and all four officers of the law were now making for the cop conference on 34th and Eighth. They thought they'd put in an appearance, then split for some red-painting of the town, as it were. "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful nay in the deighborhood," sang Starsky in an off-key voice, reeling a bit. He was unusually cheerful, especially considering that his best buddy's hand had just been sliced off in a filthy, disgusting New York City alley, then re-attached in a not-quite-so-filthy, but equally disgusting New York City hospital. Perhaps it was the fact that he was down a pint or two of O-negative making him rather light-headed--the hospital had cheerfully guilted him out about how well his friend was doing after all his transfusions, then hit him up for a donation. With Bodie on one side, and Doyle on the other, the two British cops steered the L.A. cop away from the gutter and the homeless man living in the Amana refrigerator box on the corner of 13th and Sixth. "S'which one are *you*?" asked a pie-eyed Starsky to the Brit who clutched his left arm. "Dodie? Or Boil?" "Don't ask *me*," said the man with a smirk, ". . . I'm not even sure if *you're* the blond bloke, or the curly-headed, dark-haired fellow." (He'd never seen S&H, and it's been more than 10 years since I've seen it. Sorry.) A yellow cab side-swiped them at 22nd and Seventh, but Nick handily vamped out, scaring the obnoxious cabdriver out of his wits and into a job as a voodoo priest in a store-front church on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, thus saving the lives of countless future New York pedestrians. * * * * * * * The futuristic felons stood on cheap, plastic chairs in Room 717; Avon attaching a small incendiary device to the ceiling, Vila handing off the tools necessary to the task. The chair groaning beneath his feet, Avon wished he'd thought to bring along an anti-grav belt, his arms were getting tired, further shortening his already short temper. By the way, Room 717 just happened to be the room located directly under the ballroom that was to hold some four hundred policemen-and-women later that evening, in fact, it was directly below the stage that was to hold some of the top brass who'd been finagled into hosting the conference. Well, OK, it didn't "just happen" to be the etc., etc.; in fact, Room 717 had been carefully picked using futuristic devices pre-programmed with a floor-plan of the hotel, backed up with a triple-sensor sweep carried out by the Liberator, which had done a super-speed fly-by so as not to be picked up by NASA as a UFO, and was now stationed out behind the moon. Little did they know all they had to do was slip one of the maids a five-spot to get the information they sought. Oh, well. At any rate, the bomb Avon was affixing to the ceiling was a special little bomb, part laser, part explosive. A very special someone would be standing directly over it in about an hour, at that time the bomb would go off and take out that one person, and one person alone. That person would literally be `deleted'; no body left to study, no evidence left behind. "There! Got it!" said Avon with some relief, letting his arms fall to his sides. At the exact moment he looked down to hop from the chair to the floor, the cheap stucco ceiling gave way, dropping the bomb onto his head with an audible *clunk*. "Glak!" was all the Alpha genius could cry before he crashed to the floor, knocking his chair over into Vila's. Fortunately, the Delta's reflexes were at their top performance, what with him being so nervous and all, and he leapt free and onto the double bed nearby, gently bouncing up and down a few times before coming to a halt. "Damn!" muttered Vila, looking down at his plaster-and-chair-covered associate. "I guess that means *I* have to glue the stupid thing to the ceiling all by myself now," he groused. * * * * * * * *clunk* "Glak!" *crash!* Nick looked off into the distance, trying to discern where those odd sounds had come from. He held an undrunk drink in one hand, and an uneaten canape in the other (for camouflage), which he quickly and heroically dropped on to the tray of a passing waiter. At vampire-speed, he zooooooomed out to the hall, then stood waiting for an elevator for three minutes, got on, pushed the button to the seventh floor, got off, then zooooooomed to Room 717, where he had determined the noises originated. With a vampiresque roar, he rrrrrripped the door from its hinges and tossed it casually to one side. The elderly maid who witnessed this simply shrugged her shoulders expressively and pushed her wheelie-cart down the hall. Since she'd survived the Star Trek conventions of the late 70s, she'd become pretty inured to odd sights; in short, very little could surprise her ever again. "Ah ha!" our intrepid vampire hero ah ha-ed. Once again his incredible 7th sense had come into play and he'd intuited the entire terrorist operation by virtue of hearing that *clunk* "Glak!" *crash!* He grabbed a gibbering Vila by the arm and hoisted him in the air. "What do you have to say for yourself *now*, you little reprobate?" Nick cried triumphantly. Vila Restal was one hell of a fine wine-taster. Vila Restal was the greatest safe-cracker in the galaxy, future *and* past. Vila Restal was an expert at hiding the fact that he possessed a genius the equal of any Alpha in the galaxy. Vila Restal was a so-so amateur magician. Vila Restal was a *terrific* pick-pocket. Vila Restal was a total coward. He fainted. CHAPTER 4 Though time alone, it's true to tell, Makes not a life a living hell, I'll not admit a wreath of smiles-- It ain't the years, it *is* the miles. (An 'anniversary-of-your-millennium card' for a vampire, by Hallmark "we're running out of holidays to sell you jerks expensive bits of cardboard for" Cards, Incorporated) Nick lowered the unconscious man, whose suede jacket-front he held bunched in one hand, to the floor, where he came to rest upon his cohort, who was already down for the count. As neat a package as any he'd bagged in Toronto--the nerve of these terrorists, attempting to bomb a cop conference! Naughty, naughty! Starsky sauntered into the room, looked down at the carnage, and immediately raised his eyebrows. "Nice," was his only comment. He was feeling much better now that he'd had a glass of juice and some cookies, per the Red Cross suggestion after donating blood. "Gaaaaah," muttered Vila, whose survival instinct was forcing him to wake up a lot faster then he, himself, would have preferred. His eyes popped open, taking in the good-looking duo who loomed threateningly over him. "Where is it!?" he shrieked, and, lest that anyone mistake what he was talking about, followed up with, ". . . that evil, toothy alien! Where, for the love of god, did it go?! It was *horrible*!!!" He made to get up, but Nick's foot planted on his stomach kept him firmly on his back on the floor, and the Delta thief squirmed there, like that guy who turned into a cockroach in that famous Kafka story nobody can ever remember the name of (it's "Metamorphosis"), arms and legs windmilling. Starsky smirked, but Nick did not think this particularly amusing. Considering the fact that the bombing incident would probably attract a lot of news media attention, not to mention Entertainment Tonight, some small editing of the events seemed in order. The vampire's eyes grew large and dark, and his voice deepened as he said, (add reverb here) "You saw nothing! You were arrested by me, Detective Nick Knight of the Toronto Homicide Squad, and you saw nothing odd. . . ." (ka-thump! ka-thump!) "*Nothing odd*?! That's a load of old cobblers!" shrieked the rebel thief. He grabbed the vampire cop's ankle and tried to shift the leaden foot that pinned him to the floor as he spoke. "Don't try to get at me, I've been got at by the best in the business, and nothing ever sticks!" "The virtues of possessing a teflon-coated brain," floated up from beneath the terrified thief in sarcastic, educated tones, ". . . get *off* me, Vila!" The Alpha genius struggled to stand up, and was helped to his feet by Starsky, who immediately threw him against the wall and frisked him professionally. "Uh, oh; what's *this*?" said the L.A. cop upon feeling a suspicious lump (get your mind out of the gutter) on his captive's left hip. Under the long, black coat the terrorist wore, the cop found a clear plastic tube attached to a curly telephone wire, which was in turn attached to a small battery pack on his captive's belt. ". . . curling iron?" asked Starsky, (who apparently does not need one; a friend of mine just reminded me which one was Starsky and which one was Hutch; and Starsky is the one with the curly hair.) He held the tube's handle gingerly between thumb and fore-finger. "Don't aim that at me," said Avon, more angry than nervous, "I know you're going to find this difficult to believe, but it's a gun." The cop shot a knowing look to Nick, who was helping Vila to his feet (whilst keeping a tight hold to the thief's suede-covered arm.) "I get it," said Starsky. "These guys take into account that they might get arrested, so they prepare for the insanity plea beforehand. Cool. So, tell me, buddy," he turned to Avon, "ya got a list of demands on ya that includes stuff like the letter `M' be stricken from the English language? Or what?" "If you don't believe it's a gun, why don't you give it back to me?" Avon grinned evilly, holding out his hand, but the L.A. cop was not as dumb as everyone says he is ("*Who* says I'm dumb?!") and yanked the wiring out of the battery pack, then dangled it in front of the rebel's face with a "ha-ha". "Did I hear someone say `Nick Knight' or was I dreaming? Avon, where have I heard that name before?" asked Vila, a bit calmer now that he saw the monster he'd seen before wasn't (apparently) in the vicinity. "Hello, all; my name's Vila Restal--this here's Avon." "Nick Knight? Interesting. This could be of some significance; tell me, is one of you a Nicholas Knight?" Avon's sharp eyes sized up the two policemen, then settled on the (Toronto) vampire cop. "It's you, isn't it? You're somehow involved with the reason we're here. I think you'd better listen to us, this is very, very important." "I'm willing to listen," said Nick, ignoring Starsky's eye-roll of impatience. The vampire knew that, with his (un)natural ability to detect changes in the rate of a human's heartbeat and breathing, he was a natural lie-detector. He picked up one of the chairs lying on its side on the floor (I bet you forgot about the chairs) and pushed the Delta thief into it. Avon took up his chair and sat, as well. Starsky just smiled and pulled out his gun, going to guard the exit to show the two rebels that they couldn't lull *him* into a false sense of security. Avon, using his velvety-smooth, I'm-telling-a-story-so-shuttup voice, began. "We are from approximately 700 years in your future. We have come back in time following a thread to our past, a name in our records that reaches back in the ancient records, to the year 1995. *This* is where the evil Federation that controls all of humanity in the year 2688 started. To put it in terms one of your era will understand, it is a Federation more far-reaching in its influence than the ancient Star Trek franchise, more corrupt than a Customs official in a Russian airport, more horrifying than the ancient Barney-the-dinosaur cults the history books say your people are dealing with even as we speak." He took a deep breath. "Oh, do get on with it, Avon! You're worse than Blake!" cried the Delta thief. "We're running out of time!" He knew something the two cops didn't know, and Avon must have forgotten--there was a small, striped timebomb lying on the bed where he'd put it after it had fallen from the ceiling onto Avon's head, and it was set to go off in less than a half-hour. It was a thoroughly futuristic time-bomb, and so did not call attention to itself by doing anything as ill-mannered as ticking out loud. Avon ignored the thief. "There is a name that pops up again and again in the ancient records, here and there, all the way to our present, which is to say, your future. Not often--only our computer, Orac, is complicated enough to have recognized that this particular name sprinkled throughout the records belongs to one person. Which means that this one person is, in our time, on the order of 700 years old! A being seven-hundred-years-old--possibly older! He is, effectively, an *immortal*!" Avon sat back, prepared to receive the disbelief he anticipated from the two cops. Starsky and Nick traded a wide-eyed look, then looked back at the expectant rebel. "Uh, go on," gulped the vampire cop, guiltily. He thought he knew who the name might be, and he was already beginning to feel badly about ruining the future for the entire human race. He was almost afraid to confirm it. "And what might that name be?" Avon smiled, happy to deliver the coup-des-gras. "Lucien LaCroix," he said. * * * * * * * <. . .and the answer is. . .*of course* you want to 'go there'--you're all Forever Knight fans. You enjoy being put upon, toyed with, having your minds twisted, tortured and bent to new and different shapes. I mean, you sat through Black Buddha, didn't you? Here's a nice song to start Chapter 5, but you won't get the in-joke unless you've read a Forever Knight story called Blood Is Thicker Than Water, by Laura Whaples (jddm85b@prodigy.com). It's a must-read!> CHAPTER 5 "Take me On a sentimental journey; Let's ignore the past, the future beckons We won't go too fast, by the Northern star we'll reckon-- And we'll never, ever return to the present This never-never world is too gosh-darned pleasant. That's just what I'll do, I'll take a sentimental journey. . .with yooooooou." (A Song For Birdie, by Miklos--I bet you didn't know he could play the ukelele!) Nick placed his cool, bloodless fingers over the throbbing bridge of his nose and wondered if it were possible for a vampire to get a stress-ulcer. He didn't see why not. Or a stroke--yeah, a *stroke*! No, not a stroke, his blood-pressure was nearly non-existent, Natalie had said so, so he didn't see how it could be possible for his brain to explode, much as he might really want it to. "LaCroix? Hee, hee, hee," Starsky was saying. Oh, yeah, right--Nick vaguely remembered telling him and Hutch about his creator and master, LaCroix, several years ago. The night he and Starsky and Hutch had broken up that underworld gang smuggling heroine into the country in those boxes of hand-painted, polyester bell-bottom jeans being shipped in from Indonesia. Trying to find out where a hostage was being held, he'd 'accidentally' bitten one of the smugglers, who had apparently just done a hit of an illegal recreational drug. Ooooo, the colours, the colours; yes, the early 70s *were* a time of societal fashion-victim-hood--the psychedelic jeans strobing on his drugged-out vampirically-sharp eyeballs had given him one hell of a hangover the next day. But before the day after the night before had dawned, he'd regaled Starsky & Hutch with an awful lot of true tales of his life. And since, of course, anything bad that had ever, *ever* happened to him was All LaCroix's Fault, most of the stories were about him. Avon nodded. "It does not surprise me that you know something of this LaCroix. We have a positive dating of an appearance he is due to make in approximately one-half hour. It was covered in all of the major newspapers, so we have multiple confirmation of the incident." "Omigod, what on earth will he do to get himself in *all* of the major newspapers? Tell me it was a slow news day, and that he mooned the conference, please, just tell me that!" Nick didn't *really* want to know what LaCroix was about to do, but he figured if he didn't find out now, he'd find out in approximately one-half hour when it was too late to Make It Stop. "He will denounce the entire Toronto police department as a major arm of the Queen of England's global drug-smuggling operation. He specifically mentioned a Nicholas Knight as the head of the conspiracy, reporting directly to Her Majesty in his frequent flights to London. LaCroix will have all the records; cashed checks, airline ticket stubs, computer disks. You will be shown as having several million dollars in cash in several bank accounts, some Swiss, some American, and one in a credit union in Toronto. Many, many years later this conspiracy story will be proven a total sham, but by then the British monarchy will have been dissolved, a man named 'Lyndon LaRouche' will be elected the next President of the United States, and you will have been disappeared. There are no records of a 'Nick Knight' after this point in time. The downward spiral of humanity was, I mean, *is*, I mean, *will be* started by this one incident." (Grammar can be a bear for someone living out of his own time continuum.) "Oooooooh," moaned Nick, at a loss for words. This was, in his opinion, really too much. This went *way* beyond bribing a couple of guys to lurch, smirking, out of Sylvaine's dressing room, and he didn't appreciate the attention to detail his father was showing this time. "And how did you plan on stopping LaCroix, if I might ask?" "This little beauty'll do the trick," said Vila, grabbing the striped bomb off the edge of the bed, where it had been lying, unnoticed. He handed it to Avon, "Uh, Avon? It's, you know. . ." "Yes, this will do the trick, as Vila so colloquially put it. It's a bomb. And--oh!-- it's been set to go off. How did that happen?" said Avon, mildly perturbed. "It's set to go *off*?!" screamed Nick and Starsky in unison. "Yes--never mind, I'll just stick it to the ceiling . . ." "When's it gonna blow?!!! Omigod!!!" "Give it to me! Give it to me!" The two police officers were in a quite a lather, scaring Vila (who backed away, then scurried into the bathroom, slamming the door) and annoying Avon, who pulled the bomb to his chest possessively. "Calm down! Here, I've turned it off--see? It's off. Are we happy now?" the Alpha genius spoke as if to two kindergarteners and waved the little bomb in their faces. "Is it off? Is it really off?" asked Starsky, sinking into a chair with relief. "Well, of course; do you think I'd go on a mission with a bomb I couldn't turn off if I had to?" Avon showed the two policemen the line of buttons on the bomb's striped face. "This one's Set Timer. This one's Prime Explosive. This one's the Off button. This one's Wake to Music. . . I had to cannibalize Blake's clock-radio to make it," explained the vaguely embarrassed rebel. "It's feast or famine for parts on Liberator." "It doesn't matter, you couldn't have killed LaCroix with a mere bomb," said Nick. "He's a vampire. He'll just heal and return, seeking vengence." An attractive little wrinkle of thought appeared between Nick's eyes as he (brickishly) suddenly realized that LaCroix hadn't, actually, taken any revenge for the last time his dutiful son had tried to kill him. Was *this* to be his progenitor's revenge? Wow, old LC must *really* be ticked off, to destroy the future just to get at Nick. "I know, because I've kissed bomb blasts in the past. I'm a vampire, too." "What's a 'vampire'?" asked Vila, peeking out from behind the bathroom door. In the future, when Halloween had been outlawed, ghosts, goblins and vampires had been vanquished along with Christmas, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, so he was clueless (in more ways than one). Nick struck his Byronic Stance #24, the pose that had been so effective that first time he'd met Natalie Lambert as she stood there in the autopsy room, jaw hanging open, unfinished and soon-to-be-fudged autopsy report in her hand. "A vampire is a killer. It is difficult to destroy, for a vampire can heal fleshly wounds almost instantly. It is a thing of the most profound evil, the souls of its victims crying out from their graves for justice and finding none, its own soul far blacker than the darkest night through which it stalks, eternally." "OK," said Avon in such a tone of voice that the only way it could be more obvious he did not believe the Toronto vampire cop would be if he twirled one forefinger `round his ear and crossed his eyes, gibbering his lips with the other fore-finger. "You seem a rather *nice*, young fellow," Vila said. "You shouldn't go running yourself down that way, you know." Nick threw his hands in the air. "*You* tell them, Starsk!" Starsky nodded, then spoke, as if by wrote: "He was brought across in 1228. Preyed on humans for their blood. Now he wants to be mortal again, to repay society for his sins, to emerge from his world of darkness, from his endless, FOREVER KNIGHT!" He spread his hands with a `ta-dah' flourish and curtseyed. The two men from the future traded guarded looks. Then Avon snorted derisively. "Pull the other one," said a flatly disbelieving Vila Restal. "That's the *stupidest* thing I ever heard of in my entire *life*!" Nick vamped out and suddenly the two rebels believed him, totally and with all their hearts. CHAPTER 6 A black-hearted man with an amoral soul Gets the girls, and we just don't know why. Like Georgie (of Porgie) to kiss is his goal; Then to make sure the ladies all cry. Is he nice? Is he sweet? Is he swell? Is he neat? NO! The heart `neath his leather is cold. So, beware, little girl, and don't give him a whirl, For the black-hearted love only gold. (Found scrawled on the wall in The Raven's omni-sexual rest room, with the word "gold" crossed off, and the word "blood" written in, in red lipstick. Well, we *hope* it was lipstick.) Time was running out, fast. LaCroix would be making his startling pronouncements in some twenty minutes, and they had only the barest of plans to stop him. Nick had refused to let the two rebels mine the hotel as the chance of injury to innocent bystanders was too high in his estimation; so they had to find the elder vampire and his box of tricks *before* he mounted the stage. Avon waved his gun meaningfully at his fellow vampire-hunters. "Let's get this right, gentlemen--don't force me to have a 'chat' with this `LaRouche' fellow." The curly-haired L.A. cop looked thoughtful. "Now, you know, if we wanna be extra sure, that might not be such a bad-" "*Star*-sky, he's a *human being*!" said Nick, shocked to the core at what his friend was suggesting, "...and, as a human being, even Lyndon LaRouche is an Innocent." Starsky looked dubious, but didn't press the point. He pressed the `down' button for the elevator instead. They'd agreed to stick together during the search as the master vampire could easily pick them off one by one if they split up. Avon and Vila were having a heated discussion about whether or not their laserguns and/or laser-based bomb could kill a vampire; Avon taking the scientific "Yeah, they can, because laser acts like flame in that it excites the molecules until they fly apart, and flame can kill a vampire" position, Vila taking the emotional "Can we go back to the ship now, we're gonna get killed" position. Starsky posited that a quick trip to the hotel's kitchen for some garlic powder might be a good idea if they thought they had the time, and they should also make a few stakes for good measure, what with the hotel furniture looking as if it were begging be broken up. Meanwhile, Nick was having a flashback problem. While it was all well and good to destroy one's pater in a fit of passion, eyes blazing gold, fangs descended; Nick was unsure he could do it in, you should pardon the expression, `cold blood'. He was remembering snatches of images and experiences from the distant past; that time when Nick had broken his back, and his dad had ladled blood soup into his mouth while he healed (the vampire equivalent of coddling a cold with chicken soup), that cheery Christmas Eve his dad had bought him a puppy (it was delish), that day he'd blundered into a garlic patch, and it was dear old dad who'd snatched him up in a low-flying grab to get him out of there. Nick sniffed and wiped a sentimental blood-tear from his eye. "You OK, buddy?" asked Starsky. "Yeah. Let's go fry that sucker," Nick answered. * * * * * * * In the lobby, Nick closed his eyes and employed that little trick of Finding LaCroix had taught him; he reached out with his mind, feeling the web-of-beingness that joined father to son. He plucked those invisible strings and felt them resonate, the echoes bounding back at him--nothing in the lobby, nothing in the hotel above, nothing in the mini-shopping mall below the hotel. Outside. That-a-way. Something, someone was trying to remain unnoticed. A certain Someone Who Loomed Large In His Legend. *LaCroix*! "Oh, look, Avon!" said Vila, "Isn't that the same expression Cally gets on her face everytime her mind is taken over by an alien?" "Not an auspicious start," agreed Avon. Starsky, his good true buddy, old friend, old pal that he was, came to his defense. "Oh, give Nicky a break, willya! He's probably just having a flashback. 'Sides, he doesn't screw up *that* often, for a blond brick!" So much for friendship. "That-a-way" proved to be the parking garage across the street and down the block from the hotel. It furnished parking not only for the hotel, but for Madison Square Garden. Fortunately, there was nothing scheduled in the Garden that day, and the numbers of humans parking their cars would be low. That should cut down on the casualties, Nick hoped. "You go in this way," Nick hissed at his fellow would-be Van Helsings, gesturing at the elevator, "and I'll go 'round back." He turned and seemed to disappear, shimmering into thin air. "'Round back?" asked a skeptical Vila Restal. "What does he mean, 'round back?" "He can *fly* better'n Peter Pan," answered Starsky, nodding. "He's taking a short cut." "Well, I suppose we have to believe you, after what we've seen," said Avon tiredly, ignoring yet another cultural reference he didn't recognize. "Do we all have our wooden stakes? Good. One floor at a time, gentlemen. We guard one anothers' backs. This could become very unpleasant indeed if our laserguns don't work on this particular lifeform." First Floor. It was an open-air parking garage and the sounds of the street could be heard easily; cars honking, pedestrians arguing. The three humans crept stealthily from automobile to automobile, eyes and ears alert to every sound. They found nothing but some high-school kids necking in a Winnabago and a woman who had just taken a self-defense course who kept yelling, "Call 9-1-1! Call 9-1-1!" They excused themselves politely and left the woman pawing through her handbag looking for her can of mace. Second Floor. The suspense was killing, thought Vila; oops, didn't mean "killing". . . gotta think of another word. The Delta thief's hand were clammy, one clasped around the butt of his laserpistol, the other wrapped firmly about a thick wooden stake that had once been part of a credenza. Not that he'd be able to stick the splintered weapon in some guy's chest in a million years, but, just as the very first proto-ape had discovered some million years ago or so when he'd grabbed hold of a thigh-bone and brandished it at another proto-ape (remember 2001?), it felt good to clutch at something so substantially primitive. Third Floor. Silence. Only three flights up, and the noises of the city were faded to a mere backdrop. No car doors slamming. No revving engines. Something in the air stopped the trio in their tracks a few feet from the elevator, just for a moment. They shook off the weird feeling of being watched and moved forward, slowly . . . "Looking for me, little man?" a tall, stocky man with pale, close-cropped hair who had apparently appeared out of nowhere whispered in Vila's ear, and the Delta thief screamed with the surprise of it, falling back against a Ford Pinto and sliding to the dirty garage floor.. "*Vi*-la!" said Avon, who had caught the highest decibels of the scream in his ear. He turned to chastise the little thief, then saw the odd-looking man looming over them for the first time. He took in the man's black suit, a sword-pin at the throat; his oddly-coloured eyes (blue with red-gold rims), the black leather attache case in his left hand . . . "*You*!" he gulped, recognizing LaCroix from the ancient microfilm, swinging his laserpistol in the vampire's direction, but he was too late. The attache case swung with preternatural speed, smashing the gun from his hand, and the ancient vampire grasped the terrified Alpha genius by the front of his black leather pullover, lifting him bodily from the floor. After gazing into those compelling eyes for just a second, Avon found he could not scream, he could only goggle at his captor silently. "Refreshments!" cackled LaCroix, fangs extended. "They do say you find the *best* places to eat in New York!" "Take that, slime-bag!" Starsky cried in true heroic 1970s-action-adventure-series fashion. He stood off to one side, pumping bullet after bullet into the vampire's legs, trying to fell him, praying he'd miss Avon. LaCroix cried out, enraged; then, growling, turned his golden glare on the L.A. cop. Starsky stopped shooting, his arms going limp, his face going slack. "You put him down, you creep!" yelled Vila from the floor. He'd lost his wooden stake, his gun was useless (falling against the car had pulled the wiring from the battery pack), so he did the only thing he could do. He pulled the laser-bomb from his pocket and threw it with all his not-very-considerable might at the head of the man, the *thing*, who had attacked them. He was only about six feet away, even *he* couldn't miss planting the sharp-edged, heavy object between that guy's creepily-glowing eyes . . . LaCroix was the sort of vampire who could be depended upon to take care of business even when he was busy taking care of lunch. Despite the excitement, the master vampire had never let go of the black leather attache case, and, as the missile hurtled pell-mell for his face, he brought the case around between himself and the object. *Ka-chunk*! The briefcase lurched in his hand, suddenly heavier than it was only a second ago. Curious, he turned it around, to see that the missile was, in fact, a small, gaily-striped clock-radio, and it was embedded in the side of, or somehow stuck to, his leather case. The little clock radio was beep-beep-beeping cheerily. The prey clutched in his right hand suddenly came to life. "*OMIGOD*!" it screamed at the top of its lungs, squirming for all it was worth, " *She's armed, she's going to blow*! *Run*! *Run for your lives*! GO! GO!" LaCroix laughed at the thought that anything could hurt him. He wasn't running anywhere, like these pathetic, frightened rabbits were attempting to do. The one that had pumped bullets into his legs, and the merest mosquito bites they were, went scurrying off in one direction; the little one who'd fallen went crawling under a car. He'd take the edge off his hunger with this one, then handily scoop up the other two, and . . . zoooooom! Suddenly a blur of motion blew past him, grabbing up his attache case. The attache case with all his records (cashed checks, airline ticket stubs, computer disks) in it, proving that his dear son was the head of a drug ring based in the Toronto police force. The briefcase-stealing blur flew out through the open wall of the parking garage, soaring high over 32nd street. The usually unshockable master vampire gasped, dropping his prey, as his attache case went boom in a spectacular display of intense laser-light-show pyrotechnics. Ooooo, the colours, the colours. He never noticed the prey crawling away from him to join its companions over by the elevator, where all three escaped. His son was flying towards him, alighting before him, holding out his hand to his father, but not to shake. Nicholas' hand was burnt and blistered red. It looked, and smelled, terrible--like smoked ham. "Well, I think I've settled the question, 'Can a laser harm a vampire?'--the answer being a resounding *yes*!" said Nick. He turned on his Innocent Aspect #22, a look he was particularly good at, what with those baby blue eyes and all, spicing it up with a wrinkle of 'oh, the pain, the pain' between the afore-mentioned baby blues. He'd found that strong women could be reduced to baby-talk by this look. His father, however, was undoubtedly going to be a tougher nut to crack. "Well, what do you know, LaCroix--this time, *I* saved *your* butt!" "Did you? Did you now?" said LaCroix, eyes narrowed. He wanted to believe it, was on the verge of buying it, but something didn't smell right, and he didn't mean his son's cooked hand. "What is going on, Nicholas? Who were those mortals? Answer me. Now." Nick smiled with some courage, the picture of a hero bravely bearing up. "International terrorists," he lied easily, for once. "Planning the bombing of a New York hotel, we believe." "Then they picked on the wrong target this time," said LaCroix decisively. "Come, let us dispatch them with alacrity, it will be like the old days of hunting--" "Uh, *not* a good idea, LaCroix. There's a gang of police officers close behind, trailing the terrorists. We could expose ourselves to discovery." Yes, that sounded good. Very plausible. Best he'd come up with in a long time. "Still . . . I think I'll just go and *talk* to one of them--" It was at that moment the Toronto vampire detective chose to collapse to the filthy garage floor with a piteous moan. It was all he could think to do to prevent LaCroix from flying after his friends. He wanted to give them all the time they'd need to escape the clutches of his creator, who could be pretty relentless when he chose to be (which was most of the time.) LaCroix sighed and gathered his most foolish child in his arms, flying off to his own apartment in the city where he had bags of human blood stockpiled. After all, what was the fate of a few pathetic recidivist mortals when his own son was finally seeing the error of his ways, his own son had *saved* him from certain injury and possible death. Besides, Nicholas' injuries gave him the perfect excuse to pump him full of human blood, instead of the insipid cows' blood he'd been supping on for some one hundred years. You know, perhaps that little joke he'd been about to play on the dear child *was* a bit much . . . . * * * * * * * (THE FOREVER KNIGHT TAGLINE) "He *bought* that hokey story?!" said Hutch as he, his partner and Nick snuck out of the hospital (out the back way, in the middle of the night). "Nick, I thought you said this LaCroix guy was incredibly intelligent!" "I didn't say 'intelligent' exactly. More like, 'crafty'; but, yeah, I think he bought it. I *hope* he bought it. Oh, god, let him have bought it." Vila and Avon had been packed off the planet with all dispatch as soon as they'd determined their mission was complete, so Nick wasn't worried about going home and finding *their* heads on a pike in his rumpus room, courtesy of a certain irate Immortal Being, and he wasn't talking Duncan McLeod, but there *was* Starsky to consider. Better he and Hutch cut their little vacation in the Big Apple short, in fact they'd be on the `Red-eye' flight to L.A. in a couple of hours. Nick knew that there would be no embarrassing questions asked about the injury to Hutch's hand, as it had been miraculously and perfectly healed as a `thank you' from the rebels, who had access to some formidable futuristic medications and processes. He'd then called Larry Merlin, who'd deleted the injury from the hospital's database, as well as the hospital charges from Nick's credit card. Hutch could continue as a detective-out-on-the-beat, it would be as if his injury had never happened (isn't that always the way on these TV shows? I mean, how many times does Fox Mulder have to have his body trashed all the way down to its DNA before the boy just *stays down*?) Nick's own disabled hand had healed quickly, due to the large amount of human blood he'd had to drink to make LaCroix happy. Yes, Nick thought, he'd finally scored some points with (and on) LaCroix, so maybe the old reprobate would be a little easier to deal with, at least until the end of the century. Not too much to hope for. He commenced to whistle a crooked little tune, vaguely recognizable as Mahler's Third Symphony, as he helped his friends stow their luggage the trunk of a yellow cab. If the traffic wasn't too bad, they'd get to LaGuardia inside the hour. (Un)life was good. Across the street, unnoticed by the cheerful trio of friends, a pair of blue eyes (rimmed in red-gold) watched. "You're learning, Nicholas," murmured the one who watched in the night, in cultured tones. "Dear Nicholas, you *are* learning. And *that* is something that will *never* do!" The End! (At least, the end in 1995.) * * * * * * * (THE B7 TAGLINE) (Approximately 700 years later.) It seems to me, the more things change, The more they stay the same. The more we try to re-arrange, The more drawn-out the game. So let's enjoy the moment, With adrenaline-and-Soma-- A combination heaven-sent, As is a pleasant coma. (Vila Restal's first-and-only attempt at poetry in The Little Delta School's course in Creative Writing 101.) The atmosphere on the Liberator flight deck was, in a word, *tense*. The small group of rebels stood in various attitudes of apprehension around a medium-sized plastic box full of blinking lights, staring at it as if it were a chrystal ball--which, in a way, it was. An obnoxious 'whirrrrrrrrrrr'ing noise came from the box as it scanned the cosmos, searching for transmissions that would signal a change from the Federation they all knew and hated. Blake sighed softly around the finger he was chewing, but other than that, the crew was silent. Finally, Vila Restal reached out and pushed the box, as if that were the correct way to get its attention. "Well, Orac?" he said. *'Well' is not a proper question!* responded Orac smugly. Blake snorted, Jenna smirked, Cally smiled quietly to herself, and Vila gave a strangled cry of frustration. Only Avon said nothing, as he was busy trying to stop himself ripping Orac's key out of its slot and hurling it across the room. The rebel leader closed his eyes and counted to ten. "So, Orac," he said with as much false cordiality as he could muster, "tell us what changes you've detected in the space-time continuum that can be traced to our actions in the past?" *None,* said Orac. The reaction was explosive and in unison. "*None*?!" *None. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nothing that was done in the past by this crew has had the least effect on that part of the time continuum known as The Present.* "B-but we almost got killed stopping that horrible LaCrosse person, vampire, thingie--*whatever*--from telling stories on the Toronto police force!" sputtered Vila. Eyes narrowed, hands on hips; Jenna began, "Perhaps you didn't do as good a job as you tho--" "I'm telling you, we *stopped* him!" Avon interrupted her angrily, "Knight said we'd totally destroyed LaCroix's so-called evidence," he continued, defending himself and his accomplice. *Yes,* confirmed the snippy computer, sounding almost entertained by the notion. *The incident in question *has* been deleted from existence, but that has not stopped humanity's back-slide into corruption. It is apparently inevitable.* "Surprise me," sniped Avon. //Attention,// bonkedthe on-board computer, Zen, in dry, mechanical tones, //a ship has appeared at the edge of sensor range, heading directly for Liberator at Standard by five. Contact in two minutes.// The image of a tiny, sleek starship appeared on Zen's viewscreen, a backdrop of stars and endless (one could say `forever') night behind it. Each of the rebels sprang to their stations; in battle situations alone able summon up an ounce of teamwork. "Blake!" Cally cried, "we are being hailed by that ship!" "*Are* we?" said Blake, one eyebrow raised. "Apparently it's to be the carrot, and not the stick. Open a communications channel, Cally." Cally worked her magic on the board in front of her and the image of a stocky man dressed entirely in black, with pale, close-cut hair and piercing blue eyes, coalesced on Liberator's forward viewscreen, replacing the ship. "*You*!" Avon gulped, recognizing LaCroix instantly. That angular, sensual face, scant inches from his own, and the terror of that moment he'd been suspended in mid-air by the strength in LaCroix's arm, had been indelibly etched on his brain. "I'm getting quite a feeling of deja vu," smiled the (very *extremely* old) vampire. "That is exactly what you said all those years ago, the very first and only time I met you, Mr. Avon. Of course, it's been but a few hours for *you.*" "Care to introduce me to your old friend, Avon?" said Blake. "'Old', indeed--on the order of some 700 years, very probably more," answered the computer genius. "*That* is the vampire LaCroix, whom we defeated in a car-park in the ancient city of New York." "Oh, I don't like to think of it as 'defeat'," said the vampire, stifling a yawn, "I prefer to think of it as a prank my mischevious son played on his doting father. All good, clean fun and nothing more." "I *knew* we should have killed him," murmured Vila, which drew LaCroix's attention. "And the little man as well," said the vampire smoothly, scaring the bejeebers out of the Delta thief. "Quite the reunion, isn't this?" "And quite besides the point," rejoined Blake, just as smoothly. "Whatever could you possibly want with us, Mr. LaCroix? I shouldn't think there are many immortal beings acting as officers in the Federation fleet, their life-spans are often *so* short, and that doesn't look like a Federation ship, so may I assume you do not wish to do battle with us?" "That is exactly correct," agreed LaCroix. "Nor do I intend to turn you in for the reward. I do not wish to offend, but the compensation for your deaths is really not worth the bother to collect, so great by comparison is the fortune I have accumulated over the last few hundred years." "Then what exactly *do* you want of us?" asked Jenna, eyeing the vampire appraisingly. A smuggler by trade, she could almost scent a deal in the works. "I want to hire you to do a little job for me," said LaCroix, confirming her suspicions. He steepled his fingers, ready to do business. "*You* want *us* to do a job for *you*?" Vila was aghast. "Talk about doing a deal with the devil!" "Oh, I assure you, this particular task is in your own interests as well. That is why you are so very perfect for this assignment." LaCroix seemed amused, drawing it out, toying with them. Blake smiled. "Tell me about it," was all he said (somewhat more polite than 'cut the crap.) The vampire acquiesced. "It seems there is a small group of Federation scientists exploring the concept of 'immortality'--not a philosophical approach, you understand, but a more, shall we say, *practical* approach. They operate under the authority of one Supreme Commander Servalan--friend of yours, I believe." "Ee-yew," muttered Vila. "Everlasting Servalan! Enough to ruin a galactic civilization's whole day." "Indeed, little man--and she has recently taken something of mine, something I want back." "And you want *us* to get it for you," surmised Blake. "You're a big, bad vampire--why don't you simply go and get it yourself?" "There's a problem with that. They are aware of my powers--and also my weaknesses. They have set up a rather better-than-adequate defense system to keep vampires out. . .and, I might add, to keep vampires *in*." As noted once before in this story, Vila Restal possessed a genius the equal of virtually any Alpha in the galaxy--and he was ahead of them all. "Oh, no! You don't mean. . .that nice, young fellow?" The master vampire nodded, looking almost tired and certainly frustrated. "Yes," he said, "they have taken my son, Nicholas. And I want him back. Now. *Before* they learn all our secrets and capabilities. Before they kill him." The End of this story. The Beginning of a whole new story. celeste_hotaling-lyons@iqj.com for comments "Another One Of Those Centuries" hasn't been written yet--we're working on it, we're working on it!!!