This work of fiction is owned by the author, and may not be reproduced without express written permission. Babylon 5 is owned by jms and Babylonian Productions, Inc., while Highlander is owned by Rysher Entertainment and Panzer/Davis. No copyright infringement is intended. The events in this work of fiction take place during and shortly after “Rising Star”. Copyright January 1998.

This is part one of the Lifelines series.

Information was researched from: “Dungeon, Fire and Sword -- The Knights Templar in the Crusades” by John J. Robinson, M. Evans and Company, Inc., New York, 1991, and “Holy Blood, Holy Grail” by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh, and Henry Lincoln, Delacorte Press, New York, 1982.

Resurrections

Cold.

Darkness.

At first, there was no pain. Then the tingles began, a terrible prickling quiver that energized every nerve ending to its utmost before forcing it beyond the limits of endurance. His mind screamed with the pain, the pain of rebirth, of regeneration, for he had no voice.

The damned machine had taken his life, but nothing else, and left his soul raw and bleeding on the bed with his Susan, left his body silent, the empty room that had been Marcus Cole. His consciousness could feel the frenetic energy crackling through every cell, burning the nerves beyond their limits until his whole body sparked and shone from a flame to an inferno. Another fact fell into his vague brain with a silent cry.

He was alone.

Alone in the darkness, and the void swallowed him up whole.

**** **** **** ****

Inhaling sharply as consciousness rushed back into his mind and body, struggling to conceal the pain, the tension, and the shock of suddenly being alive again, Marcus’ eyes popped open, desperate to determine his whereabouts . . . and Susan’s. His eyes blurrily focused on the sheet over his face. At least Stephen hasn’t gotten around to doing an autopsy, thank God . . .

Muffled voices came at him from a distance. Marcus became absolutely still, and then breathed easier as he recognized Susan’s voice, roaring at some hapless person. She’s alive!! Alive!! The bloody machine actually worked!!

Stephen’s voice, saying something placating. Marcus became still again, knowing that if Stephen discovered him alive and breathing when he shouldn’t be, he would never hear the end of it. Playing dead, as it were, the Brit thought, but I wish I didn’t have to leave. Susan’s voice, loud and angry with anguish dripping from every syllable. I really, really, wish it wasn’t necessary, he thought again, savoring the tone of her voice, wanting to remember everything about her, every touch, every nuance, every little thing.

Susan’s voice again, louder, this time filled with regret. “I should have at least boffed him just once.”

What? Groaning, Marcus fought the temptation to throw aside the sheet and run to comfort her. There is nothing fair about this at all. Who wants to live forever, indeed?

Pondering the unfairness of immortality at least gave Marcus something to do, something that didn’t involve moving around. Everyone knows corpses don’t move, but most corpses don’t get leg cramps. He’s helping Susan up, pulling her out of the room, out into the corridor. She’s still crying . . . . Marcus remained still for several more minutes, gauging the sounds in the room, feeling out the silence.

It was safe.

It was time to move. Stretching cramped muscles until the bones in his leg clicked in protest, Marcus stood bare-footed on the cold cold floor and wrapped the long white shroud around himself. Mustn’t go running around the station naked, now . . . where the bloody hell did Stephen put my clothes? The white sheet promptly tangled around his legs, tumbling Marcus to the deck issuing curses in a dozen languages. Picking himself up off the floor, Marcus wrapped himself in the pale shroud again and began ransacking Medlab, looking for clothes. Stephen, Stephen, where did you hide them?

Opening a drawer, Marcus spotted a bundle marked with his name, grabbed it up and hurriedly unwrapped his clothes. My Ranger uniform, how considerate of Stephen not to have cut it off me. Note for Delenn . . . hmmmm. Dressing quickly, he began transferring his possessions from the bundle and into his pockets. My denn’bok, Identicard . . . even though it isn’t any good anymore . . . a few data crystals . . . bits and pieces, odds and ends . . . the fragments that make up a life. Taking a last look at the Healing Machine and obscuring his face with the hood raised, Marcus slipped out the door and began to make his way back to his quarters. And so Galahad gallops over the hill with his banner aloft . . . riding back to Camelot in triumph.

As great caution was required, the trip was slow and fraught with difficulty, for no one could be trusted for assistance, no one must know. Everyone -- from the ambassadors to the lurkers, even his own contacts Down Below -- had to be fooled, at least for a little while. How should I get off the station? Steal a shuttle or a starfury? Try to stow away? No, that would be more likely to get me spaced, and I don’t have the time or the documents to play at being someone else. Bugger all! If I’d taken the time to plan ahead, I could have bought documents . . . but now I can’t. Now I have to leave. Moving carefully into the sector where his quarters were located, Marcus heard voices close by his position and flattened himself against the wall to listen.

“You hear about the Ice Queen?”

“Yeah. Wierd, I never figured her for leaving.”

What? Who’s leaving? The ‘Ice Queen’ must be Susan . . . sort of a compliment, I suppose, in a left-handed way. But why should she be leaving? He edged a little closer, trying to catch more of their conversation. But the two junior officers -- and they had to be, from their comments -- were moving away. Torn between wanting them gone and wanting them to stay and gossip, Marcus settled for just listening as long as he dared. Unfortunately, I have a bit of a time limit here. It won’t take that long before my body’s discovered missing.

“Funny, I guess she really cared about the guy.”

No, Susan wouldn’t leave because of that. Would she? The pause lasted for years, it seemed. As still as death, Marcus waited and listened with bated breath.

“Nah. She probably just got a better offer.”

“And a promotion, don’t forget that.” A sharp barking laugh. “Now she’s Captain Ivanova.”

“The poor, poor crew.” Sarcastic laughter greeted that comment, and faded away as the men continued down the corridor.

Marcus stood there, unseeing, lost in confused thoughts, unable to believe what he’d heard, until a passing woman caught his eye. Long curly blonde hair hanging straight down her back, wearing a simple blue dress . . . so like, so like her indeed. The child-faced woman warily moved to the other side of the corridor but otherwise paid him no mind. The light flashed off her silken hair, taking Marcus back in memory almost a thousand years . . . .

**Leicester, England, June 1175 A.D.**

“I absolutely forbid it!!”

The dark-haired teenager stormed out of the large room, past the brightly woven wall-hangings, and ran up the stone steps, fuming at the older man’s words. Reaching a room at the top of the stairs and further beyond the corridor, he threw himself onto the hard bed, burying his face in the soft bearskin coverlet.

“Marcus, listen to me.” The silver-haired gentleman had entered the room quietly. “I know how difficult it is --”

“There’s nothing here for me!! Why shouldn’t I go?”

“Because I need you here.”

“Why? You have Robert as your heir, and Simon is here, just in case. So you don’t need me for anything.”

His father sat on the bed next to him, and pulled the lanky boy up from the bed to face him. “Stop crying, boy, you’re fifteen. Not a child.”

Shaking off the supporting arm, Marcus faced him, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face. “No, I’m not a child,” he shouted, “but you won’t let me be anything else.” Coughing, biting his lip, he raised his eyes accusingly to his father. “William is five, he’s a child. Anne is eleven, she’s a child. But I’m fifteen!! I’ve been the Duke’s shield-bearer for three years!!”

“Just because you have that experience does not mean that you have either the skill in war or the right to join up with the Knights of the Temple!!” Robert de Montfort, the Earl of Leicester, swallowed hard and gathered his thoughts, hoping he could make this boy, this most difficult, this most temperamental of his children understand. Yet God had indeed blessed them when his wife, his dear precious wife’s lady’s-maid had found the sqalling infant under a battle-scarred oak tree one shining dawn in late May, fifteen years before. “I need you here in case, God forbid, Robert should die in service, and Simon follows him by breaking his neck on one of those damned horses of his.” Raising a hand to forestall more protests, he continued, “And neither Claudia nor Anne are in the line of inheritance, and well you know it.”

But Marcus had already ceased to hear his words -- his decision to leave was made and he would not change his mind, not for any man. For a woman, perhaps . . . but Margaret’s father, the Duke, did not approve of the dark-maned teenager as a son-in-law and had taken every opportunity to point the fact out to the young man in his service. Her sweet face, as he had reined his horse toward the road, was sad and silent, her bright blue eyes shining with unshed tears, her long hair as bright as the sun falling over her shoulders, the aqua silk of her gown framing her female loveliness. She had given him, as a keepsake in war, her gold brooch, its single ruby gleaming in the fading light . . . .

Marcus shook his head, clearing it, and punched in the access code to his quarters, ignoring the flashing red lights on the control panel. But the brooch is gone, like so much else, given to the Treasury . . . it was one of the few possessions I had, save my armor, my horse, and my sword . . . . Entering quickly, he began packing up his meager possessions, those he could not do without. Since there isn’t time to move everything, just the important things should go. Since word of my death will spread fast, and word of my theft will spread faster than Drafa, I’ll have to make a quick getaway. Maybe a Black Omega Starfury would be a good choice. But that would identify me as Psi Corps . . . which might or might not work in my favor . . . . Stuffing the carpetbag with the few clothes he owned didn’t take too long, but trying to his few other possessions -- a few photographs, a couple real books, particularly the one gifted to him by Ambassador Sinclair . . . it was so odd to think of him as Valen -- would take some doing. Finally, Marcus picked up the last item to be packed, a dried rose from the bouquet Susan had thrown at him, and set it carefully on top.

The only problem is how to land, and how to convince the paper wizards that it’s not stolen when I get to Earth. Or wherever I’m going. Mars, maybe. Marcus picked up a long bundle wrapped in white cloth, hesitated for a moment, and carefully unwound the white mantle, exposing the splayed red crosses on the material and the engraved blade of the sword. They owe me a favor . . . . The light reflected off the blade, shining brightly in the light of his memories . . . .

**Eighteen days out of Acre, the Holy Land, September 4, 1191 A.D.**

Fifteen years in the Order, and nothing has changed. I’m still alive. Marcus calmly brushed his prized warhorse’s sleek fur, while his mount stood placidly eating his evening grain. The Third Crusade, and I’ve been fighting here for only a little more than a year. Many of my friends are dead . . . died in battle . . . died for their King and the Christ . . . there is nothing better. He moved to the horse’s head, and affectionately rubbed its temple, the spot between its eyes where the fur met in a swirl. He had fondly named his precious dappled gray ‘Jasper’, and wanted none other in war, for Jasper had been with him since the day he arrived at the London preceptory against his father’s wishes.

Lost so much . . . family, friends, and freedom, but gained other things in exchange . . . a new family, a brotherhood of friends . . . and such a sense of completeness, a sense of belonging, of being where God . . . wanted me to be. Perhaps this was God’s plan all along . . . . Marcus sighed, thinking of the strangeness of his life, but nonetheless thankful for his life and his spirit. He rubbed Jasper’s neck absent-mindedly, but the horse nickered and butted its head against Marcus’ body.

“Oh ho, so you want more grain, do you?” Amused, Marcus gave in and dropped another handful of sweet grain into the feed pan. Other mounts on either side of the picket line stretched their necks out beseechingly, and began to nicker and neigh and snort in protest. Marcus shook his head with a sigh. “Now, see what you started?” Unconcerned, Jasper had put his face back into the pan, munching the feed, swishing his long silver tail in contentment. Contented, this one. He has food and shelter, what more can he want? King Richard, the Coeur de Lion, was here briefly yesterday . . . a big man of red and gold, he is just what they say . . . another one, contented with his life and with his battle.

“As for you, Jasper, be rested. We are fighting tomorrow, for the Holy Land, so we must be rested. We must be ready.” Giving the horse’s forelock a final ruffle, he turned to leave the stable area. Shouting from the opposite end of camp caught his attention, and he ran to see what was happening . . . .

With a start, Marcus realized that Captain Sheridan had been making some kind of announcement, but hopefully not one having to do with him or anything important. I wasn’t even listening, God knows, I’ve been here too long already. But what does it matter now? The Saracens are gone, the Shadows are gone, but I’m still here . . . Saracens or Shadows, what’s the difference? He had his bag packed, and his sword wrapped up and hidden inside it, so there was nothing left to do. Well . . . one thing. Reluctantly, Marcus removed the Ranger pin from his shoulder and dropped it into a hip pocket. Wearing it might draw too much attention. But how can I go yet? What about Susan? I can’t leave her, but I have no choice. I could tell her, and beg her to go with me. Marcus sighed in exasperation at his own silliness. She won’t and you know it, you fool. Haven’t you learned anything in a thousand years? Catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror, he stopped short and peered closely. It seems so odd to not be wearing the pin . . . looks so strange . . . .

Quietly, hidden within his cloak, its hood covering his face, Marcus headed toward the flight bay where the Starfuries were stored. The trip proved easy enough so far, but he paused to watch a group of men marching away from the bays. Obviously arriving from somewhere else . . . on their way to somewhere else . . . these are the survivors, those who live to fight and die another day . . . .

**September 8, 1191 A.D.**

I remember dying like it happened yesterday.

We of the Temple were placed on the extreme right wing, while the Hospitallers at the rear became the left. King Richard and his secular knights took the center position, ordering crossbowmen and shielded spearmen ranged out in front of us. We all held to the defensive, ground our teeth and kept our positions, the heathens hammering away at the left, brave Christian soldiers falling in every attack, but we could not charge without orders. Finally, desperation drove two, a Hospitaller and another, to fight back, and the wave tore along the whole Christian line, including us. Seeing thousands of us coming at them, burning with rage and our holy mission, the heathen Saracens did what any sane man would.

They turned like cowards and ran for the safety of the hills. We would have pursued, pursued them howling into Hell if need be, but those Crusaders who preceded us had repeatedly warned of the Saracens’ devilish tricks. This was one of them -- their frantic flight only a pretense, and all those who followed caught in a trap from which there was no escape.

But I had spotted a few stragglers, and was determined to send them to their god. I should have known . . . then . . . that the journey I had chosen for myself was one that God and Christ . . . had in fact chosen for me.

I died in battle, a long pitched battle between myself and a Saracen -- there was only two of them and one of me, so I thought we were pretty evenly matched. We kept swinging at each other from our horses, swung at each other again and again. I killed one of them, but, the other, I didn’t expect what he did next . . .

The attacking Saracen . . .or defending, depending on how you looked at it, pulled out a curving dagger, something no other had ever done. Now his assailant had a sword and a dagger, while Marcus had only a sword. The Saracen’s horse reared and plunged wildly, but still the man kicked his mount forward, screaming, his sword raised. Marcus blocked the sword with a clash of metal, and their horses met in a crunch of neighs and frenzied movement. Tightly enmeshed in each other’s way, Marcus and the Saracen fought at close quarters with sword, dagger, and shield, spinning their horses around each other, nostrils to tail in a grisly ballet.

The battle continued for hours, both warriors landing fearsome blows and crying out for assistance from their Gods. Exhausted, Marcus parried a blow aimed at his skull, but wasn’t able to block the dagger’s thrust under the shield and between his ribs. Oh God, how it hurt, burned like liquid fire. Then he spotted the sword coming at him, and weakly parried the blow, but the sword went right through him. Wasn’t sure if he’d killed, or even injured, the Saracen . . . couldn’t remember whether he followed through or not . . . . I remember falling, heard Jasper neigh, heard his hooves pound to a stop, the pain, and then the darkness . . . then . . . the trembling all over my body, the singing in my skull . . . it was like the great blue sky was singing to me . . . there was a voice, perhaps it was Jesus Christ the Lord come to welcome me to Heaven . . . .

Consciousness returned slowly, an odd tingling throbbing tore through his brain, and Marcus’ eyes flickered open painfully to behold a pair of mellow green eyes gazing down at him, sprawled full-length on the hard ground. The voice, emerging from somewhere above him, though not so far away as Heaven, was a bit clearer now, as smooth as fresh water but as perfectly edged as any fine sword.

The eyes smiled. The face seemed so . . . young, and yet . . . there was something in the man’s eyes . . . as if they were an older man’s eyes in a young man’s face. But still there was something about him. Something he couldn’t explain.

The silkily sarcastic voice spoke again and this time Marcus could understand the words. “Welcome back to the world, such as it is . . . .”

And that was when the whole bloody mess started, Marcus thought wryly, climbing into the Starfury, tossing his bag into the small storage area. He glanced at the flashing lights on the control panel. Now I have this gift, this curse, immortality and my place in the Game . . . even though I haven’t challenged or been challenged in years. But the machine gave us both our lives back, forced me to leave when it was time . . . now Galahad can die, having found the Grail . . . .

He broke off suddenly, shocked by a brief snippet of trivia arising from the waves of his memory. The Grail, the Sacred Vessel of Regeration . . . the healing machine . . . Galahad died after finding the Grail, or was granted eternal life, depending on what version of the legend you prefer. Shaking off a chill down his spine, Marcus finished the prelaunch check at lightning speed, and sent a series of commands to open the bay doors. As soon as the doors cycled open, Marcus punched the ignition switch, and dropped free of the station and sped away at the fastest rate of speed he dared.

“Unknown starfury, this is Babylon Control, you do not have clearance, repeat, you do not have clearance, return to dock immediately or --”

Marcus hit the control that would shut off communications, ignoring their commands and their threats. Turning toward the jumpgate, he could see its red mouth opening to swallow him whole in one gulp. Now that I’m really, honestly leaving, for good, I can only hope that you’re well. Goodbye, Susan . . . I wish you every happiness in the universe. He sighed, wondering briefly what the future held for him before shaking himself back to the present. Now Galahad is truly dead . . . now there is only Marcus, he declared, entering hyperspace on his way toward the stars at fastest speed, searching for another battle to fight, another war to win.

FINIS

© 1997 evermore4@verizon.net


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