Changing of the Guard by Ecolea

Changing of the Guard

by

Ecolea

The planet was your typical desert dream world, Colonel Jack O'Neill thought. Sun, sand and more sun. Oh, and hey, how about a little more sand? He yawned in the heat waiting patiently while Daniel and Carter did their scientific thing on the only remotely interesting structure in the vicinity. A sort of step pyramid, or ziggurat about half a mile from the Stargate. It was the only thing left on P4X37 that wasn't covered with sand. Long range reconnaissance showed a handful of other monolithic structures, but no people. Over the millennia the planet's orbit had shifted fractionally, making what had once been a marginally habitable planet into a giant sand dune. Whatever civilization had been here, was now long gone. A condition Jack hoped to find himself in fairly quickly.

"Come on, kids, let's get shakin'!" he called out. "It's way past your bedtime!"

Teal'c grunted quietly, his broad face impassive as sweat gleamed brightly on his dark skin. He too was displeased with the amount of time they'd spent here. Chulak was a moderate world of pleasant climes and this desert heat was annoying.

"Hold on, sir!" Samantha Carter called out, her voice echoing from inside the building. "Daniel's found something!"

O'Neill glanced at Teal'c and shrugged, nodding in the direction of the entrance. "Shall we?"

Teal'c raised an eyebrow, indicating the decision was the colonel's.

With a sigh, Jack headed inside just as the sound of heavy stone grating against stone resounded through the cavernous interior. There was a scuffing sound and then a shout, followed quickly by a scream and Jack raced forward, following the last echo.

"You two okay?" Jack called down the narrow rectangular opening in the floor, where a pair of blond heads could dimly be seen among the tangled limbs.

"We're fine," Carter called up.

"Yeah, fine," Daniel wheezed. "I broke Sam's fall." There was short scream, followed by groan of agony.

"Uh, sir," Carter reported. "I think he broke more than my fall."

***

"Ow! Come on, Jack! Have a little sympathy here!"

"Wuss," O'Neill muttered as he helped Daniel into his apartment. "Hey! I had that spear thingy in my shoulder and I was pretty cool about it, while you guys went off and...and translated or something. So, don't tell me about pain. It's just a broken leg."

"In three places! And a dislocated shoulder," Daniel added sullenly.

"This isn't a contest," Carter complained, easing Daniel's good arm from around her shoulders as Jack lowered him to the sofa.

"Well, he could've stayed at the SGC." Despite his seeming annoyance Jack carefully shifted a few pillows until Daniel was comfortable.

"At the base? For six weeks?" Daniel asked, looking shocked.

Jack only shrugged while Sam went to fetch a glass of water for Daniel to take his pain meds. "So, have you given any thought to the general's suggestion?" she asked as she returned, handing him the glass.

"About a replacement?"

"It's not a replacement," Samantha reminded him. "They wouldn't be going through the Stargate with us. Just assisting in the translation of all those tablets you recovered."

O'Neill snickered. "You mean all those tablets we recovered, along with Daniel here."

Both his friends frowned and he sighed, slumping down in a chair.

"Well, we do need another translator who's actually competent," Daniel muttered. "And I do, or did know this guy back in grad school, Adam Pierson. He was a research assistant in the Near Eastern studies department, working on his Ph.D. in Proto-Cuneiform. If anyone could translate those tablets it'd be him. He dropped off the radar a few years back, just before Katherine approached me."

"Think he'd pass muster?" O'Neill asked curiously.

Daniel tried to shrug and winced. "Don't know. I think he's British, or maybe Canadian. Nice guy, actually. Pretty laid back. I don't think he'd be any kind of security risk, if that's what you're asking. And he's the best when it comes to what we're looking for. Absolutely brilliant mind."

"So why drop out of sight?" Sam wondered.

"He was painfully shy. I mean, he never publishes, never applies for grants. The last time I saw Adam was at a symposium in Paris. He said he was thinking about taking a job for one of those obscure foundations that's funded by big corporations in need of a tax write off. Said they'd let him work out of his apartment."

"Sounds like a real winner," O'Neill sighed.

"Well, I liked him," Daniel insisted. "And he's open minded. The kind of guy, once you get to know him, that really means it when he says he's your friend."

"So he didn't turn his back on you when you went out on a limb in the scholarly community?" Sam smiled.

Daniel carefully shook his head. "Not Adam. He once told me there was more to history than mere mortals could probably imagine and that if I were right it would mean a whole new way of looking at the past. He was a good friend when I really needed one."

Jack nodded slowly. "Sounds like a stand up guy. Okay," he added getting to his feet. "We'll tell the general. He'll get security to check him out."

***

"Are you sure about this, Methos?" Joe Dawson asked dubiously.

"It's only for a year, Joe. And the work will be really interesting," he responded. "Besides, it's not like I'm doing anything at the moment, now that I've left the Watchers."

"Pretty boring between lives, huh?"

Methos shrugged. "It is what it is. And Arizona is nice this time of year. Paris is so damp in the winter."

"Old bones aching?" Dawson grinned.

The other man smiled. "It'll be a paid vacation for me. You know, do a little translating, catch a few rays, party with the undergrads at night."

"Aren't you a little old for them?"

"I'm a little old for everybody," Methos grinned into his beer.

Joe shook his head and finally sighed. "All right. It's not like I can stop you."

Methos gave him a kind smile. "Remember, it's only for a year."

"A lot can happen in a year," Dawson cautioned.

"Not from my point of view," the ancient Immortal reminded him. "And anyway, you know where to find me if you need me, right?"

Dawson nodded. "U of A, huh? Good school?"

"So I've heard. Although I'm more interested in its sun bronzed beauties."

Dawson chuckled and went back to wiping down the bar, chatting up the other customers as he watched Methos depart. Maybe it would be good for the old man to get away from Paris for a while. Ever since Alexa had died he'd been pretty quiet. More so than usual. Ah hell, Dawson thought, it was only for a year.

***

Methos dragged his exhausted body down to the baggage claim area. The flight from Paris to Chicago had been tedious to say the least. Then his connecting flight to Tucson had been delayed, canceled and delayed again to finally arrive eight hours late. He was tired, wrinkled and feeling particularly grimy after wearing the same clothes for the better part of two days. If it hadn't been for that truly interesting photocopy they'd shown him of one of the tablets he would be working on, he'd have called it quits and gone home.

Still, he'd never seen writing quite like that before. Something similar to Sumerian proto-cuneiform, but not. Interesting indeed. It was definitely a puzzle. And he liked intellectual puzzles. It had, he reminded himself as he pulled his luggage from the carousel, given him the first jolt of excitement he'd felt in years. Working on his own chronicle and reading what early Watchers had thought of him had been mildly amusing, but it was certainly not entertaining enough to hold his attention for long. He wasn't that much of an ego maniac! And besides, he'd already skewed his chronicle enough to make finding him nearly impossible. Especially now that they were looking for a short, hairy, dark skinned man who loved to surf and spent his days sailing the seven seas in search of the perfect wave.

Then, out of the blue he'd gotten this call. Recommended by Dr. Daniel Jackson, who was apparently held in high esteem by his new employers. Interesting in and of itself. Daniel, for all his brilliance, was considered a flake and for years had hung about on the fringes of the academia. Not by choice, as Methos had done, but because his ideas were just too extreme. The pyramids 10,000 years old and of unknown origin? Even he'd had difficulty wrapping his brain around that one. The fact that he didn't remember them being built and that they'd always just sort of been there, had gone a long way toward convincing him to treat Daniel with a certain amount of respect. And there was, of course, the boy's marvelous ability with dead languages. Something no one in the community would ever dispute, though they would have very much liked to from what he recalled.

With an internal shrug at the vagaries and politics of academic life, Methos went to find the exit. According to the travel plans he'd been given, a car was supposed to be waiting for him. Of course, that was eight hours ago and he didn't exactly have an address even if poor Adam Pierson could afford to splurge on a taxi. Just a phone number with a contact name in case he had any problems. He'd called and left a message right before leaving Chicago, but who knew with universities. They tended to be terribly disorganized when it came to such things from what he recalled.

The glass double doors slid open as he stepped within range of the sensors and the warm dry air of the Arizona desert enveloped him. He set his bags on the pavement and looked around, surprised when he spotted a large black sedan with tinted windows in which the name Pierson on a white placard had been placed in the front passenger window. He started to reach for his bags and the window rolled down a few inches.

"Dr. Pierson?" a deep male voice called from the shadowy interior.

"Yes, I'm Adam Pierson," he acknowledged, relieved he wouldn't have to loiter on the street while waiting for transport.

"Leave those, I'll take care of them."

A soft click came from the right rear passenger door as it unlocked and Methos reached for the handle with a sigh. Just a little while longer, he thought, and he could have a nice hot shower, crawl between a clean set of sheets and rest for a few hours. Nirvana.

He climbed inside, laying his sword case on the floor, a bit startled when he saw the tinted security partition between him and the driver, but then this car service might cater mainly to corporate accounts where privacy was paramount. At least he wouldn't have to make idle chit chat with the driver, he thought putting the matter aside. If the university wanted to spend its money on fancy taxis rather than send a grad student in a beat-up Volvo to meet him, who was he to complain?

There was a gentle jounce when the driver tossed his bags into the trunk, and another when it thudded shut behind him as Methos settled himself. The moment they pulled out into the late afternoon traffic he rested his head against the comfortably cushioned seat and stared out the window. How long had it been since he'd been in the area? he mused as he watched the scenery pass by. Sixty, seventy years? No longer, he thought. It was after Butch and Sundance. Right around the time the authorities were hunting down the last of the outlaws. He'd been a ranch hand at one of the big spreads, blending into the crowd. Not that he'd been wanted for anything, he reminded himself sardonically -- for all that he'd implied as much to Dawson. He'd actually been sent West by his New York publisher to capture the essence of the outlaw lifestyle for a series of penny dreadfuls the man had in mind. Later, he'd drifted south across the border and down into Latin America for a time to visit the rubber plantation he'd once owned in Brazil. After he left here, he thought yawning widely, maybe he'd do the same.

He drifted to sleep with pleasant thoughts of dusky beauties in thin shifts on balmy tropical nights, certain that the driver would wake him when they reached their destination. A while later, how long he couldn't really tell, Methos woke feeling relaxed and refreshed by his nap. Odd, he thought as he peered out the window. The city was no where in sight and they were traveling through the desert as the last of the sunlight was disappearing.

Startled, he sat up straight and considered what to do. No one had actually specified the University in their talks. He'd merely assumed that was who he'd be working for. Then again, no one had bothered to correct that assumption. And that, he chided himself, had been a thoughtless mistake. No doubt he'd been so taken with the prospect of working on "the project" as they called it he hadn't really stopped to think about just who was funding it.

With a frown he knocked determinedly on the partition. "Excuse me, driver, but where are we going?" There was no response and he asked again, but the driver didn't seem to notice. Anxiously, he looked around the dark interior of the car searching for the door handle. Running his hand over the door he was horrified to find that there were no handles or indentations. The other door, of course, was identical and he sat back with a sense of numb dismay.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Methos cursed himself.  He should have been more observant when he'd gotten in, but then he probably should have checked more deeply into the nature of the project and who was handling the funding. That he'd been bored with his life and later tired from the flight was no excuse for over confidence and laziness. Damn! He'd been living too easy for too long to have made such an asinine mistake. Maybe MacLeod was right. A little more danger in his life would go a long way toward honing those vaunted survival instincts he was always crowing about.

So, Methos thought, finally leaning back again. What have you gotten yourself into this time? Black marketeers? That seemed most likely, he thought ruefully. Someone wanting a personal find translated, or maybe an authentication before an illegal sale. The skullduggery might be a little overdone in his opinion, but he'd been very cleverly manipulated. Something which hadn't happened in quite some time. He tended to think of academic circles as fairly tame, though some of the fringe elements with which one had to deal were often quite similar to organized crime in their machinations.

What the hell had Daniel dragged him into?! he wondered angrily.  Still, he hadn't actually spoken to Jackson, so the young man might not even be involved. On the other hand, Jackson had simply up and vanished from academia. But then, that was also fairly common when dealing with fringe theorists. When the grant money ran out they tended to take obscure positions at second rate schools where they could pursue their ideas without the pressure of tenure related publishing. He himself had been offered any number of those kinds of jobs.

All right, he decided calmly, no need to panic. There was nothing he could do about the situation, so there was no point in worrying -- at least for the moment. And it wasn't as if he hadn't worked for black marketeers in the past -- just not in this century. These days the booming underground trade in ancient artifacts probably led to all sorts of criminal activity. That didn't necessarily mean he was in any danger. Likely, they were just extremely cautious about revealing their operation to a stranger. And from what he'd heard in recent years these modern fellows were mostly non-violent types who tended to be armchair historians with a respect for the professionals. Rumor also had it that they tended to pay excessively well, which generally insured that the professionals they lured into their schemes remained silent. Yes, he could see the naive and oh-so-trusting Daniel accidentally getting involved in this kind of mess, especially if he'd needed the money. And he'd likely thought Adam Pierson, who never published and was always in search of ever more obscure PhDs probably needed the money as well. It would be, on Jackson's part, an act of generosity, albeit utterly misplaced.

At that Methos had to laugh. That would be just typical of Daniel, who never thought beyond the parameters of his own obsession. He doubted the young man had changed much in the ensuing years. No doubt he meant well by proffering Adam's name and credentials to his employers, but he was definitely going to have a few choice words for his so-called friend when he caught up with the little bastard again.

They drove on for perhaps another twenty minutes as dusk turned to darkness until, in the distance, Methos could see the bright glow of a nearby city. At the next exit the driver pulled off the highway and headed for the light. Much relieved, Methos nodded to himself. At least he'd be near civilization. If necessary, he could play along for a bit, maybe even do the translations, then get the hell out.

After another few minutes the car slowed down and Methos peered out the window, mildly confused as to why they were stopping. A moment later he felt his jaw dropping as they pulled into a military guard station and the driver handed over what must have been his orders.

"Bloody hell!" Methos gasped as they were waved through. The American military was funding this?! What the hell could they possibly want with a cache of proto-cuneiform tablets?! If that's even what they are, Methos nodded slowly to himself. Could be they were in need of a little code breaking. That would certainly explain the linguistic oddities he'd seen. Well, he thought, if that's what they wanted he'd be happy to oblige. It wasn't like he hadn't done that kind of work either.

Though he didn't like to brag about it, he'd done his bit for the war effort in the forties working as a cryptographer for British Intelligence. Those had been heady days indeed, when cracking German codes meant ending the war and saving thousands of lives, not to mention the fascinating intellectual aspect of it. This would also explain the duplicitous methods they'd used to get him here. There'd be fairly tight security, but it was highly unlikely anyone would take him out and chop him into tiny little pieces when they were finished with him.

What really surprised him as they headed toward what was obviously a very large installation was the notion that Daniel Jackson might be working here. He'd never seemed the patriotic type. But then, who knew what the military might have offered him.

They pulled up in front of a small white washed guest cottage where a young officer with captain's bars stood waiting.

"Welcome to Fort Hwachuka, Dr. Pierson," the captain greeted him as he opened the door and Methos stepped out.

"Bless you," Methos grinned. "Nasty cold you've got, Captain."

The young man gave him a slight smile as if he'd heard the joke a thousand times before. "Thank you, sir, but I was telling you the name of the fort."

"Sorry," he grinned even more broadly, not the least bit apologetic after what they'd put him through.

The captain nodded stoically. "I'm Ed Shelby. I'll be your liaison while you're here. How was your trip, sir?"

"Tedious," Methos responded tersely as the driver, who was not in uniform, carried his bags to the cottage and laid them inside the door. There was no point in saying anything about how he'd been lured here under false pretenses. The captain wasn't likely to have been either responsible or knowledgeable about anything related to his hiring. He was just doing his job as he'd been ordered.

"If you'll follow me, I'll show you your quarters," Shelby suggested.

Methos nodded curtly and followed him up the flower lined walk to the door where he was handed a set of keys.

"As I said, I'll be your liaison while you're with us," Shelby informed him. "If you need anything just pick up the phone and ask the base operator to page me." Methos opened the door and they stepped inside. "There's a packet over there on the desk," he pointed toward the neat living room as he switched on the hall light. "It contains all the information you need on base security, meal times if choose to go to the mess hall, building locations you're free to visit and the restricted areas you are not. If you need anything in one of the restricted areas you should contact me first. You'll also find an identification badge that you must have on your person at all times outside of your quarters."

Again, Methos nodded. He'd heard this or similar speeches before.

"Are you hungry?" the young man inquired politely. "The kitchen is fully stocked, but if you prefer, I can have sent something sent over."

"You guys have surf & turf?" Methos asked, recalling just how well fed the Americans had been during the war. He'd often eaten at their mess hall whenever he'd been invited, just to avoid the half rations and corn flake extended pseudo-meat to which most of Britain had been reduced.

The captain nodded. "Oh, yeah. Best lobster you'll find in the state, flown in once a week straight from Maine. How do you want your steak?"

"Medium rare."

"Baked potato?"

Methos grinned. "All the trimmings. Beer, too, if you've got it."

"Sir, might I suggest a soft drink, juice or coffee," Shelby said as he gently tried to dissuade him. "You do have a physical in the morning."

Methos raised an eyebrow at that. Any alcohol he might have consumed would have long since been metabolized by his Immortal system. Still, when in Rome... "Coffee's fine," he murmured.

"I'll have it sent over immediately," the captain told him as he headed for the door. "In the morning if you're up to it after your physical, I'll give you the grand tour and then you can join the rest of the project team for breakfast at the mess hall. There'll be a guard stationed outside if you need anything."

Methos thanked the young man, sighing in disgust as he closed the door behind him, recalling the annoyance of getting up every morning at 4 am to get to work. Not that he'd have to here, but they'd be blowing that damned horn for reveille and he'd never been able to sleep through that nonsense in any army. Well, at least he wasn't a prisoner, that was some consolation at any rate. And in the morning he'd get to speak to whoever was in charge and find out why they had approached him in such a clandestine fashion. For now though, he thought, kicking off his shoes as he searched for the shower, he'd be content with this charmingly pleasant cottage, the usual oversized American meal and a decent night's sleep. He'd worry about the little things in the morning.

***

The day started out much as Methos expected. Noisy. Great bleating horns and the national anthem blaring from loudspeakers into every nook and cranny of the fort. This was shortly followed by thunderous boot stomping accompanied by enthusiastically shouted cadences and the occasional boom sha-ka-la-ka which made the windows vibrate and drove him from the comfort of his bed. He had just enough time to make himself presentable and grab a quick cup of coffee before the door bell rang and a bright eyed, cheerful Captain Shelby appeared looking like an energetic puppy ready to go out and play.

Two hours later he'd gotten a clean bill of health from the doctor, a quick tour of the areas he was allowed access to which were surprisingly numerous and a run down on the people he'd be joining for breakfast. There were several well known experts in cuneiform from around the world and a handful of linguists from the military's Defense Language Institute, apparently here to observe.

He chatted amiably with the others over breakfast. Though he'd never met any of them, Methos had read a number of their papers. Around midmorning they were escorted to a large room where they were assigned seats with individual files neatly laid at computer terminals and asked to begin working.

Methos gave a silent sigh of despair. For the next two days, they were informed, they would be asked to work separately on the same documents in order to create several independent theories for later discussion. A good idea, but incredibly boring. Still, there was the work itself. And as Methos opened his folder he forgot to ask about speaking with senior officers, or complaining about being misled. There was just the work and the fascination of the puzzle before him.

***

Taps was playing when Methos looked up from his computer screen, surprised at how long he'd been sitting at the cramped station. The remains of his lunch were in the waste basket under the desk and Captain Shelby was patiently waiting. He stood and stretched, rubbing his burning eyes. For two days he'd been practically glued to his seat, frustrated when they wouldn't let him return with the file to his quarters. Whatever they'd given him to work on, the inscriptions went well beyond interesting and into the realm of the fantastical.

Though he hadn't yet been allowed access to the actual tablets, the scanned images he'd been shown were among the most well preserved he'd ever seen. No erosion or breaks whatsoever. That alone was curious. Like the others, he'd been given two small sections of different tablets to translate -- obviously part of a larger find. The first had spoken of ancient gateways to the stars. Or maybe stairways to heaven, Methos smirked. The second, of someone called Tok'ra, who'd stood as a weapon, or had some kind of weapon against the evil overlords of the Go-ah-uld.

The others were long since gone to dinner when Methos followed the captain out of the building, declining his offer of dinner in the mess and strolling back to his cottage in quiet, thoughtful contemplation of the bits and pieces of stories the tablets had told. If he hadn't heard very nearly every creation epic under the sun and by those who'd learned them from their own forefathers he'd be inclined to think someone was pulling his leg. Yet, there was something about their content which was eerily familiar, though he couldn't quite remember where he might have heard such a tale. Still, there were thousands of such confabulations as he recalled a bit ruefully, mostly based on truth with a lot of pretentious fiction thrown in by the poets for good measure. Truth might be stranger than fiction, but not to a bard who earned his supper by his wit and erudition. He'd heard enough of them over the ages to know when they were taking poetic license with the facts. Of course, in those days that was to be expected. Historic fact versus fiction was never important as long as the pacing of the tale was exciting and the voice telling it was reasonably good.

His colleagues seemed equally fascinated from some of the whispered conversations he'd overheard. With a secret smile he opened the front door, realizing that he was looking forward to seeing the expressions on their faces when he presented his findings in the morning. Not one of them had managed to get past the first section with any certainty. He'd only succeeded because he'd recalled an obscure southern Mesopotamian dialect which had been dying out in the wake of successive invasions right around the time he'd taken up with the Horsemen. It was not exactly the same, but close enough to allow for a few educated guesses on his part.

And the truth was, Methos finally decided as he pulled a beer from the fridge, it was unlikely they'd let him out of here before the project was completed. The military had gone to a great deal of trouble to get him here in secrecy and, he assumed, the other experts as well. Something about these tablets interested them. And while he didn't really care about their interests, his lay in getting the translations done as quickly as possible.

Methos yawned and stretched, then threw himself down on the couch in a comfortable sprawl. Putting his beer on the coffee table he grabbed the remote and turned on the television, shutting it off a moment later when he found the noise irritating. With an exhausted sigh he leaned his head back against the cushions, just resting his eyes as he wondered what to do about dinner. Maybe he could order a pizza, he thought wearily, yawning again. Then again, maybe he should just throw one of those frozen meals they'd left in the freezer into the microwave and nuke it. He opened his eyes and reached for his beer, then thought better of it when the light started to give him a headache. He switched off the lamp and put the room into darkness.

Too much time in front of that damnable screen under lousy overhead lighting, he silently complained, rubbing the crease between his brows. A little nap, he thought. Yes, that was the ticket. A little rest and he'd be right as rain in a bit. He wasn't really that hungry anyway. He'd just close his eyes and think about what he was going to do to his old friend Daniel when he got his hands on him. Maybe later he'd have a snack or something.

Content for the moment Methos drifted off to sleep, not even waking several hours later when a half a dozen black clad, hooded figures surrounded the tiny guest cottage as they prepared to break in.

***

"Please come with us, sir."

Methos woke with a start, surrounded by several ominous looming figures. For a brief instant he was back in Paris, fearful of renegade Watchers hunting him down as the most ancient of all Immortal abominations. The instant passed and with it came the knowledge of where and when he was. And, if that was so, and he was fairly certain it was, this could only mean one thing. Soldiers. The voice politely repeated the request. Yup, soldiers.

He sat up and took a deep breath before getting to his feet. The idea of refusing didn't even enter his mind, nor did asking questions like, "Who are you?" or "Where are you taking me?" The hoods made it obvious they didn't want him to know the first which meant the second would likely go unanswered as well. That left, "What do you want from me?" which he asked as they led him through the back door and out to a waiting truck.

"Your complete cooperation," the voice responded neutrally.

Oh, well, of course they wanted that! Methos thought dryly. But his cooperation in what? How could he cooperate if he didn't know what they wanted? He decided on simply doing as he was told and with a quiet sigh he climbed in and took a seat, surrounded by his captors. They rode in silence after that. Not long and not far. Somewhere on the fort he was certain.

"Move," the voice ordered him out of the truck and Methos obliged, suppressing his sudden anxiety as they entered what he quickly recognized as the medical building. The antiseptic smell of the halls lingered in his nostrils as they marched him up a corridor, through multiple sets of security doors and into a changing room. Two of the black clad figures remained by the door as the others, he assumed, took up positions outside.

"Strip," he was told and pointed toward an open locker where a hospital gown sat neatly on an upper shelf.

Savagely controlling his sudden urge to cut and run despite the fact that he was greatly out numbered, Methos quietly followed the instructions. Immortals and modern hospitals did not mix well. A standard physical was never a problem. The most that generally happened was that he was cordially asked to donate a pint or two of blood. All Immortals were universal donors, just as they were all perfectly healthy textbook specimens. He didn't know what the results of a more intensive study might show about Immortal physiology, but he dreaded the idea of being subjected to one.

"Look, I've already had a physical," he pointed out as he slid the gown over his shoulders.

The ensuing silence did not bode well, nor did the opening of a second door which led to a very well appointed examination room.

"In there," the voice ordered and Methos briefly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he steeled himself for what was about to come.

***

Cold. He was cold and his insides were shivering with the shock of what had been done -- clenching tight against any further invasion as his hands gripped the hard edge of the exam table. They'd started by searching his body. Every inch of it inside and out. Three doctors, each taking turns examining him and correlating their findings. There'd been x-rays, followed by an alphabet soup of tests. MRI, EKG, EEG and an EMG where painful electrical charges had been run through his arms and legs to see how the nerves worked.

Somehow, he'd thought that was the worst. He taken hundreds of Quickenings, felt the exquisitely agonizing sensation of being seared by lightening, but this was not the same. The sudden, random impacts of electrical energy in the space of a few moments were nothing compared to the slow, methodical, utterly impersonal torture of waiting for the comparatively tiny jolts to come.

Then they'd started taking samples. Blood, hair, fingernails, saliva and tissue from various portions of his anatomy. He was handed a cup and told to fill it. With what he didn't have to ask. Finally, they'd opened him up again with a brightly cold speculum, took a stool sample, checked his prostate and filled another little cup with his ejaculate. All without ever asking his permission or inquiring as to whether or not he was comfortable.

Through it all Methos had remained silent and aloof, deliberately numbing himself to either anger or humiliation. He'd lived through worse, certainly. Although, he was forced to admit, nothing so impersonally cruel. Even being fingered for sale at auction had at least taken into account that he physically existed. That he was not simply an amalgam of parts to be catalogued, scrutinized and studied. Still, he would heal, and he would not allow them to see the emotional hurt they had rendered. There would be time later to lick his wounds and weep for his lost dignity.

Without a word the doctors left and he hopped from the table and went to clean himself as best he could. He moved slowly and the guards at the door, who had remained throughout, did not trouble him. When he was done one of them handed him something to wear. Not his own clothes, but a crisp blue prison issue coverall and a pair of soft shoes.

Oh, dear gods, they knew! They knew what he was. Or if not that, then that he was something other than human.

Methos put a hand on the counter to steady himself. He must not give in to despair. How much they knew was still in question and, more importantly, what they intended to do with that information.

He dressed in silence, trying to maintain his emotional distance and not speculate on how they had learned that he was different. He must simply bide in quiet and allow them to ask their questions, which surely they would do and soon. His answers must depend on what they asked, not what he thought they knew.

He didn't have long to wait, these people were nothing if not efficient. He was led across the hall and into a room so brightly lit it made his head ache. Which was, he supposed, the point. The walls were painted a drab, institutional grayish green, obviously meant to instill hopelessness. A hard, straight backed chair and nondescript table were bolted to the concrete floor and he was told to take a seat. Behind him, a single, sexless guard in the black on black ensemble they all wore stood silently at attention in the corner.

An entirely sobering setting indeed, Methos was forced to admit. The physical examination, long and painful, had been meant not just for the gathering of information, but to break him down -- softening him up just enough for this. And to some degree it had worked, he realized with chagrin. He was definitely afraid of these people and of what they were capable of doing to him. Still, he was made of sterner stuff and unlike anyone they had ever encountered which he hoped would be to his advantage.

"Who are you?"

Methos glanced around the tiny room, no bigger than a walk-in closet, searching for the origin of the disembodied, electronically altered voice, but the speakers were extremely well hidden. No doubt the cameras watching him were as well.

"You should know," he finally responded. "You invited me here."

"We invited Adam Pierson, but it's obvious that's not who you are."

He shouldn't have been surprised by the accusation, but he was. "You must be mistaken."

"You are not Adam Pierson. There is no Adam Pierson."

"I AM Adam Pierson," he insisted, though he suspected it was futile and he was right.

"Your birth certificate is a fraud. Adam Pierson does not exist. Neither did Helena Pierson, or Benjamin Pierson, the supposed parents of the child. They are fictional constructs."

Shit! Methos inwardly cringed. Unlike most Immortals in the modern era he'd learned early never to take names off headstones and assume a real identity. Instead, he thought he'd been clever, using his medical background to issue false birth certificates over the years. Even now, it was easy enough to slip into the system through small, backwater hospitals as an orderly or nurse, create the necessary documents, have a distracted clerk file the appropriate forms and allow them to remain dormant until he had need of the identity. Adam Pierson had come into existence in just such a manner in 1965. Twenty years later he'd simply gone round to his "father's" solicitor, produced an equally fictitious set of death certificates and inherited his modest estate. And now the game was up.

On the other hand, he thought with just a touch of hope, maybe he wasn't as bad off as he had thought. Perhaps they simply thought he was a spy. He hadn't been the first to have that idea, not by any stretch of imagination. He had in fact stolen it from the Americans, who'd played that game even before the First World War. But then, he wasn't about to admit to being a spy either if he could avoid it. A bullet to the brain might be the least of his worries at that point.

"Your research is wrong," Methos said to the blank wall before him, hoping to draw them out a little more. If anyone was Adam Pierson he certainly was. Let them prove he wasn't.

And they did exactly that. With his stomach tightening in ever increasing knots the voice proceeded to list almost every identity Methos had ever owned during the age of modern banking. Every account had been traced and by virtue of these his university records. From Vienna to Harvard they had it all. From there they recounted a plethora of evidence from ships' logs, deeds, estate sales, property taxes he'd paid, court cases he'd either brought or been named in, to the church bans posted for his three most recent marriages -- essentially public records of every kind from the 16th century onward.

"Now, what are you?" the voice asked when it had finished with its accounting.

He sat quietly for a long moment wearing a calculatedly distressed expression, plotting. They did not know about Immortals, he decided. In fact, they did not really know much about him. They were simply on a fishing expedition having inadvertently found something they'd never seen. Good, he thought. He would give them what they wanted. A nice, neat fable with enough truth thrown in for them to do whatever checking they needed and believe. He would not worry now about what came later.

"What am I?" he repeated thoughtfully. "I am a man. I was born in the year 1283,"  he told them, dating himself a little earlier than they had for the sake of realism and because there would likely be no records that far back. "I was called Valerie du Fontaine. The third son of a third son of minor nobility with little ambition except to enter a monastery and further my studies as a monk. My family found this acceptable and I was shortly enrolled with the brothers who served the Knights Templar in France. Not long after this the King of France declared the Knights anathema. Soldiers came and arrested those they could, killing the rest who were of little importance.

"They killed me, too," he murmured softly, recalling the day it had happened and he'd been driven from his brief sanctuary. He sighed deeply for his captors' benefit. "At least," he added, "I think they did. I do not know for certain.

"This monastery was built above an ancient grotto, where it was said a vision of Christ himself appeared to a shepherd and baptized the boy." In truth, it had been an old Roman bathhouse, where the whores had been among the best in Gaul. Then again, maybe Christ had appeared to bless that notorious den of sin and iniquity. It would have been just like him according to Peter and Paul.

"Weak with blood loss and thirst I crawled to the shrine and drank of its holy waters. For three days I lay there," he went on, keeping up the Christian imagery. "Praying to God and asking that I might be healed. On the fourth day, which was the Feast of All Saints, I awoke to find my prayers had been answered." He paused to increase the drama of his tale and devoutly crossed himself, murmuring a blessing.

"Amazed," he finally continued. "I left this place and returned to my home, remaining in the bosom of my family for many years. Eventually, it came to be noticed that I was not growing older and in fear of being burned for a witch and as a heretic because of my past with the Templars, I fled to England. From there began my many journeys and many lives, such as you have discovered. I broke no laws, harmed no one, and disrespected no man worthy to be called such. I have lived as honestly and as honorably as can be expected of any man, until this century where I was forced to take steps to ensure my survival. I stole nothing from anyone. I did not take a name that belonged to another, nor moneys I had not earned."

"You entered this country fraudulently and illegally claimed dual citizenship," the voice pointed out.

"Damn straight I did!" he told them putting a little honest anger into his voice. "I fought in your bloody revolution!" He'd been running from Kronos back then and hadn't had much of a choice, but he still felt entitled. "Didn't you find a record of that? Dr. Francis Benjamin of Bedersville, Pennsylvania. There used to be a plaque in the town square with my name on it!"

There was silence from the gallery and he knew he'd scored a point.

"We will continue checking your story, and watching you closely," the voice told him. "In the meantime, you may return to the project until we find another use for you."

"Another use?" Methos asked softly. He didn't like the sound of that.

"If you are not useful, then you're dangerous. Don't bite the hand that feeds you," the voice threatened. "It hits hard."

The icy finger of dread trailed down his spine as he followed the guard back to the changing room. They would not let him go. Not in a year, not in ten years. And what if they couldn't find another use for him? He shivered at the thought as he stripped off the coverall and got out his clothes. Then he would make himself useful. He'd done it before. To Kronos, to Caesar, even to Khan. He would be the most useful, docile cat in the barn -- until he unsheathed his claws and they realized he wasn't tamed at all.

***

The little cottage was quiet and filled with late afternoon shadows when they dropped him off and watched him go inside. Reflexively, Methos locked and bolted the door then headed for the bathroom where he hurriedly shed his clothes and climbed into the shower to wash the stink of fear from his pores. He turned the hot water up until it was near scalding and stood in the billowing waves of steam as it pounded over his back while he rested his forehead against the cool of the tiled stall. It eased the cramps in his muscles, gained over the long hours where he'd held himself tense and relaxed him enough to allow his stomach to unknot. Finally, he slid to the floor, kneeling over the drain as he heaved up bile and shook so hard he had to grab hold of the wall.

A delayed reaction to the stress and the shock, he reminded himself. Neither unprecedented, nor unexpected. Quite healthy, in fact, came the sardonic thought. He turned his face up to the spray and rinsed his mouth, then sat with his arms wrapped around his legs while the water poured down on his head. Eventually, the water cooled and he drew himself up, turned off the shower and toweled himself down.

Pulling his robe off the back of the door he slid into it and climbed into bed, curling up with his arms around a pillow. He was so tired and yet so overwrought sleep would not come. He hated this feeling. This helplessness he recalled all too well from days long past when others had taken charge of his life. It was useless, he realized, to even contemplate escape at the moment. They would be watching for that. And it was doubtful he could get off the base, or if he did, he suspected, he wouldn't get very far. Why they had even let him return to work on their little pet project he couldn't even guess, nor did he want to try. In their own way these people were as dangerous to him as any head hunter. Revolutionary war hero or not, he doubted they would trouble much over dissecting him like a frog.

He shivered at the thought. Better their willing tool than an unwilling science project, he reasoned. There was nothing they could learn from his body anyway, he realized. The medical exams could not have shown anything untoward or they would not have let him come back to the project. It was all in the Quickening. And if they got that from him it wouldn't matter anymore.

Methos lifted his head as the solemn sound of taps began to play in the distance signaling the end of the work day. This was the time when in days past the soldiers would leave off what they were doing and lay their dead to rest as they laid aside the day. It was a quiet time. A momentary pause in the insanity of war which he'd once come to love for the sense of peace it brought him. And given his reaction, he mused, as the last of the shudders left him, apparently he still did.

With a sigh, Methos punched up the pillow and tucked it under his head. He was free of that place for the moment, and if he played their little game one day he would be quit of them too. He yawned and closed his eyes. As the last notes faded in the distance, Methos made peace with the terrors of the day and at last drifted off into the tranquillity of a dreamless night.

***

Reveille sounded and Methos groaned yanking the pillow over his head. Bloody great nuisance, he thought, when he didn't have to be anywhere until seven. Then he paused, realizing just how lucky he was to be hearing reveille at all. He threw off the pillow and sat up, wondering if it had all been just an awful nightmare.

He lifted his hands to rub the sleep from his eyes and caught sight of a small bandage on his wrist where they'd taken blood gasses or something equally painful. Angrily, he ripped it off, taking a little skin with it. He didn't care and he watched himself heal, sighing with relief at the tiny prickles of energy which danced over his flesh. Nightmare it might be, but he was alive and relatively free. And for that he felt extraordinarily blessed. Five thousand years wasn't enough. Not for him. Greedy creature that he was, he wanted more.

Feeling slightly giddy, another reaction to the previous day's shocks he knew, Methos climbed out of bed and got himself ready for work. By the time Captain Shelby showed up, he was dressed, fed and bouncing around the cottage to one of his favorite bands.

"Good morning, Ed," Methos greeted him as he opened the door, surprised they'd let the young man remain his liaison. He would have reassigned the captain and given the prisoner a less affable guardian. "What's that?" he asked, noticing the large blue plastic container in the other man's hands.

"I'm glad to see you're okay," Shelby smiled. "They sent word you'd gone to the infirmary night before last. My wife made soup just in case you were still out of sorts this morning."

Methos hid the shock of his surprise. The man hadn't a clue as to what had happened. Which could only mean one thing in a military society. Whoever had dragged him out of here wasn't in charge of the project -- and wasn't yet high enough in rank to order him a permanent guard. More importantly, a faction within the ranks meant whatever he was working on was considered important to national security. Nothing else could so incite an American to conspiracies and plots. These of course were of no concern to Methos. What did concern him was finding out who was in charge and getting himself placed under their protection for as long as he was involved.

"I'm feeling much better this morning," Methos smiled, taking the soup. "And do thank your dear wife, her concern is truly appreciated. I'll have it for lunch."

Shelby frowned. "Why don't you take it easy today," he suggested. "You've probably been working too hard. Anyway, you can slack off a bit now that you've got the job."

"Got the job?" Methos asked, confused.

"Didn't they tell you? That's what all the separate work stations were about. You know, a test to see who was the best. And you're it. Congratulations. The project is all yours."

"Mine," Methos echoed, feeling numb.

"Yeah. General Hammond flew in yesterday morning to thank the other participants and send them home. I guess he figured you weren't up to company."

Methos wanted to scream in frustration. "Who's General Hammond?" he asked instead.

Shelby shook his head and shrugged. "He's the man in charge. The senior officer. I don't know exactly what he does. National security. Very hush hush."

"I see," Methos nodded. "Is there any way I can speak with him? To discuss the goals of the project, of course."

"I'll put in a request," Shelby offered. "I can't say if he'll respond."

"What was your impression of the man?" Methos asked, hoping against hope that he could count on the general's support. If he could at least get the project moved away from the fort he might stand a better chance of getting out of this thing in a reasonable amount of time.

"Solid," Shelby nodded thoughtfully. "I'd let him watch my back."

Methos raised an eyebrow. A high compliment indeed from a soldier. "I'll bear that in mind," he responded, tucking his soup under one arm and closing the door as he stepped outside.

Having done all he could at the moment, he headed off to work, not knowing whether to curse himself for an egotistical fool and "winning" the project, or thank whatever gods he could recall that he had. He had to wonder if his usefulness to the general had thwarted his usefulness to the others. Or were their goals similar and just their methods divergent? Still, it didn't really matter, did it? He was here and there was work to do. Enough to keep him occupied and out of the hands of those who were obviously up to no good.

***

It had been almost two weeks since his arrival and Methos was working quietly at his desk, alone in what had once been the testing room. The cramped work stations were gone and in their place had come a comfortably cushioned chair, an oversized mahogany desk, wide work tables, movable chalk boards and a bank of state of the art computers, faster and with greater memory than anything he had ever owned. If he hadn't felt he'd been so callously ill-used Methos might have been content to stay here.

As things stood now, he felt continually frustrated. What he could see of the tablets, which he still hadn't been given access to, was just as fascinating as he'd first thought. The problem was with some of the photographic imagery. Whatever they were made of didn't look like either stone or clay, or even gold, but some kind of metal which gave off a reflective halo through the lens distorting the image just enough to make him unsure of his translations. A rubbing, or even an artist's rendition would have been far superior to what he'd been given.

Despite the fact that he had spent most of his life reading incised characters on a variety of materials and was used to their peculiar natural shadows from being placed on various walls and other objects, this was entirely different in that he didn't recognize the shadings being reflected here. They seemed to shift from photograph to photograph making it unclear as to what was part of the letter and what was not. At this point, he wasn't even sure of the original translation which had gotten him the job, though no one seemed to be complaining. It was almost as if they had expected his answers, or knew whether or not the translations were accurate. Methos shook his head and sighed. It was all so damnably odd.

The phone rang and he reached for it absently. "Pierson," he answered.

"Adam?"

"Daniel?!" Methos sat back in his chair, clutching the cord like a lifeline.

"Yeah. Hi. General Hammond asked me to give you a call. He said to apologize because he's been in Washington and couldn't get back to you. He mentioned that you wanted to discuss the project?"

Taking a deep breath, Methos kept a tight rein on his anger toward the younger man. "Daniel, where exactly are you?"

"Me? Where? Oh, I'm at home. Why?"

"I thought I'd get to see you here. You know, catch up on old times."

"Gee, Adam, I'd really like that, but I won't be going anywhere for a while."

"How so?"

"I kinda had a little accident. That's why I recommended you to fill in while I was gone."

Fill in?! Methos silently exclaimed. The nerve of the boy! "Well, I appreciate it, Danny. Really I do." One day he was going to show him just how much and make that little accident seem like a paper cut.

"Was there something you needed? I mean about the project," Jackson clarified.

"Yes," Methos smiled as he picked up the image he'd been attempting to translate. "Yes, there is. Have you seen these photographs? The ones they've asked me to work on?"

***

"It's a legitimate request, Jack."

"Look, I'm sure your buddy is a great guy, but you know the rules. Nothing goes out of the SGC unless it's to R&D. If he wants to look at the tablets up close and personal he'll have to come here. And stay here. For the duration." O'Neill silently groaned. Just what Stargate Command needed -- another hopeless geek. There was a brief moment of silence on the other end of the phone.

"You're right, I know. It's just, he's the really quiet type. Very gentlemanly. Wouldn't hurt a fly. The SGC can be a little intense, if you know what I mean."

O'Neill rolled his eyes. "Listen, why don't you just ask him? If he's anything like you, he'll be so hypnotized by those tablets he'll only come up for air and meals and won't notice a damn thing that's going on."

He could almost see Daniel frowning across the line. "I notice, Jack. I just try not to make an issue of it when you put gum in my shoes, or chocolate pudding in my pants."

"Hey, that was not me! I'd never stoop to the old chewing gum in the shoes gag. Must've been Sam."

Daniel laughed softly. "Okay, Jack. I'll let Adam know you'll make the arrangements."

"Don't you want to ask him first?"

"Already did. He agreed right off the bat. I do know the rules, Jack."

"So what was this whole conversation about?"

"Just having a little fun. It's weird, you know, but I kind of miss you getting on my case about stuff."

"Oh, well if that's all it is. Not like you're trying to give me AN ULCER!" Jack slammed down the phone and laughed. Imagine that, the little dweeb had actually missed his regular ass chewing.

***

Methos stood outside the small apartment complex where Daniel lived, trying to decide the best approach to take with him. Have Adam Pierson beat Daniel within an inch of his life and disappear for the next fifty years, or let Death come to terrorize him with the possibilities?

With a muted snarl he nervously fingered the small piece of paper lying crumpled in his pocket. "We'll be watching you," was all that it had said, but that was all they had needed. A reminder that while he might have arranged a brief reprieve they still knew how to find him.

He leaned his head back and stared up at the night sky. What was he still doing here? Why hadn't he run? Certainly not because he was angry with Danny. He'd tolerated worse fools than that. Loyalty? Now that was more likely, he admitted with a touch of chagrin. Because he knew for sure that if he did run, they would hunt him, and while they might not find him, they would find Joe and Mac and all he held dear. And in finding them they would surely find out everything -- causing the worst nightmare of every Immortal living in this modern age to come true. And while he knew enough to hide, the others wouldn't. So, it would serve no purpose to run at the moment, unless he truly wished to win the Prize by virtue of default.

Damn it! he sighed angrily. He would just have to see this thing through and hope for the best. Maybe they'd lose interest in a few years and find some other poor sod to torment. Or maybe their superiors would find their report so utterly ridiculous that they would undercut their own position, especially if he were not there to be physical proof for them. It was Daniel and his friends then, or nothing.

Before he could change his mind Methos went inside, finding the apartment without any problem. He knocked and heard what sounded like books falling, a shout of pain mixed with frustration and finally, Daniel's voice yelling that the door was open.

He stepped inside and felt his anger start to melt away. Poor Daniel looked battered enough at the moment. Besides, he'd never been the sort to pull the wings off flies or torture wounded puppies. Daniel's right leg was in a cast that reached to his hip and braced by the wheel chair so that it stuck out in front of him. His left arm was immobilized in a sling and one eye had been blackened, though the coloring was almost completely faded.

"Danny?"

"Adam? Adam!" He dropped the rest of the books he'd been fumbling with and worked the controls so that the chair jerked forward.

Methos moved to help, but Daniel waved him off. "It's okay, I've nearly got the hang of this thing."

"Must have been some accident," he said, shaking his head as he stowed his duffel near the door with the rest of his things.

"Remind me to tell you someday when it's no longer classified."

Methos raised an eyebrow at that. Pip squeak Danny really was working for the military. Amazing.

"So," Daniel said, smiling innocently at him. "It's great to see you, Adam. They told me you were due at the base in the morning."

Methos nodded and took a seat on the couch. "I am, but I told my liaison I'd make my own way here and caught an early flight out instead. Thought I'd come round first and see how you were doing before they chained me to a desk."

Daniel rolled his eyes. "As well as can be expected given this." He looked down at his body and shrugged gingerly. "Could be worse, I guess."

Methos sighed and shook his head. "Danny, how in the world did you of all people get involved with the military?"

"Pretty much the same way you did."

Methos tried not to flinch. No, it hadn't been the same for Daniel. He was sure of it.

"Somebody approached me and made an offer I couldn't resist."

"Couldn't resist?"

"It's fascinating stuff, Adam. I wish," he sighed. "I wish I could tell you all of it, but I can't. Not yet, anyway."

"Classified?"

"Only some of it, now that you're in. But the best stuff... The best stuff comes later. Believe me!"

"Really?" Methos murmured, surprised at the heartfelt enthusiasm he was hearing. There was something more exciting to Daniel than proving his own bizarre theories correct? Now that was interesting.

"Even if it weren't classified I wouldn't tell you now, because you wouldn't believe me. Not without seeing. And because they want you to do the translations first. Without any outside input. The way I did, so they know the work won't be influenced by it. But honestly, Adam," he sighed. "It's worth it! All the frustration... All the disappointment... Just, trust me on this. When you're done, you'll get it. All of it."

Methos nodded thoughtfully, very much intrigued against his better judgment. At least, he thought as Daniel sent him to fetch a beer for himself and a couple of aspirin to ease his injuries, he'd be doing something which appealed to him -- and that too was something of a mystery.

***

Great Gods! Methos silently exclaimed as they pulled up to the entrance of the SGC. It's a bloody bunker! What the hell were these people working on? "So what does SGC stand for?" Methos asked his driver, staring numbly at what would likely be his home for at least the next year.

"That's classified, sir."

"Of course it is." Silly me, he thought sarcastically, wanting to know the name of the place where I'm expected to live.

Without a word the driver collected Methos' luggage and led him past a pair of heavily armed guards, into a large reception area where more soldiers were stationed. His things were taken to be X-rayed and carefully searched, just as he was. As his fingertips and retinas were being scanned it suddenly hit home to Methos that these people were deadly serious. Whatever they were hiding in this mountain was considered paramount to this nation's security. And if such were truly the case, he wanted desperately to know what it was. He hadn't survived 5,000 years by playing ostrich, not about the things that really mattered.

They were just finishing their examination of the last of his luggage when the elevator opened and a man in green fatigues wearing colonel's leaves on his collar stepped out looking bored and resigned. This, Methos thought, must be Daniel's Colonel O'Neill -- the bane of his existence and apparently, a minor god.

O'Neill opened his mouth to greet his guest then his eyes caught sight of Methos' sword case lying open as they searched it and he turned away.

"Hello, gorgeous! Come to papa!" O'Neill's hands strayed toward the object of his very obvious desire and Methos cleared his throat. The colonel looked up, looking like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "Dr. Pierson?" he asked, holding out that same hand while trying to regain something of the professional expression he'd originally worn. "I'm Jack O'Neill."

"Colonel," Methos greeted him, shaking hands.

"I take it this little lady is yours," he nodded toward the case which the guard had closed and placed with the rest of Methos' belongings.

"Yes, she is," he grinned, enjoying the look of surprise on the colonel's face. "I have an extensive collection at home, but she's an old friend so I thought I'd bring her along." It was obvious from the colonel's expression that he'd never met a 'geek' with a passion for arms and armor. "I hope it's all right."

"Hell, yeah!" O'Neill looked fondly at the soldiers guarding the reception area. "We like knives here, don't we, kids?"

"SIR, YES, SIR! WE LIKE KNIVES, SIR!"

Methos chuckled softly and grabbed his bags which consisted of a neatly packed duffel, a medium sized carry-all and his sword case.

"What, no suitcases filled with books?" O'Neill asked, leading him into the elevator.

"I'm sure Daniel brought enough for both of us."

"I'll say," O'Neill muttered as he pressed a button and sent the elevator downward, then cast his eyes longingly at the case. "So, where'd you find her? That's an Ivanhoe right? 12th century if I'm not mistaken."

Methos nodded, impressed. "A weapons dealer in London," he stated simply. Of course, the weapons dealer had also been the same master smith who'd forged him a fine set of chain mail as well, but O'Neill didn't need to know these things.

"Practice much, or is it just for show?"

"As often as I'm able," Methos admitted. "Though it's hard to find decent sparring partners nowadays."

O'Neill gently shook his head and rubbed the crease between his eyes. "Are you sure you're Adam Pierson?"

"What? Not bookish enough?" Methos asked, a smile playing at his lips.

"Does the word 'mild' ring a bell?"

Methos laughed softly. "I know I'm not Daniel, but if you like, I can accidentally drop a few of your favorite, most breakable possessions on occasion," he offered helpfully.

O'Neill looked thoughtful for a moment then shook his head sadly as the elevator opened at their floor. "Nah. It's no fun if it isn't spontaneous. But thanks anyway."

They stepped out and Methos glanced around at the bland concrete walls. "Nice bunker. Love what you've done with the place. Who's your decorator?"

"Converted missile silo," O'Neill corrected. "And it was a unique fixer-upper."

Charming, Methos thought. Not a bomb shelter, but a shelter for a bomb. He followed silently as the colonel led him to his new quarters, where he stowed his gear.

"That all you brought?" O'Neill asked curiously.

Methos nodded. "I like to travel light."

"Not much shopping out this way," the colonel responded. "But you can requisition anything you need. Just ask... Well, ask anyone in uniform. Except the general," he qualified. "Don't ask him. Not that he doesn't know how to requisition supplies. I'm sure he does. But..."

Methos grinned as O'Neill dug himself further into a hole. "Wouldn't you like to show me where I'll be working?"

"Yes!" O'Neill exclaimed gratefully. "I would love to show you the laboratory, and the library, and... Hell, I'll even show you the mess hall and the rec room. Come on, Pierson, what'd'ya say? You pumped for this? I'm pumped!"

Laughing softly as he followed the other man out, Methos had to admit that he was rather impressed with Jack O'Neill. Despite the fact that he was obviously a fine and dedicated soldier, he also had the wit not to take himself too seriously. Given whatever was taking place here that was probably a good thing. A very good thing, indeed.

***

Methos smiled as he surveyed his new domain. Actually, it was Daniel's office, but according to O'Neill, Daniel wasn't in it most of the time. That seemed odd, but then there seemed to be a number of oddities about this base that he couldn't seem to put his finger on. First and foremost was the attitude of the SGC's denizens. Upbeat, for the most part, best described it. And if memory served, duty like this should have been particularly onerous to those assigned. Yet, there seemed to be an air of purposefulness mixed with the kind of tension he'd only seen during wartime. Of course, that might have something to do with whatever was going on several floors below inside the restricted levels to which he did not have access.

Another oddity was the medical center, where much to his relief he'd been given a very cursory exam. Every possible piece of medical equipment and a few whose purpose he could only guess at had been crammed into the area. Not to mention the dozens of folding beds he'd seen neatly stacked in a side corridor. Almost as if they were preparing for a siege. Or under siege, he mused thoughtfully as he stepped over to the desk and took a seat.

There was a sharp knock and Methos looked up to see a very pretty blond wearing combat pants and a tee shirt standing in the door. Behind her came a tall, muscular black man, similarly dressed but sporting a drab green bandanna around his bald pate, pushing a handcart loaded with black bomb proof cases into the room. He rose to greet them.

"Hi, I'm Samantha Carter," the blond greeted him a little breathlessly as she lifted one of the cases. "And this is Teal'c. "

"Adam Pierson," Methos responded as he moved to help her. "Damn that's heavy," he said as the weight of the case unexpectedly strained against his muscles. "What have you got in these things? Gold bullion?"

Samantha grinned. "Close enough. Your tablets." She glanced at Teal'c, who nodded once and began unloading the contents of the cart alongside the far wall.

Methos' brows went up. "They aren't gold," he told her bluntly. "If they were, I could have read them off the photos."

"No, they're not," she agreed. "What they are is classified."

Methos said nothing, laying the case he was still holding on the work table in the center of the room. He opened it slowly, staring down at the dull metal.

"They're not radioactive or anything, I hope?" he asked facetiously. It might not kill him, but he didn't really want to find out the hard way. And certainly not in front of the troops.

"No, not radioactive -- or anything," Samantha answered with a grin as she went to assist her companion.

He reached out and ran his fingers along the incised letters on the obverse, jumping back with a terrified start and clutching his fist as a tiny spark of his Quickening was pulled from his hand and fed back into him tenfold.

"Something wrong?" she asked, obviously surprised by his reaction.

Methos stared at the tablet and shook his head. "Just a bit of static from the carpet," he murmured absently, rubbing his fingers together. Whatever this stuff was it made him feel as if he'd taken a minor jolt of energy. Just enough to make his Quickening thrum with the hint of power that was waiting. Incredible!

Samantha stared at him oddly and Methos savagely controlled his sudden urge to grasp the tablet. Instead, he swallowed hard and went to look through Daniel's supplies. After a little searching he found what he needed, snapping on a pair of latex gloves to insulate his hands. As he went about preparing, digging out book stands to prop the tablets up he glanced at Carter.

"Are these all the tablets?" he asked.

"Actually, there are two hundred and thirty-seven in varying sizes."

Methos nodded, already planning his strategy. "I'll need more room then."

"We're preparing an office and work space for you now. It would have been ready, but we had a little emergency earlier."

"Any time within the next day or so will be fine, thank you," he responded with a brief smile. "Is there a report on the order in which the tablets were found?"

"I'll have it sent up," she offered. "This was the first batch we brought out, and if you'll note," she pointed to the case on the table. "They're labeled and coded."

Methos looked to the case. "P4X37-001," he read softly. "Very good. I'll mark the stands."

Mentally dismissing her, he removed the tablet from its silk lined case without incident, propped it up then went to get a blank note book from the stack beneath Daniel's desk and proceeded to get to work. It was a long time later when he finally looked up and with a touch of amazement at his own poor manners, realized he hadn't even thanked them. Oh well, he supposed with a mental shrug as he discarded the thought, they must be used to it by now with Daniel around and contentedly went back to work.

***

"Jacob!" General Hammond called as his old friend stepped through the Stargate followed by another less welcome yet familiar face. "Anise," he greeted the female Tok'ra coolly.

"George," Jacob Carter smiled as they shook hands. "Where's Sam and the rest of SG-1?"

"Semi-annual physicals," he explained briefly as he led the way to the conference room. "They'll be joining us shortly. Why? Your message didn't sound urgent. Was it?"

Jacob looked to the woman, who spoke in the reverberating tones of her symbiot. "It is not urgent," Anise admitted. "But the high council of the Tok'ra finds this discovery of yours to be of great interest."

"Of great interest?" the general asked, taking a seat at the conference table.

"Yes. These tablets you have discovered seem to relate to a myth among our people of a great leader, one of the Ancients, who was also blended, and somehow became a weapon against the Goa'uld."

"He himself became a weapon?" the general asked, confused.

"So the myth claims," Anise agreed. "I was sent to assist Dr. Jackson in translating the tablets. It was felt that while there may be no practical application for the information, nonetheless it should be properly documented."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," the general explained. "Dr. Jackson isn't working on the project and the expert we've hired doesn't have the security clearance to even know about the gate much less what's on the other side."

"George," Jacob interrupted quietly. "God knows I understand about security. But there's more to this than just our interest in an ancient myth. Do you know how the Tok'ra began their fight against the Goa'uld?"

The general shook his head. "As you know, the Tok'ra haven't been very forthcoming with that kind of information."

Jacob sighed and nodded in understanding. "The tale dates back to even before Selmak was born. Around the time of the uprising against Ra and his forces on Earth. For some reason the genetic memory of the Tok'ra is incomplete on the subject, but what they do recall is fascinating. One of the Ancients befriended a blended one and when his host lay dying and there was no other with which to blend, the Ancient chose to blend himself rather than see his friend die. Now, this is important, because the legends state that the Ancients could not be blended. That their bodies somehow rejected and destroyed the Goa'uld parasite. How he did it is lost, but once blended he and his symbiot took the name Tok'ra and began to organize a grass roots resistance. On Earth and around the galaxy. Until that point the alliance against the Goa'uld had struck only at obvious threats to their own security. But he took the fight a step further. Made it personal.

"Now," Jacob nodded. "I know that the past is not germane to the current hostilities. Heck, no one's seen or heard from the Ancients in at least ten millennia. But the Tok'ra have recently suffered some serious losses and the council felt that knowing more about their past might help to re-enthuse some of our younger members who are feeling somewhat demoralized at the moment. And, of course, it might also give us a clue as to where the Ancients have gone. It couldn't hurt to be able to ask them for help."

The general nodded thoughtfully. He certainly understood the importance of high moral amongst soldiers during wartime, though given that the Asgard had yet to uphold their end of the bargain in assisting Earth in her fight against the Goa'uld threat, he was not hopeful the Ancients would be of any more help.

"I'll tell you what," he finally offered. "You can meet with Dr. Pierson, but only as your hosts. Talk with him, see how he's doing on the translations -- he's been providing us with daily reports, but I'm not really qualified to judge his progress. If you think he's working fast enough to suit your needs then we'll leave things as they are. If not, I'll reconsider your request."

Jacob nodded though Anise seemed ready to argue the point. He silenced her with a look and she settled back in her chair. "Agreed," she frowned.

"Good. Now, you'll want to change out of those clothes before you go up."

Jacob grinned. "Selmak says green isn't really my color, but she'll go along with the need for secrecy."

George smiled. "She should have seen us back in 'Nam."

Jacob's eyes glowed as Selmak suddenly spoke. "I have his memories of that," she smirked. "Pink lace? You rogue, you!"

***

Methos tapped a pencil against his teeth staring thoughtfully at the tablet in front of him. The story thus far seemed to relate how this fellow Tok'ra, who had once been two individuals before something referred to as the "joining" went out among the star peoples -- whoever they were -- arousing them to the frenzy of battle against their common enemy, the infamous Go-ah-uld. An interesting tale, though he didn't believe a word of it. It was likely a metamorphic retelling of a natural event by some priest soliciting funds for a new temple or grandiose statue.

Of course, now came the inevitable listing of the places Tok'ra had visited, the people he'd spoken with and the adventures he'd had along the way. The problem was, after each of these place names came a series of seven symbols which bore no resemblance to any of the characters he'd worked with thus far.

There was a knock at the door and Methos sighed at the interruption. Still, he admitted, he could use a break. A week of solid translations with little to do besides eat and sleep had made him a very dull Immortal. Stretching his shoulders, he stood and turned, surprised to see his high ranking visitors.

"Dr. Pierson," a heavy-set man with kindly eyes strode forward, confidently offering his hand. "I'm General Hammond. This is General Carter and Dr. Anise. I apologize for the--"

"Methos?" Carter interrupted, eyes wide and staring in obvious astonishment.

The Immortal in question went very still. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are Methos," the man insisted. "Selmak has an image of you in her mind. The hair was longer, but it is you."

Methos shook his head, fighting for calm. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, General. I'm sure we've never met, and I don't recall ever meeting anyone named Selmak."

"You wouldn't. It was before her time."

"Jacob," Hammond interrupted. "I think you must be confused. This is Dr. Pierson, our translator."

"There is no mistake," Anise intoned, ignoring the general's previous orders as her symbiot took control. "He is the Immortal Methos, who stood with Tok'ra at the battle of Annu'tak'ra. Hail to thee, honored warrior," she bowed.

Methos felt the blood drain from his face at the sound of her voice. The reverberation seemed to chill him to his very bones. "Look, I don't know you and I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I'm Adam Pierson, linguist. Not anyone's honored warrior."

Now Selmak spoke as Colonel O'Neill, Major Carter and Teal'c quietly entered the work room.

"Why do you deny it, honored one? We can see for ourselves the aura of your ancient Quickening."

Methos shook his head. He didn't know what was going on, or how they knew what they knew, but he'd had quite enough of being the military's little science experiment. He'd take his chances on the outside and to hell with the Immortal hordes, they'd just have to fend for themselves.

"If you'll excuse me, General," he said in his most insulted tone. "I think I'll be leaving now." He'd moved past the two men and was heading toward the door when the woman, Anise, came up beside him.

"This is no time for games, old one," she told him as he felt a sharp pain in the center of his chest and looked down to see a pair of scissors sticking out from between his ribs. Oh, fuck.

"Bitch!" Methos hissed as he sensed himself falling. There was a long moment filled with shouting voices and he felt the scissors wrenched from his ribs. Then the room around him went dark and the voices dulled as he felt the life flowing out of him.

***

"It's all right, George!" Jacob insisted.

"It is not all right! The man is dead! Colonel arrest that woman."

"With pleasure," O'Neill snarled as he and Teal'c none too gently grabbed hold of Anise by the arms, forcing her to drop the bloody scissors.

"He's not dead, George," Jacob said calmly. "At least, not permanently."

"Dad," Samantha interjected softly as she knelt by the body feeling for a pulse. "He's gone, Dad. She pierced his heart."

"No, he isn't," Jacob repeated. "Just wait."

"Jacob," Hammond said, putting every ounce of patience he owned into that one word. "I'd like to believe you. But I know a dead man when I see one. And so do you."

"George, remember when I first became blended? I told you there were things about Earth's history I'd discovered. Things that would amaze you. Well, this is one of them. I never said anything because the Tok'ra assumed they no longer existed. Methos-- Dr. Pierson," he corrected for their benefit. "Is what the Tok'ra refer to as an Immortal. A race of beings who cannot die unless you severe their heads."

"He looks pretty dead to me," Jack interrupted. "Damn. And I kinda liked the guy."

"It's only temporary. Immortals regenerate. Look at his chest, Sam."

She did as he asked, pulling aside the dead man's shirt. "There seems to be a small energy field around the--"

The body jerked and a loud, rasping gasp came from the mouth as empty lungs suddenly filled with air.

"--wound," Samantha finished as she fell back in astonishment.

Methos' eyes snapped open and he hurriedly glanced around, rolling away from Major Carter and into a crouch. He caught sight of Anise and suddenly saw red, abruptly launching himself at her. The force of his fist impacting with her face sounded through the room, along with the crack of her breaking jaw.

"Oops," Jack said with no remorse as he and Teal'c let her unconscious body fall hard to the floor. "Sorry, sir. Didn't see that coming."

"See what coming?" The general smirked. "I didn't see anything. Did you, Major Carter?"

"I didn't see anything," she answered calmly, getting to her feet and wiping her blood stained hands on her pants.

"I also saw nothing," Teal'c added.

Methos looked around seeing both understanding and curiosity in their eyes. Yet it made no difference. "Sorry for the mess," he told them. "Now, if you'll excuse me, as I said, I'll be going."

Jack stepped in front of him. "Whoa. Hold on, Pierson-- Methos-- Whatever your name is. It's not that easy to just walk out of a high security installation."

He moved back a pace and straightened, throwing off any remaining vestige of his Adam Pierson persona. "Am I to understand I'm a prisoner here?" he asked coldly.

"Of course not. He isn't, is he, General?" Jack asked hopefully.

"No," Hammond confirmed. "You're not a prisoner. But we would like to ask you a few questions."

"I've had enough of questions," Methos told them angrily. "And enough of being made sport of. If I'm not a prisoner then I insist you allow me to depart."

"Now, son," the general came forward and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "I can see you're upset. You had a secret and one I'll bet that probably doesn't go over very well with the general populace. But we like to think we're different here. That people are people no matter what they look like or where they come from. Why don't you go back to your quarters, take some time to think things through and we'll talk again in the morning. I promise no harm will come to you while you're with us. You have my word on that as an officer."

"Pretty words," Methos sneered, shrugging off the hand that sought to comfort. "But I think not. I've already had a taste of your hospitality in that regard."

"He does not lie," Teal'c suddenly stepped forward. "On that you have my word as a warrior."

"And mine," Jack echoed.

Samantha raised a hand. "Me three," she smiled.

He looked at them, sensing that they at least believed what they were saying. "Till morning then, but on one condition," Methos said as he heard Anise begin to stir. "That I never lay eyes on that bitch again. Or I swear," he growled, daring anyone to challenge him. "It will be a life for a life and she won't be getting up again."

"Works for me," Jack grinned. "Everybody?" The rest of SG-1 nodded. They had good reason to dislike Anise, given that she'd risked their lives and thought nothing of it simply because the Tok'ra required the sacrifice.

"Agreed," the general nodded. "Jacob?"

Carter shrugged. "We have no problem with that," he responded, moving to help the scientist to her feet. She clutched her bloody face, tears streaming down her cheeks from the pain. "Let's go," he pulled her none too gently toward the door, ignoring her inarticulate cry of agony. "I'll take you home. After all, I wouldn't want to leave you to the primitive care you might be subjected to here. It may take a while though," he grinned widely at Methos. "I seem to have misplaced the address."

 Anise whimpered pitifully as she was dragged from the room.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer girl," Jack quipped unrepentantly. "Come on...Methos?" The Immortal gave a curt nod. "We'll see you safely to your quarters."

Despite the fact that he could have easily found his own way there, Methos tacitly accepted the colonel's offer. It was, after all, meant as a gesture of hospitality.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jack asked as they moved toward the elevator.

"Just peachy," he muttered, plucking at his blood soaked shirt.

"So it's true what my father said? You can only be killed by decapitation?"

Methos flinched. He hadn't heard that part of the conversation. "We don't like the D word, Major."

She gave him an embarrassed smiled. "Sorry."

The elevator came and he got on with the others, feeling surrounded by a flock of over protective mother hens by the time they reached his room. They were being incredibly solicitous. First O'Neill saying that he'd requisition a new shirt to replace the one Anise had ruined. Teal'c, seeing his sword in its display rack on the wall and offering to spar with him when he felt better. Then Major Carter running off to fetch him some fruit juice, because even though he was Immortal, he must still be feeling dehydrated from the loss of fluids, while Jack called after her that soup was better and to bring some of that too.

Once she was gone Methos stripped off his shirt, much bemused by his audience. The last few minutes had gone a long way toward easing his mind as far as his safety with this lot was concerned. He still didn't know what was going on here, but he was sure he'd have his answers in the morning. Then, he'd either stay or go. Most likely go, he thought as he went into his private bath to shower and change. After all, tacit acceptance or not, he had his future to think of about. And it didn't include another stint in the military, especially when there wasn't a war on. He'd only served in the last two because they'd virtually exploded around him before he could get out. And they were big enough, and nasty enough in his opinion to merit his attention. World domination by dictatorial forces had never sounded like a good idea. A free and open society was a much healthier place for an Immortal. At least, he'd thought so until a few weeks ago.

When he exited the bath he found O'Neill sitting on the chair by his desk playing flip the dagger with one of the other pieces he'd brought for show. The colonel looked up and set it aside, pointing to a tray on his desk.

"Sam left that for you."

Methos took the tray over to his bed and sat down with it. His body could rebuild its blood volume without liquid fuel, but the juice and the soup would help to at least alleviate his thirst. "Where's your big friend, Teal'c?"

Jack looked toward the door. "He's sworn on his oath as a warrior to stand guard. He's out there now, feeling proud and useful."

"And so he should," Methos grinned delightedly. A rare honor indeed, he thought, in these modern times. "I shall have to thank him for that."

O'Neill nodded. "Listen, uh, Methos?" Jack swallowed uncomfortably. "Do you mind if I still call you Pierson?"

Methos smiled. "Actually, I'd prefer it. Adam's fine too."

"Adam then. Look, I just want you to know that we don't condone what Anise did. In fact, we don't much like her around here. And we certainly don't approve of our...associates committing murder just to make a point. So, I can pretty much guarantee that unless there's some extreme circumstance which requires her presence she won't be back. And also that she won't ever be allowed in the same room with you."

Methos nodded and sipped the juice. "That's good to know. And I'm sure one day," he grinned nastily, "she'll come to appreciate that fact."

Jack matched him grin for grin, then he took a deep breath and went on. "Another thing, Adam. I don't know what you think of us here, but I'd also like to reassure you that in spite of what the public thinks, the military in general is not interested in experimenting on civilians."

Methos very obviously flinched and Jack paused, the expression on his face changing to one of deep concern. "What happened?"

Methos shook his head. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," O'Neill insisted, leaning forward with his hands loosely clasped between his thighs. "Whatever happened I need to know. Was it our guys?"

Methos gave an abrupt nod and pushed the tray aside. "Look, it's not important. I'll be leaving in the morning anyway."

"It is important," he insisted. "And as one soldier to another I'll tell you that it happened to me. Not our guys, and probably not what you went through, but torture is torture in my book. Now I need to know what happened, when it happened and if you know who it was. Because, god damn it, Pierson! If our people are pulling shit like that I want it stopped!"

"And it doesn't matter that I'm not like you?" he asked, staring fixedly at his hands.

"No, it doesn't matter to me that you're different. I wouldn't let Research and Development take Teal'c and I won't let them have you."

Methos glanced up in surprise. "Teal'c?"

"Long story," Jack waved a hand. "You'll hear it the morning. Now give."

Methos moved back on the bed, wrapping his arms around his chest as he drew up his knees. He liked this mortal and he knew in his heart that he could trust him, like he'd known he could trust MacLeod. Maybe, he thought, no matter what his decision a few hours from now, if he did tell O'Neill and it was possible to stop them, perhaps he wouldn't have to run. And since he very much liked his life at the moment the thought of leaving it all behind for a century or two was not a happy one. Finally, he closed his eyes and nodded.

"All right," he began quietly. "I never saw their faces, but it was just after I arrived at the fort..."

***

The door Teal'c was guarding suddenly opened and a red faced, furious Jack O'Neill stepped out. "No one but me, you, Sam and the general goes in or out of this room until further notice, got that?"

"Is something wrong, O'Neill?"

"Oh yeah," he muttered angrily as he stalked down the hall. "But not for long."

A few minutes later he was knocking on the door to Hammond's office. "General," he said as he opened the door. "We need to talk. Someone got hold of Pierson at the fort."

Hammond put aside the file he was reviewing. "I know," he nodded toward the file. "I had someone pull up everything we had on him. It all seems in order until you get to this."

O'Neill took the folder and glanced at it. "The doctors involved filed a medical report?" he asked, surprised.

Hammond nodded. "I don't believe they were in on it. The attending thought three physicians to confirm each other's findings was a little excessive, despite the fact that they were just following orders, so he filed a formal report. I'm having the matter looked into right now," he added, getting to his feet and putting on his jacket. "The full report should be on my desk by morning. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an errand to run."

O'Neill smiled. "Very good, sir."

"Oh, and Jack?" The general paused at the door. "Keep an eye on Pierson, will you? Immortal or not, no one deserves that."

"At least no one we like."

Hammond only sighed. "Good night, Colonel."

"See you at the execution," he murmured, sauntering out of the office. Because for six soon to be miserable junior officers there would be one come morning -- of sorts. Of that he had no doubt. And he was going to be there to enjoy every minute of it, watching them see their budding careers go right down the toilet.

***

It was nearly 3 a.m. when the general's jet landed at the NATO base just outside of Paris. There was a car waiting for him and he gave the driver the address. Not long after they pulled up outside the building which housed Le Blues Bar and Hammond got out, telling the driver to come back in an hour. He walked through the door and smiled to himself as he saw an old, but familiar face, straightening up behind the bar.

"We're closed, buddy."

"Not even a beer for an old friend?" the general called as he moved into the light closer to the bar.

Dawson looked up, staring hard at the face and the uniform. "George? George Hammond?!" he finally grinned. "Well I'll be damned. Look at you! Major General, huh?"

"So they keep telling me."

"Well I'll be. I haven't seen you since Saigon. Pull up a stool," he said, drawing the man his best draft. "Just get into town?"

"Actually, Joe," Hammond told him, taking a sip of his drink and nodding in appreciation. "I came to see you about a mutual friend of ours. Adam Pierson."

Joe nodded disinterestedly. "You know, Adam, huh?"

"He works for us."

"Adam?" Joe laid his hands on the bar, looking as though he were going to fall down. "Adam Pierson? Mild-mannered researcher? Working for you? For the military? Sorry, George, but you must have the wrong guy."

"No, we have the right guy. And don't you mean mild-mannered researcher who also happens to be an Immortal named Methos?"

Dawson found his cane, a bottle of rye and a shot glass then staggered over to the nearest chair. Hammond followed, sorry he didn't have time for the niceties with his old friend.

"I won't confirm that," Joe said quietly.

"You don't have to. I saw him die and get up again not five minutes later. And I also know about the Watchers. Not exactly why you watch these Immortals, but that you do."

Dawson swallowed hard and poured himself a shot. "What do you plan to do with this information?"

"Do with it?" Hammond asked, surprised. "You mean about the existence of a race that can't die unless you cut off their heads? Nothing. What the hell would we do with it, Joe? They're not bothering us. This is the military, not television. We don't need people who don't want to work with us. You know the best soldiers are the ones willing to do the job and get it done right because that's what they get paid for."

"And Adam?"

"Pierson's another matter. We need his help at the moment, although we could probably manage without him. What I need from you is a better understanding of who and what he is. I need to know how best to approach him. Make him feel comfortable so that he'll stay of his own free will."

"What does he have to say about it?"

"Well, given the circumstances, and they're not good, he's more than a little upset, but he's agreed to give me until this morning to convince him."

Joe snorted. "Upset? I'll bet he's upset! Look, George, you don't know what we do? Okay, I'll tell you. We watch Immortals challenge each other in something they call the Game. It's a duel to the death between two Immortals for what is essentially the other's soul. It's called a Quickening. A power, or energy that makes them what they are. When one Immortal loses his head to another he also loses his Quickening, which is absorbed by the winner, and the older they get the more powerful their Quickening becomes. The ultimate goal of this game is for only one to remain. Only one, George. It's a case of the winner literally taking all. And Methos is old. Very old. His head's worth a lot. More than that, he's a friend. So, I'm not going to tell you anything that could get him killed."

Hammond nodded slowly. No wonder Pierson was terrified. Still, that didn't change things back at Stargate Command. "Joe, I can't tell you why we need Pierson, but it's important. Important to me, to you, to everyone who lives on this planet. And that includes Immortals. I can also promise you that I'll do everything in my power to protect him. No one is going to take his head on my watch."

Dawson sighed. "I know you mean well, George, and I believe you. But it's not me you have to convince. It ain't even Adam. It's Methos you have to sway. And that's a horse of an entirely different color. He's survived the Game longer than anyone."

"How long?"

"More than five thousand years."

"My sources say ten."

Joe nearly choked on his drink. "And he confirmed this?"

"He doesn't have to. I trust my sources."

Dawson shook his head in disgust. "I don't know what to tell you, George. However old he is, Methos only got there by being smarter and more dangerous in his own way than all the rest. You're playing with fire and if you keep him where he doesn't want to be you'll be holding a ticking bomb that I can guarantee will someday explode in your face. Be smart and play it safe. If he wants to go, just turn him loose. No questions asked."

Hammond nodded. "I hadn't planned on keeping him against his will, Joe. But I would like to appeal to what is obviously a very powerful sense of self-preservation."

"Then your reasons better be good. Methos doesn't have any loyalty to mortal causes. He can't afford it. But if you can convince him that it's in his own best interest to help you... Look, I don't know what you guys are up to that could affect the whole world, but hell, he is technically its oldest living inhabitant. If this is anyone's planet, Methos'd probably consider it his."

***

At precisely 0900 Jack O'Neill led Methos into General Hammond's office and quickly took up the guard before the flags. Methos steeled himself for the expected confrontation. They'd ramble on about duty and honor and he'd...

You'll what? Methos chided himself. Tell them it's stuff and nonsense? Probably, he thought with a touch of sarcasm. After all, it worked to put MacLeod off the scent whenever he was being particularly trying.

"Good morning, Dr. Pierson," the general greeted him. "Please take a seat."

With a heavy heart, because they really were attempting to be kind to him, Methos did so. Still, no matter how he felt it just wasn't safe for him here any longer.

"I'm afraid," the general began politely. "That we left off rather abruptly yesterday."

That's putting it mildly, Methos thought.

"There were a number of things about the project I wished to discuss with you. As well as what I hope will be your continued relationship with us here at the SGC. And we'll get to that shortly. First," he handed Methos a half a dozen file folders. "I'd like you to look these over whenever you get the chance. No rush."

He briefly glanced at the folders, noting that they seemed to be personnel files. Why they were being given to him Methos hadn't a clue, but he nodded his acceptance and laid them across his lap.

Hammond didn't take his eyes off Methos as the door behind him opened and the Immortal heard the swish of cloth as several individuals silently entered the room. He stiffened imperceptibly, but didn't look around, keeping his attention focused on the general, who ignored the interruption.

"Now, I have a bit of business to attend to," he went on barely glancing at the new arrivals. "You're welcome to remain where you are until it's done."

Methos gave a half shrug and finally looked around, not at all sure what was going on, but willing to sit and watch if that's what Hammond wanted.

"Gentlemen," Hammond coldly addressed the six waiting officers who snapped to attention. Methos felt a shiver of tension rise in his spine as he recognized at least two of the officers. They had been the ones who approached him in Paris about the job. And, of course, he now understood the reason for the files Hammond had given him. Know thy enemy was as true now as it had been when the words were first spoken and Hammond obviously understood that.

"You are here to receive your new orders," the general began without preamble. "McMichaels and Breslow, for the next eighteen months you two are going to be manning our communications station in the Outer Hebrides."

Methos dug his fingers into the arm of his chair to keep himself from laughing. The pair, as he recalled, had been the height of urbane good looks and breeding when he'd met with them. Slicked backed, expensively coifed hair, sun lamp tans and manicured nails. City boys to the core. Mummy and Dadums money and connections wouldn't be able to help them out on that empty, windswept rock. And unless they had a secret passion for sheep they'd get cold comfort and the cold shoulder from the villagers on the nearby islands. He ought to know, he'd been shipwrecked there for an entire godforsaken year.

"Delmar and Witowski, I know you'll be thrilled to learn you'll be joining our team at the Arctic Circle." The two very tan, very blond, and very buff beach boys seemed to wilt visibly. "Hadley and Frankel tell me it's wonderful there this time of year. A whole six hours of sunlight daily," the general smiled.

"Gustafson and Marlow." Two Nordic gods, who'd probably skied all the way to Colorado, blinked nervously. "There's a rain forest in the Amazon that needs a road, and gentlemen, you're going to build it."

"But sir!" Gustafson protested, the others briefly joining in.

"Gentlemen!" Hammond's tone demanded silence and he got it. "You have no reason to object to these assignments. I am being most generous with you. These," he slapped his hand on a file lying on his desk, "are court martial offenses and the result if brought to trial would surely be prison time. You are all, albeit marginally, " he glared at them dangerously. "Guilty of treason. You were not given orders to conduct this unacceptable investigation of civilian personnel. Or," he rumbled ominously. "You knowingly accepted orders from someone not in a position to legally give them. And if that is the case, gentlemen, then you'd best be grateful that I'm the one in charge, because whoever gave you those orders will be none too pleased with you for getting caught." The six paled visibly. "Now you all, of course, have a choice. Report immediately for duty to your new assignments, or you will, I assure you, be going to prison."

Hammond nodded once as they remained silent.

"Now, on a personal note. Before I dismiss you, let me just say for the record that this is the STUPIDEST thing I have ever heard of! Does this man," he gestured at Methos, "look 800 years old to you? He barely looks the 28 years he claims on his birth certificate! And frankly, I think he's fudging it. We'll let it pass, son," Hammond told Methos' gently, ignoring the wicked gleam in the Immortal's eyes. "You're doing good work for us here."

"But, sir. He confessed!" Breslow insisted and his cohorts hissed at him to be quiet. Up until that point, Methos thought with an internal sigh of relief, no matter how much circumstantial evidence they had it was still just speculation.

"He confessed?! Hell, I would have confessed to being Mickey Mouse if you were asking me these questions! You're just lucky Dr. Pierson is a historian, or this could have turned into a tragedy rather than a shameful travesty of justice. He spun you a fairy tale he knew you were just dumb enough to buy and no doubt saved his life in the process. A man who's lived 800 years pretends to be an academic? Don't you think he'd be a captain of industry by now? Rich and powerful beyond anyone's wildest imaginings? And you found him hiding in a library. I think not, gentlemen."

"But, sir, he doesn't exist. We traced the records, sir," Breslow offered lamely.

"In the 1960's half this country's population didn't exist at some point, Lieutenant. Damn computers! I spent a whole year stuck in Omaha until the Air Force finally found me. And I was only supposed to report there for two weeks of training!" Hammond shook his head and slapped a hand on his desk making the six officers jump. "The sheer, utter stupidity of your actions is almost surpassed by your unadulterated gall! How dare you try to justify yourselves to me! Now get the hell out of my office! Dismissed!"

As the door closed behind them Methos sat back and loosed his strangle hold on the chair arms. "But I was hiding in a library," he pointed out, bemused by the general's final comments.

"Of course you were, son," Hammond agreed. "And if I could live forever I wouldn't be a captain of industry either. But those young fools think power and money are the best that life has to offer. And they couldn't possibly understand how no one else couldn't want it."

Methos smiled. "True," he agreed. "Maybe now they'll begin to doubt their own findings. And for that I thank you. But what about their superiors?"

Behind them O'Neill snorted. "If they ever read that report they'll be so embarrassed and so completely grateful to have those morons out of their hair, they'll burn that file and be glad no one else discovered it."

"At ease, Colonel," the general ordered and Jack moved to sit on the edge of his desk. "And he's right, son. No one in their right mind would give credence to that report. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen the proof with my own eyes. And frankly, I'm still having a hard time with it."

"I don't know, sir," Jack drawled. "It's kinda nice having a real live hero of the revolution sitting in the same room with us."

Methos rolled his eyes. "My feet froze, my patients died and the only time I picked up a gun was to shoot for the pot."

"And they gave you a plaque for that?"

"I made the future mayor of Bedersville a beaver skin cap. It was the Forge. He was grateful."

"Valley Forge?" Hammond asked, his eyes going wide. "You were at Valley Forge with Washington?"

"And a few thousand other half frozen, half starved, pathetic bastards. If I'd had any place safe to desert to I would have. Beastly hell hole!"

Hammond sighed, trying not to laugh. Dawson had painted his picture of Methos rather accurately. A man who owed no allegiance to anyone and would rather run than fight if given the chance. It seemed at odds with the great warrior the Tok'ra remembered, but then who was he to judge? "Be that as it may, you're prominently conspicuous in the fresco with General Washington in the congressional rotunda."

Methos waved a hand in disregard, sprawling lasciviously in his chair. "I slept with the artist," he shrugged. "You should have seen his etchings."

Jack choked on his shock.

"You know," Hammond said calmly. "Making yourself out to be a cad and a whore isn't going to change my mind. We still need your help, Methos. And besides," he smiled. "I was told you are not only a consummate actor, but a pathological liar."

"Who said that?!" Methos pulled himself up. "My lies are not pathological! They are, in fact, quite logical. 'Don't ask, don't tell', remember? Well I've told and now you'll just have to send me packing."

"Yeah," Jack grinned. "But since we've officially decided that you couldn't possibly be that guy in the fresco, you really didn't tell us anything."

"Semantics," Methos muttered, voicing his annoyance. "Oh, all right," he sighed disgustedly, resigning himself to an hour spent listening to the general's sales pitch. "You wished to speak with Methos, General Hammond." He sat up straight as his sword, all trace of the shallow fop gone from his attitude. "Well, you now have his complete attention."

The change in demeanor was extraordinary. "Now this guy I can believe is 28 -- maybe even 30," O'Neill quipped.

The general just shook his head. "We have some private matters to discuss, if you will excuse us, Colonel?"

O'Neill rose and headed for the door. "I'll be in the gate room, if you need me. SG-3 is due back in half an hour. Sir."

"Very good, Colonel."

Hammond turned to Methos as the door closed. "Well now, where to begin? I think the truth would be a good place to start, don't you?"

"Never hurts," Methos agreed cautiously.

"You and I have an old friend in common. Joe Dawson. I went to see him last night."

Methos searched the other man's face. Just how much of the truth about Immortals was this man aware of?

"He explained the reasons for your hesitancy about remaining with us. And while I can't say I like this Game or the end result which it implies, I understand that cultures vary and that what is an acceptable state of affairs to some is not to others. Fair enough?"

Methos nodded. "Fair enough."

"While you're with us, I could guarantee your safety from any such challenges. One, because unauthorized personnel wouldn't even get through the front door. And two, if they were authorized and managed to get in, they would not be getting out in anything other than a body bag. As I believe you've seen, the military takes a dim view of having its civilian personnel attacked or harassed by anyone. Lastly, the only members of the team who would be made privy to your special circumstances would be the ones you've already met and might of necessity be required to work with. Of course, the nature of these circumstances would be classified Top Secret. And I can tell you from personal experience they'd die before revealing it to anyone."

"What about Daniel?" Methos asked, anticipating what was likely to be a problematic relationship if the young historian knew he had unlimited access to living history. "I shouldn't like to be trapped in the same room with him and his notebook if he found out. I'm not very good at playing the 'what's the greatest invention in history' game. No one ever believes me when I say it's the toaster. Most perfect gift item ever created," he added smugly.

Hammond chuckled then smiled wryly. "I don't believe your Immortality is germane to his position on the team, but I'll leave that up to you. Right now, it's on a need to know basis and I don't see a need for him to know, do you?"

Methos shook his head. "As things stand now, no I don't. What about Anise and General Carter?"

"Apparently, they were already aware of the existence of Immortals and given their location and affiliations, I highly doubt they would allow any harm to come to you. It was in fact Jacob who requested that I make this appeal to you once he realized who you were. And while I can't tell you any more than that for the moment, I hope what I have said will ease your fears in that regard."

Methos nodded thoughtfully. "I'm not sure exactly what that means for myself and other Immortals, but I'd be willing to wait and see."

"Good. Now, if I've allayed most of your concerns on that subject, I'd like to tell you our little secret. Because frankly, it's a doozy. And I'm hopeful that once you know you'll change your mind about working with us."

Methos said nothing, though he didn't doubt for a moment that what the general intended to do about his safety was the god's honest truth as far as Hammond was concerned. However, a secret interesting enough for him to knowingly involve himself in any government's national security had to be truly compelling and this he doubted utterly.

"I'm listening."

"Have you ever heard of an archaeologist by the name of Langford?" the general asked getting to his feet.

"Katherine Langford? She's not well known, and I'm not sure if she's still alive, but yes, I've heard of her."

"Actually, it was her father who discovered what you're about to see, though she was involved in the project during its early phases. If you'll please follow me."

Methos rose and listened, looking around curiously as the general led him through a series of corridors. This was the restricted area of the facility he'd never seen.

"In 1928," the general told him, "Dr. Langford made a startling discovery on the Giza Plateau." He opened the door to what looked like an operations center and ushered Methos in. "He found this."

Methos stared down through the gallery windows. A huge circular object with a ramp leading up to its center dominated the virtually empty room below.

"What is it?" he asked, craning for a better look at what seemed to be writing on its heavily carved face.

"That's what we wanted to know. It isn't made of any material found on Earth."

Methos shot him a surprised glance then turned back to stare at the object.

"On and off over the last fifty years the military tried to figure it out. Then, several years ago, Katherine Langford brought Daniel Jackson on board to help decipher the inscription on the cover stones found buried with the device. His breakthrough allowed us to do more than just turn it on."

Methos looked back at the general. "So what does it do?"

"It's a gateway, son. A Stargate to other worlds."

Methos laughed. "That's a good one, but what does it really do?"

"Colonel?" the general asked.

"Any minute..." O'Neill looked at his watch, "...now."

The blare of warning klaxons suddenly filled the base and a half a dozen battle ready soldiers raced into the gate room.

"Picking up SG-3's transmission signal, sir," one of the technicians called.

"Open the iris," the general ordered. "We generally keep it closed," he told Methos, who was watching the object with a bemused expression as its hollow center was revealed and its outer tier began to rotate. "We've had a few problems with unwelcome guests from time to time."

"That's a bit of an understatement," O'Neill muttered.

"Really, General, you'll have to do better than this if..." Methos felt the room begin to vibrate and he looked back at the gate as its symbols began to glow. He leaned forward in attempt to read what appeared to be a variety of glyphs when the center of the object exploded outward in a brilliant ball of light. He leaped back, staring open mouthed as the device seemed to suck the maelstrom back into itself creating a smooth, yet weirdly undulating pool of light within the body of the ring, while a massive energy torque flowed out behind trailing off into nothing. Speechless, Methos watched as an instant later several soldiers, who hadn't been there before and couldn't have possibly come from anywhere else, stepped from the light and casually made their way down the ramp.

Distantly, Methos heard the general's voice over the loudspeaker informing SG-3 that they had a quarter of an hour until their debriefing. He felt a hand on his shoulder and found Hammond standing beside him. "I remember how I felt the first time I saw it," he said quietly as the light in the center of the gate suddenly winked out and the iris closed up tight. "Scared me half to death at the thought of what it might mean. The endless possibilities."

For a long moment Methos said nothing. There seemed to be no words to describe how he was feeling. He briefly thought about arguing, but why would Hammond lie about something so patently unbelievable? And if that was indeed the case which seemed far more likely, then, "And I thought the world was just starting to get interesting," Methos whispered breathlessly. "But this..." he shook his head and lapsed back into silence for a moment. "How does it work?" he finally asked.

"Major Carter can best answer that," the general responded. "And I'll leave you for the time being in SG-1's very capable hands. We'll talk again later and you can tell me your decision."

Methos started to say something, but the general shook his head. "No. There's more. Much more. Not all of it pleasant. And I want you to hear it all before you decide anything. Agreed?"

Methos nodded and turned to the major, who stood beside O'Neill waiting expectantly.

"If you'll follow me, Dr. Pierson," she began, leading the way down to the gate room. What followed was a sometimes complicated but fascinating exposition on the creation of stable, localized and directed worm holes, while he wandered around the room studying the now dormant device from every angle. As to who built the thing she could only answer that the Stargate system was developed and scattered across the universe perhaps hundreds of thousands of years earlier by an alien race known only as the Ancients.

"Friends of yours?" O'Neill asked hopefully.

Methos grinned. "Hardly. I'm a mere babe in arms by comparison."

Samantha looked at him curiously. "But according to my dad you were at something called the Battle of Annu'tak'ra, led by an Ancient some ten thousand years ago."

With a shake of his head Methos told them the truth. "I wasn't born ten thousand years ago. More like five. And it's been so long I can barely remember much before the Bronze Age. I don't know where your father gets his information, but it couldn't possibly have been me."

O'Neill and Carter glanced at each other.

"If you can't remember much," Jack asked. "How can you be certain just how old you are? Or if you were there or not?"

Methos gave them a wry smile. "Oh," he said glancing toward the Stargate. "I think I'd remember that."

"Maybe there's a reason you can't," Carter responded.

Methos shrugged. "Believe what you like, Major. As for my age, Colonel, I never said I was certain. We kept time differently then. First it was which stars one had been born under and their placement in the heavens at the moment of birth. Later we did it by the reigns of kings. But that only works for as long as a particular civilization remembers who was in power and for how long. Eventually my reference points disappeared. I couldn't give you an exact date if I wanted to. My best guess is 5,000 years give or take a few centuries."

O'Neill nodded thoughtfully as Samantha chewed her lip. "You know what stars you were born under?" she finally asked.

"I think I do," he admitted. "As I said, it has been a long time. Why?"

"Well, if you knew what they were we could run a simulation until we came up with the right combination. Compensating for precession and spatial drift it would probably give us a date within ten or twenty years."

"What difference would it make?" Methos smiled gently. "The past is gone and to me it is of very little importance."

"How can you say that? You're a historian!"

"For you, Major Carter. Not for me. The past is filled with wonderful things and the thoughts of men and women who should be remembered and whose work should be recalled. Human memory is so fragile and fraught with so many misconceptions that it sometimes requires a little aid along the way. If I can help save something of those lessons your forefathers learned through trial and error and pass it on to their children's children, does it not make the understanding of the present and the road to the future a less rocky path for us both?"

"It does," Samantha agreed quietly. "But if you are missing a huge chunk of memory then I think it would be safer for everyone concerned if we knew about it now."

"That's good, Carter," Jack suddenly interjected. "But first things first, birthday parties later. We still haven't mentioned the nosy neighbors."

"That would be the unpleasantness the general referred to?" Methos asked.

Jack smiled sourly and nodded. "Oh yeah. Let's go find Teal'c. I think it's time for round two of show and tell."

***

"Bourbon," Methos gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could still taste the bile on the back of his throat as Jack opened the bottle and started pouring.

"Say when."

At about three quarters full Methos held up a hand, "When," and grabbed the glass, gulping at least two shots before his shoulders sagged and he slumped in the chair beside O'Neill's bed. He glanced at Teal'c, who waited patiently for him to recover from his first shock of seeing the parasite he'd been forced to incubate for the so called gods.

"Sorry," he murmured, trying not to stare at the man's stomach. "So that...thing is a Goa'uld?"

"No offense was taken," Teal'c promised. "Yes, that is a Goa'uld in its immature state."

"Is it..." Methos shuddered, "...aware of us?"

"Good question," Samantha sighed as she moved to sit on the bed. "We're not entirely sure. We have good reason to believe it is at least partially able to access its racial memories. But is it aware of us as individuals outside of its Jaffa? We just don't know. Not even the Tok'ra are certain, but then they don't use human incubators like the Goa'uld and they don't take over their human hosts."

"In their case it's more like a time share deal," Jack supplied.

Methos shook his head. "And to think when I was young I worshipped such gods."

"You are not alone in that, Methos." Teal'c came and laid a hand on his shoulder. "On Chulak and on many other worlds the false gods still reign. It is here that the battle is being fought."

Methos reached up and gently squeezed the hand on his shoulder. With a frown he looked at the two officers. "Why don't you just get that thing out of him?!" he asked, suddenly very angry.

"We would if we could," Jack told him softly. "Unfortunately, removing it will kill him."

"We've tried," Samantha added. "And hopefully, one day, we'll be able to. But for now..."

Methos nodded. "Of course you can't." He sighed and sipped his drink as Teal'c moved away. "I'm still not sure what to say about all this, except that it is certainly a horrible thing to do to anybody. But the truth is," he sighed sadly. "I'm a selfish bastard and it doesn't really concern me. I expect that if I live another five thousand years this too will have passed and been forgotten."

"Another 5,000 years?" Jack snorted. "You may not even get five. We're at war here! These people don't just want to come back and pick up where they left off, they want to annihilate the entire planet as an example to others."

"And sealing the Stargate won't help," Samantha added. "We tried that. When Jack and Daniel destroyed Ra they frightened the other Goa'uld into taking action against us. We had to get out there and find some way to defend ourselves. Granted, the exploration of other worlds is a wonderful tool for science, but our main goal, our real purpose, is to figure out how to fight them and win."

"And right now," Jack took up the cause. "We don't stand a hope in hell of defeating an entire fleet. Oh, we've managed to beat back a few of their mother ships through good luck and by the skin of our teeth. We even managed to negotiate a kind of treaty with the system lords. But eventually they'll be coming for us and whether you like it or not, Pierson, you and your Immortal buddies also live here."

"I can tell you now," Teal'c added. "That should you, or others like you, survive the initial onslaught, though all humans on this world were dead or enslaved, it would not go well for you. According to the Tok'ra you can neither be hosts nor Jaffa. As such, they would consider your kind far more of a threat than mere humans."

Methos exhaled slowly and finished his drink. "All right. I'm in."

"That's it?" Jack asked, puzzled by his sudden about face. "You're in?"

"What do you want me to say? For 5,000 years I've wandered this world thinking I was a man without a nation -- without a home. Not even a plot of land I could point to and say 'there I was born'. And now you tell me that my one surety is a lie. That the one place I thought to call my own, an entire world I once believed had an infinite number of hideaways to wait out the centuries in blessed peace, is really just a poorly defended fortress -- and one that offers no sanctuary at all. Like you," Methos explained, voice tight with emotion. "This is all I've got! Of course I'm bloody in!"

***

The clock on the night stand read 0230 and Methos sighed, turning over to try and get at least a few hours of sleep. At 0300 he finally gave up and threw off the covers to sit on the edge of his bed.

"I must be completely insane," he muttered disgustedly.

Still, this wasn't simply a matter of conscience, or even, god save him from all MacLeods, loyalty, friendship and honor. This was truly a fight from which he couldn't just walk away. This was his home, too. And that hideous creature residing inside Teal'c was one of thousands who wanted to take it away from him just because they could. It was too like centuries past when there was no place he thought of as truly safe for any Immortal. If the soldiers didn't get you the peasants surely would. And with nowhere left to hide, this time the alternative truly was unthinkable.

The phone suddenly rang and Methos stared at the thing as if it were a foreign object. Who could be calling him at this hour? The only person who might know where he was...

Methos smiled and picked up the phone. "Hello, Joe."

"Adam? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Joe."

"You're not pissed at me for talking to George are you?"

"No," Methos sighed. "He knew enough to qualify for a first approach as far as our friends are concerned anyway. The rest... Well, that was unavoidable. And in a way I'm glad it happened."

"You are?" Joe asked, his astonishment plain even across the line.

"Yes. And I'll be staying on for a while."

"You will?"

"Why so surprised, Joe? Surely you know me well enough to know I look after my own best interests first."

"Uh, yeah. That's what's so scary. I'm having a hard time imagining anything that could get you to pull your head out of your ass."

Methos chuckled and phrased his words carefully, knowing the line would be monitored. "Let's just say I'm having a Mac attack and leave it at that, shall we?"

"Speaking of our friend, he was in here this morning and wanted to know if you wanted your book back. You know, the one on seventeenth century arms and armor. Said you might need it at some point."

Bless his do-gooder heart, MacLeod was offering to launch a rescue mission. "No, I don't think I'll need that one anytime soon. Although he might find the sequel on Culloden to be of interest."

There was silence from the other end of the phone and he knew that Joe understood. Something was going down that affected the world. From Mac's point of view that had been the final defeat of the Highland clans by the invading English troops. It had effectively destroyed everything he would have known and understood at the time. And the allusion to it would tell Joe as much as he needed to comprehend Methos' reasons for remaining.

"Ill let him know," Joe said quietly.

"You do that," Methos responded. "And if there's another book he has I might need, I'll certainly let him know when the time comes."

"Right. And if there's anything in my collection you want, all you have to do is ask."

"Thanks, Joe. I appreciate the offer, but hopefully it won't come to that. They've got a pretty extensive library here and I know how precious those particular books are."

Again there was silence as he let Joe know just how high the stakes actually were.

"Well, I've got to go open the bar," the other man finally offered, his voice a little shaky. "The lunch crowd will be here soon."

"It was good to hear from you, Joe. Give Mac my regards."

After he hung up the phone Methos frowned. He was well and truly awake now. He stood and stretched, pacing the room as he tried to think of something to do. He could go to his work room, but he was still too wound up to concentrate on that. He'd tried earlier after speaking with General Hammond again, but the words on the tablets had taken on a more sinister aspect now that he understood what it all meant. He knew he needed time to absorb everything he'd learned before once again trying to unravel that puzzle.

What you need is to stop thinking and do something! he told himself sternly as his eyes casually fell on the Ivanhoe in its display rack. Of course! A good solid workout was just what he needed to focus himself inward and allow the events of the last day or so to assimilate on their own.

He dressed himself in a pair of loose fitting trousers he'd picked up in Tibet, a plain black tee shirt and soft soled shoes, then tossed a change of clothes in his gym bag. After taking down his sword, he placed it in its case and headed for the gymnasium. Moving through the corridors, Methos was not surprised by the amount of activity around him. In any military establishment there was always something going on day or night, and the SGC was no exception.

In the gym he found others, both male and female, working out and chose a place for himself at the far end away from all the equipment and mats. Putting his case on one of the benches along the wall he mentally paced off an area for himself and began his kata. It was a form so old he didn't even recall where he'd learned it. But he'd done it nearly every day of his life for as long as he could remember and the moves were so ingrained he rarely thought about them. He couldn't even explain them to Mac the one time he'd asked. The few students he'd had he'd taught other forms of meditation. Whatever seemed to suit them best. For himself, this simply felt right. And despite everything he'd learned in places like China, Japan and Tibet he'd never been able to achieve the degree of centering or depth of focus he could with his normal routine.

As he moved deeper into the various stages of his meditation Methos became peripherally aware that he had drawn an audience. But this often happened when he practiced in public and he paid it no mind at all. It was with some surprise then as he neared the final stages that he sensed someone nearby echoing his movements. This had also happened before. A monk or aficionado of the art would begin to copy the moves, but never to his recollection with such accuracy. The thought disappeared almost before he'd realized he'd had it and he passed into the final stage where nothing, save the presence of another Immortal could have broken his concentration. A long time later, as he stepped back for the final time and at last laid his arms at his side, Methos turned to his shadow and bowed. Teal'c did likewise.

"I offer my humble thanks and gratitude," the larger man rumbled.

Methos smiled. "You're welcome always," he responded formally then went to retrieve his sword in order to properly finish his workout. It would have been better with a partner, but... He suddenly remembered Teal'c's earlier offer to spar.

"Would you join me?" he asked, seeing the soft leather case at the other end of the bench.

"I would be honored."

As Methos set the practice guards around the edges of his blade he couldn't help but notice the increased movement on the barbican above the gym floor. The place, of course, was a model of modern engineering. Designed not only for holding sporting events, but providing room for an audience. He didn't mind at all as long as they stayed off the floor. But given the profession of his audience he doubted there was any need to worry on that score.

He didn't bother with wrist guards or any of the other paraphernalia associated with the sport. In real life he knew he'd rarely get the chance to be that ready, unless he was preparing for battle or called the challenge himself.  So when he did practice it was with the greatest impediment to success possible. Bare hands and bare feet, let the sweat run where it may. If he sprained a wrist so much the better, since it would teach him not to make the same mistake next time.

As he slipped off his shoes and moved back out onto the floor he smiled to himself as he recalled his first conversation with MacLeod. He hadn't lied when he'd said he was out of practice, but after a few thousand years the moves had become second nature. If he slacked off for a century or two, it didn't seem to matter in the long run. A couple of weeks of regular sessions and he was back in top form -- exactly where he'd been since he'd first begun to orbit the MacLeod pantheon.  And even out of practice he could probably take on most any Immortal and win. He might not have the anger and the passion, but survival was a hell of a strong motivating factor when you came right down to it.

He began another series of stretches, this time using the Ivanhoe as a balancing point. Unlike the katana, or other light weight cavalry style swords most Immortals preferred, the Ivanhoe was a substantial piece to wield in battle. Not only meant for slicing and stabbing, but for doing solid impact damage. Finally, it became merely an extension of his arms and Methos turned to face his opponent.

***

"Colonel, what's going on?"

"Not now, Carter," Jack hissed above the clash and clang of steel as he pulled her through the crowd. "Out of the way. Excuse us." Rank had certain privileges and O'Neill used every one of them until he and Samantha were standing at the edge of the walkway overlooking the gym. It seemed that half the base had turned out for this.

"How long have they been at it?" he quietly asked the guy next to him. He'd gone to get Sam as soon as Methos had started his warm up. Not because he was worried, but because he'd thought she'd appreciate the insight into Pierson's character. He'd been supposed to work out with Teal'c as they did nearly every morning, but when he'd found them in the final stage of that strange kata he'd hung back in the crowd to watch.

"Just got started," the other man murmured.

O'Neill nodded and leaned his elbows against the edge as he watched the mock fight unfold. They were still in the opening rounds, testing each others defenses and getting a feel for each other's style.

"You thinking what I'm thinking, Carter?"

"He's been at this a very long time," she responded quietly.

Jack nodded slowly. What they'd thought to be a lanky, but decent physique beneath those loose fitting sweaters and jeans had suddenly turned out to be in better shape than their own. Not an ounce of spare fat existed on that sinewy frame. And the elongated muscles of his arms seemed to have been carved out of stone. He moved like a warrior. Not with the fancy dance-like moves some practitioners tried. Pierson was all business and clever cunning as he sought for weak points in Teal'c's defenses. More often than not he breached them and moved back for another round.

"So much for the librarian," O'Neill smiled.

"You're not serious?" Sam asked, her voice tinged with shock.

"I want him on the team, Carter, not sitting on his ass in the SGC."

"But, sir," she began as Methos suddenly disarmed Teal'c in another quick parry.

"No buts, Major. This is not open to discussion. We started out as five and I've always had the option to replace Ferretti. I'm simply going to exercise it. Don't worry," he grinned. "I'll take care of the paper work. You just schedule us some training time."

"Yes, sir," she nodded dubiously.

"He's just playing with him," Jack suddenly murmured, shaking his head, but Sam had gone. Too bad, he thought as Teal'c tried something new and took the offensive. She and Daniel would just have to live with it. Ferretti had been his best friend and he hadn't needed to either guide or guard the other man as he felt he had to with the others. Part of him had always desperately wanted those sureties back. More importantly, Methos couldn't be taken over by the enemy, or easily killed in a fight. Well, he could be, but he'd come back -- and that Immortality thing meant he'd have one less worry to keep him awake at night.

***

"What do you mean I'm drafted?" Methos asked, bemused as he sat on a bench in the locker room tying his shoes. "You can't draft me. I'm not a citizen. And besides, didn't you get it? I already agreed to work with you."

"You agreed to honor the contract you signed in Paris," Jack informed him. "But if you ever want to go through that gate, you're going to have to sign on the dotted line."

"What about Daniel?"

"Technically, he's just a civilian observer. He also signed a waiver absolving the military or the United States government of any indemnity in the case of loss of limb or life -- and we have a Presidential order allowing him access. Think you could stand up to that kind of scrutiny, Methos?"

Bastard! he thought, annoyed. Of course he couldn't and Jack knew that.

"You still can't draft me. As I said, I'm not a citizen."

"You are and I can. You fought in the American Revolution. Whether you knew it or not you were automatically granted citizenship at that time. And that law still exists. You fight under our flag, you become one of us. As for drafting you, there's a little known clause in the Constitution that allows for any citizen, regardless of age or sex, to be conscripted if they have a skill that can't be duplicated and that skill is required -- war time or not. Well, you do and I require it."

Methos frowned. He had forgotten about that sneaky little loophole the framers of that blasted document had designed. "So you can draft me. Fine. But why?"

O'Neill suddenly smiled. "You've been a soldier for a very long time and I want you at my back. I need someone with your strengths. Daniel and Sam are first and foremost academics. And Teal'c has his own set of problems. My first team through the gate was, with the exception of Daniel, a hand picked squad who'd seen combat with Special Forces. Only two came back alive and they died not long after we opened the gate for the second time."

Methos nodded. "And I have the advantage of being both an academic and a seasoned fighter. Well," he sighed, sitting up and resting his arms on his thighs. "I can't fault your logic." He shook his head slowly. "Still, I haven't served in battle for more than a century. In the armed forces, yes. But not as a combatant."

"What were you?"

"Well, I worked as a secretary in the war office during the First World War and as a code cracker in MI during the second. I never got near any actual fighting."

"Why not?" Jack asked curiously as Methos stood.

"Those are bloody big bombs you've gone and invented! Take your fucking head off in one shot. I want to live, Colonel. Not die in some meaningless skirmish in a cause that will eventually be forgotten. But if I am to die, I want it to be by the hand of another Immortal. Hopefully, one who deserves what I have to offer."

"That Quickie thing, huh?"

Methos smiled. "It's called a Quickening. And yes, that's exactly why."

"Okay, well we don't see too many bombs. Too primitive I guess for those oh-so-sophisticated alien bad guys. Lots of energy weapons and electronics that will fry your brain of course."

"Of course," Methos responded drolly.

"Anyway, if you want to go through the gate, this is your only option. Take it or leave it."

Methos sighed and followed Jack into the hall. You're a fool, he told himself firmly. But saving the world aside, there was still that damnable gate. That damned, incredible Stargate.

In his mind's eye Methos saw a flash of his own hand holding a stone knife as he carefully skinned some animal he'd caught. From that to this, he thought, and his heart leapt with a profound sense of joy. He'd lived to see this! Against all the odds he'd made it this far. Into a future he could never have imagined, let alone dreamed of even a century before. This was better than H.G. Wells or Jules Verne, both of whom he'd known and whose books he'd once loved.

"You are an evil, manipulative son of a bitch, Jack O'Neill," Methos told him.

"But you want to go through the Stargate." Jack gave him a wide slow smile.

"Of course I want to! Now, where do I sign?"

***

"Come on in," O'Neill gestured at Methos once he'd finally found the colonel's office.

Methos looked around the small room with its banged up steel desk, squeaky metal chairs, half a dozen slowly rusting file cabinets and one antique manual typewriter sitting in the center of the desk and nearly shuddered.

"This is your office?" he asked dubiously, even though the colonel's name was on the door.

"I know. I know," O'Neill nodded. "I should requisition some new stuff. But hell, I'm hardly ever in here. Am I, Teal'c?"

The big man nodded. "It is true. I have never seen Colonel O'Neill in this office."

O'Neill held out his hands as if to say, "See? I told you," and waved Methos to a chair.

"I've done most of it," he gestured at the typewriter in front of him which held some sort of form wrapped around its cylinder. "I just need you to help play fill in the blanks. You okay with that?"

Methos said nothing, but took a chair and looked expectantly at Jack.

"Not having second thoughts are you?"

"Along with third, fourth and fifth," Methos sighed.

"You can still change your mind," O'Neill offered.

Methos gave him a disgusted sneer. If he could have, he would have. He should know, he'd really tried. "Let's just get on with it."

Jack shrugged. "Okay. Full name and date of birth. Oops. Sorry," O'Neill grinned apologetically. "Could have done that one myself. M-E-T--" he started to type.

"Are you mad?!" Methos suddenly stood up. "You can't put my real name on there!"

"H-O-S. Methos. I have to. Law says so." He glanced up, grinning happily. "Don't worry so much," he waved Methos back into his seat. "No one reads this stuff anyway once it's in the computer."

Methos rolled his eyes and sat down. That much was probably true given the nature of bureaucracies in general, but he'd lodge a complaint with General Hammond anyway. A public record of his name and stats hadn't ever been part of their deal.

"Middle initial?"

Methos looked at the man as if he'd lost his mind.

"Guess not, huh?"

"O'Neill," Methos sighed in exasperation. "Don't try my patience."

"O," Teal'c rumbled from his place near the cabinets. "The middle letter must be O."

"O?" Methos raised an eyebrow. "And how do you figure that?"

"Colonel O'Neill once explained to me the purpose of a second or third name to identify one with a clan or place of birth. Did you not?"

"I did," O'Neill nodded.

"So, if I am Teal'c O. Chulak as you are Jack O. Neill then he must be Methos O. Earth."

Methos squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried not to laugh.

"Well if ya gotta have a name..." Jack grinned.

"Thank you, Teal'c," Methos said, then waved a hand to tell O'Neill to just do it and move on. "And I've no doubt, my young friend, that one day you too shall discover that not only have you served your people well, but that they have repaid you by turning your name to mud."

"Date and place of birth? Oh, I know that! Chal-co-li-thic era," Jack typed slowly. "Planet Dirt."

Methos chuckled. O'Neill had better hope no one else read this, or someone would likely schedule him for a psych evaluation -- and not just his strange inductee.

"Social security number?"

"000-00-0001," Methos grinned as Jack looked up.

"First in line, eh?"

"Early riser," Methos shrugged negligently.

"Works for me. Mother's maiden name?"

"Terra," Methos answered promptly.

"Father's name?"

"Firma."

Jack snorted. "Big guy, huh?"

"24,000 miles in circumference." Methos squared his shoulders and smirked.

"Ouch! Okay. List job titles and previous places of employment."

"Which ones?"

"Well, let's start with the longest period you've ever worked and go from there."

"Death. One thousand, three hundred seventeen years."

"Death?" Jack sat back from the typewriter and stared at him.

Methos nodded. He'd wanted him on the team so badly, then he really ought to know just what he was getting. "Yes. Death. As in Revelations. You know, the fourth seal, rode a pale horse, Hades followed behind. That was me. Death."

"O-kay," Jack nodded skeptically and typed. "Angel of Death."

"Trust me, O'Neill," Methos said quite seriously, leaning forward. "I was no angel."

The colonel frowned and searched through his drawers until he found an old fashioned eraser. He rubbed away the words, then blew on the page and laid his hands on the keys. "No angel. Right. Minion of Satan," he typed instead, then pulled the form out of the machine, ignoring Methos' laughter.

"I think that about does it. Teal'c, please give Satan's minion here his BDUs."

Methos took the pile of clothes, glanced at his name boldly stenciled across the pocket and tossed them aside, no longer laughing. "Now that's not funny, O'Neill."

"Okay. I didn't know. I'll have them put the O'Earth on later. All right?" He slapped the paper down in front of Methos. "X marks the spot, kid. Sign right here."

Furious, Methos stood and reached for the document intending to tear it up, but before he could take it someone knocked at the door.

"Hey, Colonel," a young Marine poked his head in. "If you're done here, could we have our store room back?"

Methos snatched up the paper and glanced at it, then down at the typewriter which he suddenly realized held no ribbon, then back at the computerized, neatly filled out form. It listed his name as Adam Pierson with all the pertinent information he'd already provided. He picked up the uniform and peeled the label off the pocket. Underneath, it thankfully read Pierson.

"Bastard!" Methos laughed, falling back into the chair. Still, he thought, it had been a very long time since anyone had gotten something that elaborate over on him. And he not only appreciated the skill it had taken to pull it off, but the fact that O'Neill liked him well enough to even bother. Practical jokes in the military were considered a sign of affection. With a sigh, he picked up a pen and signed his name with a flourish.

Jack held out his hand and Methos took it.

"Welcome to Stargate Command."

***

So these are Stargate addresses, Methos thought as he sat in his work room once again studying the king list tablets. Now that he had full access to all of Daniel's previous work many of the references he'd struggled with finally became clear. He'd back tracked and corrected his previous translations, replacing words like "the joined ones" with symbiot. Still, he had over 200 tablets left to complete and the task seemed daunting at this point. Part of him couldn't wait for Daniel to come back and give him a hand, while the other was dreading that very thing.

"Pierson?"

"Good afternoon, Colonel," Methos looked at the door and smiled. "Please, come in."

Jack looked at the dozen or so tablets on the work table as he sauntered past. "Having fun?" he asked with a hint of mocking amusement.

"Yes, actually. See those three tablets on the left?" Jack looked over and nodded. "They tell of how Tok'ra went to the planet of the Don-gi, where the Queen judged every man by the size of his penis and Tok'ra was sadly found wanting."

 Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Too small?"

"No, too large. She suggested surgery and he apparently left in quite a hurry."

Jack chuckled. "I'll bet he did."

"That last one tells of the argument he and his symbiot had over the whole affair, or lack thereof. Amazingly, the worm seemed to think it would grow back."

O'Neill's eyes went wide. "What's the address? I plan to avoid planet Dong--"

Methos burst out laughing at the colonel's expression.

"Good one, Adam," Jack admitted ruefully.

"Academia does have its little perks. Now, was there something you needed to see me about? Or shall I regale you with more and better tales of Tok'ra, the well-armed?"

"Basic training stuff mostly. Modified, of course, but necessary."

"Like what?"

"Oh, weapons training, marksmanship. Can you take an M-16 apart and put it back together in 9 seconds. Things like that."

"Actually, I can," Methos smiled brightly.

"Sure you can," Jack nodded distractedly, obviously thinking this was another joke.

Methos smiled patiently. "I take it you would like to do this now?"

"Now would be good. We just got a message from the Tok'ra. Things are probably about to become busy around here, so we need to get this done."

Methos got to his feet and followed Jack out. "You think there'll be some action?"

"Always is with them," he responded dryly.

"You don't like the Tok'ra, do you?" Methos asked quietly.

"Don't trust 'em," Jack clarified. "They seem to think we lesser folk are here to help them fight their battles, and not the other way around. What should be equal isn't. And we're usually left holding the short end of the stick."

Methos nodded as they got into the elevator to head up to the above ground area of the base and its firing ranges. So, he wasn't the only one to have misgivings about them. "Sounds like the Tok'ra need to have their cages rattled."

"Big time," Jack agreed, than stared at Methos and smiled. "You know, they are supposed to be our allies, Pierson."

"It was a wise man who once said that our enemies make us powerful, but our friends teach us humility."

"Who said that?"

"Julius Caesar, on receiving Pompey's head."

***

"What's that?" Sam asked as she entered the conference room.

"Pierson's range results." Jack held up the paper silhouette for her to ogle. "Qualified Expert center mass and sniper. On the first try. Gotta love that guy!"

"No. I don't," Carter shook her head, looking nervously at the paper. "Sir, the man also went for the knee caps, elbows and wrists. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Even a little ominous?"

"Shows how much you know, Major."

"Colonel, those are torture shots!"

"Your point being?"

She suddenly seemed to remember to whom she was speaking. "Never mind." She turned away, taking the seat next to Teal'c.

O'Neill sighed. "I know what you're thinking, Carter. And if it were anyone outside the armed services besides Pierson -- given his special needs -- I'd be worried too. But it's crunch time, Major, and skills like that don't come cheap or easy."

"Let's just say I wouldn't want to live next door to anyone who deliberately learned to do that as a hobby and leave it at that, Colonel."

"I doubt you could afford the house next door, Major." Methos strolled in and casually sprawled in the chair across from her.

"Whatever." She looked hopefully toward the door to General Hammond's office.

"You're afraid of me," Methos grinned dangerously. Carter glared at him and his smile broadened. "Smart girl."

"Enough you two," O'Neill ordered, annoyed. They didn't have to be in love, just work as a team.

The door opened and General Hammond walked in followed by Jacob Carter. "Good afternoon, people." There were greetings all around as the two men sat down.

"Before we begin, George," Jacob looked to his old friend. "With your permission, Selmak has something she'd like to say to Methos." The general nodded and Jacob's expression changed.

"Greetings to Methos, companion of Tok'ra, from the High Council of the Tok'ra. We offer our most sincere apologies for any offense Anise may have caused and would like to assure you that she has been suitably chastised for her actions."

"That's nice," Methos responded laconically.

"I am told you still claim no knowledge of your heritage, is this true?"

Methos sighed in exasperation. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say. I may have forgotten a lot, but misplacing an extra 5,000 years is highly unlikely. I'm old, not senile."

"Is this really germane?" Hammond interrupted.

Suddenly, Jacob was back. "Not really," he admitted. "They're just disappointed. Apparently, they consider Methos almost as much of a hero as Tok'ra."

At that Methos snorted. "I'm no one's hero."

"You're my hero," Jack insisted, clutching the silhouette to his chest and earning a brief smile.

"Perhaps I may shed some light on the matter," Teal'c finally spoke. Everyone paused as he looked at Methos. "Do you recall my mirroring of you during the last stages of Chel'no're?"

"You mean the kata?" Methos asked, surprised.

"Indeed. It is why I believe you must be he whom the Tok'ra praise, for you are a Master of the Art, while I am but a student."

"I thought you were a master of Chel'no're?" O'Neill asked, confused.

Teal'c shook his head slowly. "I have mastered that part of Chel'no're which I was taught, but I left Chulak before my studies could be completed. There are no Masters on this world, save Methos."

"Do you recall where you learned it?" Jacob asked the Immortal.

"Where?" Methos responded with a laugh. "I don't rightly recall when. And how can you be so sure this Chel'no're wasn't practiced for centuries, or even millennia after the Goa'uld left, just as they were still worshipped as gods?"

"Because," Teal'c explained. "The form you use was lost to us more than 10,000 years ago when the last and greatest Master of the Art was killed in battle along with his most proficient students. We have but descriptions left in the archives. Many have tried to use these to achieve the final stage -- and many have died trying."

"There is a way to find out," Sam reminded everyone.

Methos sighed. "And again I ask you, Carter, what would be the point? My age, whatever it is, has no bearing on the present."

"But it may have a great deal of bearing on the future," Selmak stated.

"Your future," Methos scoffed. "Look, I'm sorry your wee ones are feeling a bit out of sorts, but I have no desire to become anyone's symbol of hope and encouragement. There's one bloody reason I'm here and that's to protect what's mine! Not to help your children deal with their feelings of inadequacy as they confront a hostile universe."

Hammond cleared his throat. "Excuse me, people, but this argument serves no purpose. We're here to discuss the current translation project, not to bicker among ourselves. Now, could we please move on?"

The room came to order and the general sat back in his chair. "Our first bit of business is to bring everyone up to speed. Dr. Pierson. Since the Tok'ra have been given copies of your work they are, of course, aware of the latest translations you've completed. In turn, they have provided us with copies of their completed translation of those tablets as well as others you haven't yet had a chance to work through. If you would all take a moment to look these over." He selected a handful of folders from the stack of files he'd brought with him and passed them around.

Methos hid his distaste, guessing whom they had to thank for the translations and promising himself that he'd go over them very, very carefully. From what he'd learned of Anise, the woman had more of an interest in ancient weapons that might be useful to the Tok'ra than the ancient cultures she purportedly claimed to be studying. One could not truly study a culture one held in contempt. Nor could one give due credence to that culture's experiences when the ultimate goal was to acquire their technological expertise. He would not put it past her to have deliberately slanted any number of passages to suit her own purposes, knowing the humans would likely bear the brunt of any subsequent engagement. And it gave him pause to wonder now, at how succinctly she had solved her little access problem by throwing the SGC into a minor upheaval by revealing the Immortal among them. A revelation they might have ignored, but for her little stunt.

"I take it these were computer generated?" Methos finally asked.

"Based on your foundations, of course," Jacob responded.

Methos closed the folder and carefully laid it aside. "It's a tricky dialect," he told him with a polite smile. "I'll make the necessary corrections. But do thank Anise for her efforts. I'm sure she did the best she was able."

"Rattle them bars," Jack murmured and tossed his own folder onto the table. "Let's cut to the chase, Jacob. The abridged version, please?"

"Well, you already know the gist of the story," Jacob shrugged. "The end result seems to have been that Tok'ra somehow created a weapon which destroyed an entire Goa'uld fleet."

"I knew there had to be an alien weapon involved here somewhere," O'Neill muttered.

"Problem is," Jacob went on, ignoring his comment. "We're missing some key pieces of the puzzle. The story breaks off in the middle at the end of the last tablet."

"Meaning," the general informed them. "That we need SG-1 to return to P4X37 and find those missing tablets."

"Oh, joy," Jack sighed and looked to Methos. "Bring lots of extra sun block."

As the meeting broke up, Methos felt the shock of his surprise mixed with an incredible amount of excitement and a hint of fear. This was it. He was really going to do this thing, wasn't he?

Oh, yeah, he thought as he passed the stairs leading to the gate room. The world was definitely getting interesting.

***

"Uh, Colonel," Carter said as Methos and Teal'c entered the gate room an hour later. "He's got a sword with him."

"I think they come as a matched set," Jack told her calmly. "Like the rig," he said to Methos, who merely grinned.

The ancient Immortal had attached the lightweight scabbard he usually wore inside his coat to a nylon harness which allowed him to wear his sword slanted across his back beneath his pack.

Seeing the team was in place, the crew in operations activated the Stargate and Methos watched the process with a sense of awe and nervous tension in his stomach.

"Ready?" Jack asked in an undertone of concern.

Methos wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, unable to take his eyes off the Stargate. "Is this what the first day of school feels like? All tingly butterflies and queasy gnawing?"

"Sounds about right," Jack admitted as he led the way up the ramp. "Don't worry," he smiled kindly. "I've done this at least a couple of hundred times. You'll do fine."

Methos watched as O'Neill and then Carter nonchalantly entered the portal. Behind him, Teal'c waited patiently as Methos fought the instant of panic which suddenly reared its ugly head at the thought of being broken down into his composite molecules and whisked across the galaxy. But instead of retreating, he took a huge deep breath, closed his eyes and stepped forward into the light.

***

Cold, and yet not cold. Intense heat, and soothing balm. Bright white light, but without sight. Wind rushing through every pore of his body in a complete and utter calm. Methos found himself face down in the sand an instant later, gasping for air.

"Takes a little getting used to," he heard O'Neill say as the colonel helped him to sit up.

"Wild ride!" he grinned and saw O'Neill smile. "Take that, Mr. Disney!"

"Gets better," Jack told him as he got to his feet.

Methos looked around, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Two suns, he suddenly realized, startled by a sight his instincts told him should not exist. By all the gods, he thought, a sense of wonder filling him. I'm not only standing on another planet, but for the first time in my life I am completely free of the Game! Now that was worth signing over a small portion of his life to the military.

"It's over this way," Samantha pointed as she led them toward a rising dune.

At the top, Methos paused to stare across the sand swept landscape at the looming ziggurat in the distance. "That's the Temple of Inanna," he told them quietly. "There was one just like it in Uruk." He nodded slowly. "So this is where the bitch went."

"Knew her, did you?" Jack asked.

Methos shook his head. "Never met the woman. But like everyone else back then, I was intimately acquainted with her prostitutes." The colonel raised an eyebrow. "Inanna was also known as the Whore of Babylon. A bitch goddess who murdered her husbands regularly. The tarts were part of her mystique. Le petite morte as ritual sacrifice in worship."

"See?!" Jack complained to Teal'c. "Now that was important information. Daniel never tells us these things."

The Jaffa's countenance remained impassive. "Daniel Jackson has knowledge of many things. Perhaps these prostitutes are not among them."

"Y' think?" O'Neill asked sarcastically.

Methos heard the comment over his shoulder as he followed Major Carter and looked back with a wide-eyed, calculatedly shocked expression. "What has that shameless reprobate got you believing?"

"Beg pardon?" O'Neill hurriedly caught up with him.

"In college, Daniel went through women like you go through socks, Jack. That incredible brain of his has memorized every bit sexual esoterica there is. Including the entire Kama Sutra."

"Why that little..."

Pay back was indeed a bitch, Methos thought smugly as he slogged his way through the sand. Of course, he could be wrong. Daniel might actually have read the damn book and not used that bloody big tome as a door stop. At the very least, watching him as he tried to either live up to or deny the lie would certainly be entertaining.

***

"So this is where you found them?" Methos asked, chuckling.

"I'm sure she didn't mean to fall on him," O'Neill responded sincerely.

"Of course not," Methos solemnly agreed.

"Could we get on with this?!" Sam interjected heatedly, reaching for the rope she'd secured to assist them in descending.

"Oh, you won't find anything down there," Methos pointed out, casually moving away from the opening.

"Well, this is where we found the other tablets," she reminded him unnecessarily.

"So you've said," Methos nodded. "And I take it the chamber was excavated quite thoroughly?"

"Yes. But we still might have missed something."

Methos finally took pity on her. She was, after all, such an earnest young lady. "I highly doubt that given the quality of your experts in the field. More likely, the temple priests had the final tablets on display somewhere else. The great epics were worshipped cyclically. Each year a different part of the story would be recounted and so on until it was complete. Then they'd start over so anyone who might have missed a particular bit or had a favorite part could hear it again. Kind of like free concerts in the park. The propaganda rewards were enormous."

Now Sam was listening -- and of course, arguing. "Why would a Goa'uld direct her priests to recite an epic that details a major Goa'uld defeat?" Before he could respond her eyes widened in understanding. "Unless it doesn't?"

"Exactly," Methos smiled. "The end of the story would have been the most important. The part where Inanna betrays her lover, Tok'ra, and shows her power over him."

Carter nodded slowly. "That's why the early tablets were hidden."

"Perhaps," he agreed. "Or trotted out as a series of examples in futility. Nothing so kills hope as hearing how badly the mighty have fallen."

"This is all very interesting." O'Neill interrupted. "But where would the rest of the tablets be? We went over this place top to bottom before we left here."

"I'd guess in the temple proper somewhere."

"I thought this was the temple?" Jack asked.

"This?" Methos looked around and grinned. "Hell no! These are the temple offices and storage facilities. Inanna would never have set foot down here." He turned away and headed for the exit, the others following. Once outside he circled the building until he reached the base of the ceremonial stairs and started climbing.

"This would have been a landing pad?" Methos asked as they reached the flat summit.

"Probably," O'Neill agreed as Methos led them across the wide staging area and into the temple itself.

Unlike its counterpart in Mesopotamia this temple had been made of stone, not mud brick and Methos looked around, startled by the empty surfaces around him.

"Where are the carvings?" he whispered in astonishment. The walls should have been covered with them. And there was no altar. He'd expected to find the tablets there. Set in the stone around its base where the ancient plaques of gold inlaid with lapis lazuli bearing the many tales of Inanna in the old city had been.

"Carvings?!" O'Neill exploded, recalling his very first experience gating. "Don't tell me you assumed there'd be inscriptions. Jesus! They don't put 'em on the walls out here!"

Methos stared at him, then suddenly his eyes moved past the other man and out to the landing platform, narrowing. "Of course," he murmured and strode back the way they'd come. He paced out the general area then began sweeping the sand aside with his feet until he found what he wanted. He smiled and crooked a finger at the rest of the team. When they were standing beside him, Methos stepped back and showed them the tablet set in the paving stones underneath.

"'And I have laid my heel like a yoke upon the neck of mine enemy'," he recited slowly. "'And forever shall he writhe ignominiously beneath the tread of my feet.'" Methos curled a lip in disgust. "Bitch took the words literally."

***

"He did what?!" Daniel shouted over the phone.

O'Neill covered the mouth piece while he laughed. "Your friend, Pierson," he repeated slowly. "Borrowed Teal'c's staff and blew the damn things out of the ground. Said temples like that were thick as thieves in the Bronze Age, so why bother excavating."

 "Is he there?! Is he? I want to speak with him!"

"Hey!" O'Neill called across the room to Methos, who was working with Sam to sort through the labeling. "Hey! Satan's minion! Your friend the sex fiend wants a word with you!"

Methos rolled his eyes at the irreverent colonel as he hurriedly made his way over and grabbed the phone. "Pierson."

"What did he just call me?" Daniel queried nervously.

"Sorry, wasn't listening."

"Yeah, right. Okay. Adam, did you shoot up an ancient alien temple?"

"No, I did some down and dirty excavating."

"You did! I can't believe it!"

"Look, Danny," Methos sighed patiently. "You and I have had this argument a thousand times. And if you managed to live another thousand years we'd probably still be having it. People count, not pots."

"And if their pots are all we have left?" Daniel asked quietly.

"Then apparently they weren't very interesting people."

There was a long pause and Methos could practically hear Daniel's teeth grinding.

"Listen, Adam. I'm not going to get into this with you right now, okay? I'll be in tomorrow and we can start working on those new translations."

"Been brushing up on your proto-cuneiform?" Methos asked pointedly.

"As a matter of fact, I have been. I'll see you in the morning."

"Fine. Good night, Danny."

Methos exhaled disgustedly as he hung up the phone.

"Does that to me all the time," O'Neill offered sympathetically.

"He means well," Methos smiled briefly.

"You really like the kid."

"Don't sound so surprised, O'Neill. He's got a brilliant mind and there isn't a malicious bone in his body. So, he can be a little annoying." Jack rolled his eyes. "Okay, a lot annoying. But then, so can I. I think..." Methos sighed softly. "I sometimes think Daniel is probably who I would be if I weren't what I am. If that makes any sense."

"Makes a lot of sense, actually. Thanks to you though, I keep having to readjust my dweeb-o-meter."

With a smile, Methos went back to work. Daniel could do what he liked come morning. By the time he got here the translations would be complete. He did, after all, have Anise's computerized technique. And she'd been more than accurate in her translations, in spite of what he'd implied. No doubt, he thought as he scanned in the first of the new tablets using her filtering frequency, someone had sat her down and explained a few of life's necessities. The most important being, never to piss off your coworkers. They often had nasty ways of getting even.

***

"'And going forth to do battle Tok'ra created for himself a carapace'," Daniel read aloud. "Don't you think that's a strange way to describe body armor?"

"No, Danny, I don't," Methos sighed. "And if you'd ever worn chain mail you'd agree."

Daniel grinned. "Still doing that historical re-enactment stuff, huh?" He shifted his cast to a more comfortable position, knocking over his crutches as he did so.

Methos grunted a response as he gathered them up for the third time. "On and off. Mostly off these days." He propped the crutches securely against the wall, well away from Daniel's fidgeting. "Look, it's not that I don't agree with you. The word is odd. It's definitely a unique descriptor. But the story says he rode within the carapace to fight the Goa'uld, so how can it possibly be some form of advanced body armor? It had to be a ship of sorts. Probably a one man fighter. That's the only logical conclusion."

"What if it were both?" Daniel asked and Methos stared at him as though he'd lost his mind.

"Come again?"

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know. Just an idea. Hand me one of those tablets, Adam."

Methos looked across the room where he'd left a dozen or so out on the work table. With a shrug he snapped on a pair of gloves and went to retrieve one.

"What are those for?" Daniel asked, staring at Methos' hands as he deposited the tablet on the desk between them.

"Just a precaution. I think I'm slightly allergic to whatever this stuff is. Gives me a rash."

"Did you get it checked out in the infirmary?" Daniel asked with a hint of concern.

"They're not sure," Methos lied adroitly. "Could have been something I ate. But as long as I wear these I seem to be fine."

"Well the metal is odd," he agreed, slowly running his fingers over the surface of the tablet. "The tests indicate it's similar to naqueda, the mineral the gate's made out of," Daniel explained. "But the molecular structure is a little different. As if it were meant to provide a different kind of energy source."

Methos said nothing. He was not a geologist after all. Neither was Daniel for that matter, but the kid had picked up a lot of obscure knowledge in recent years and he was willing to bow to his expertise on those subjects.

"Funny how the reverse is completely without markings," he commented turning the tablet over. "And look at this scoring. Kind of looks like a pattern, doesn't it?"

Methos leaned forward and nodded. "Could be. So what? The pieces could have been made up of a larger slab that was broken down for the purpose. As for the reverse being rough, they might have planned all along to mount the tablets. Why polish what will never be seen by the public?"

Daniel nodded absently then cocked his head. "Maybe. Do these edges seem a little uneven to you as well?"

Methos shrugged. "Maybe that's part of their charm. Not every civilization likes their edges neatly rounded."

"Have you tried laying them out all together just to see what comes up?"

Methos felt a shiver of fear at the suggestion. He'd very consciously avoided doing anything like that. His Quickening's response to one tablet had been disturbing. The idea of putting all the tablets out and into one confined space made his skin crawl.

"I don't think that's necessary, Danny. If you want to examine them for patterns we can use the computer scans to manipulate them much more easily. It would certainly be faster."

"Yeah, it would," Daniel sighed.

They both looked up as Colonel O'Neill entered unannounced. "Hope I'm not interrupting, but, uh, Pierson, we've got a little problem. Would you excuse us, Daniel?"

Methos grimaced and nodded pointedly to Jackson's leg. "I'll be right with you, Jack." He turned back to his friend. "Look, here's the keyboard," he moved it to where it was easier for Daniel to reach, then turned the monitor to face him. "I'll be back as soon as I'm able."

Daniel waved distractedly as he left and Methos heaved a silent sigh of relief. He didn't know whether or not putting the pieces together might be dangerous to him, but he certainly wasn't eager to find out. Nor was he interested in letting the mortals discover that little secret. They might not be concerned with his Immortality now, but just let them get a hint of the kind of power that might be available to him, or any other Immortal for that matter, and they'd be singing a different tune, he was sure of it.

"How's it going in there?" O'Neill asked once they were alone in the corridor.

"The work? Or me and Danny?"

"Both."

Methos smiled. "The first is going well. He's come up with some interesting ideas I never would have thought of. Whether they're useful remains to be seen. As for Danny and I, well... I doubt we'll ever see eye to eye on a few things. Luckily, he's incapable of holding a grudge for more than a few minutes."

O'Neill snorted and started walking toward the elevator. "Tell that to Apophos. If Daniel ever gets the upper hand there he'll kill him in an eye blink."

"How's that?" Methos asked, surprised yet believing the colonel's professional estimation.

Jack paused as they waited. "He hasn't told you about Sha're?" Methos shook his head. "Daniel's married." Methos' eyes went wide and he glanced back toward the work room.

"He never mentioned it."

"Not surprising," O'Neill went on quietly. "Apophos wanted an attractive host for his own wife. He decided on Sha're."

"One of those things is inside his wife?" Methos swallowed in horror as O'Neill nodded. "Poor Danny."

"Poor Sha're," Jack added as the elevator came and they stepped inside. "She's aware and she knows what's happened to her."

Methos wiped his face with his hand. Terrible as it was, it was not his problem. It wasn't like there was anything to be done about it either. But still, it explained a lot about Daniel's new found intensity for something other than his own devices.

Finally, Methos let it go and sighed. "You said you needed to see me about something?"

"Actually, it's more of a someone rather than a something. Know anybody by the name of MacLeod?"

Methos groaned. "He's here?"

"In the flesh."

"Yeah, I know MacLeod. The infant's probably come to rescue me from your dastardly clutches."

"Infant?"

"A mere four hundred years. Thinks he's everybody's knight in shining armor. Yours too, if you let him. Duncan is nothing if not loyal, true, thrifty and brave. The ultimate Boy Scout."

O'Neill looked interested. "Think he'd be willing to come work for us?"

Methos shrugged. "Don't see why not. He's served in some form or other in nearly every major conflict for the past four centuries. Just remember, he was raised to be his clan's chieftain. So if he adopts you, you're his responsibility for life. And this saving the world stuff is right up his alley."

The colonel nodded. "I'll keep it in mind."

As they reached the surface Methos caught sight of MacLeod standing easily next to a pair of guards.

"We'll take it from here," O'Neill told them as he led the way outside.

"Look at you!" MacLeod crowed, grinning from ear to ear as he slowly paced around the ancient Immortal.

Methos rolled his eyes. He was wearing standard issue combat pants and a tee shirt. "I'm sure you haven't come to discuss my new wardrobe, Mac. And I don't need rescuing. So why are you here?"

MacLeod glanced at O'Neill and Methos nodded. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, Colonel Jack O'Neill, United States Air Force."

The two men shook hands. "A pleasure," Jack said sincerely. "One of these days we'll have to sit down and discuss the nature of modern warfare."

MacLeod looked stunned. "He knows about us?"

"He was there for the dog and pony show," Methos shrugged. "Couldn't be helped."

"Right," MacLeod nodded, taking it in stride. "Joe mentioned that. He also mentioned Culloden. Care to explain that?"

"Not at the moment," Methos told him as MacLeod stubbornly crossed his arms. "I also indicated that if your services were required I'd let you know."

"Meth-- Adam," MacLeod corrected himself and Methos sighed.

"Don't bother, he knows that, too."

The Scot's mouth fell open. "Everything?" he finally asked.

"Let's just say, O'Neill knows me in the biblical sense and leave it at that, shall we?"

"Hey!" Jack stammered. "No casting aspersions here. I may have to work with this guy."

Methos chuckled. "I meant Death, Jack."

The colonel nodded, relaxing. "Oh, yeah. Well, minion of Satan or not," O'Neill shrugged, "that's ancient history."

MacLeod nodded slowly. "I want in, Methos. That's why I'm here. Anything serious enough to get your attention has to be important. And if it means anything like Culloden ever happening again -- anywhere -- I want to make it stop. I didn't stand by for the Nazis or the Fascists, and I'm not standing on the sidelines for this."

Methos looked at Jack with an "I told you so" expression and shrugged. "It's your decision, Colonel."

O'Neill smiled. "I'll tell you what. Let me talk to my superiors and see what we can come up with."

"Jack?!" Methos uttered, surprised.

"Look, Pierson. It has occurred to us that an elite force of Immortal shock troops, say about a dozen, would be of enormous benefit. We're hanging out in the open with our pants down here," he reminded the Immortal forcefully. "We'll take anything that might give us even a slight advantage. And it would," he added knowingly. "Go a long way toward calming any fears about Immortal loyalties others might have."

Methos sighed and nodded. One didn't have to be prescient to see that the days of Immortals remaining safely hidden from the larger world were probably numbered. And having already established themselves on the side of humanity would put paid to any notion of what might happen should the Prize be won. Not that he believed in the myth of ruling over humanity, but the idea behind it might appeal to some as a rallying cry against Immortals. Having Big Brother on their side could help nip that kind of insanity in the bud before the massacres started.

"Listen, Duncan. Give Jack some time to sort this out. You're staying in town?"

MacLeod nodded. "At the Orange Tree Inn, just off the highway."

"Great. Let's say we get together for dinner later on. Seven okay?"

"Fine by me."

"In the meantime, you can maybe think about any others you know who might be willing to join up."

"You really think that's a good idea?" MacLeod asked nervously.

"This concerns all of us, Mac. If we don't get involved there may be nothing left to get involved in, if you take my meaning."

"Shit!" MacLeod grimaced. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

Duncan's expression went very still. "I'll see what I can come up with. Have Dawson check a few names. Maybe put out some feelers."

"Good. We'll see you then."

As MacLeod returned to his car Jack stared after him then looked at Methos. "You guys have done this before," he stated simply.

"Actually, we haven't," Methos gave him a sad smile. "But most of us have spent at least a portion of our lives fighting. Either singly or in massed combat with very little choice in the matter. Tactics and strategy are the necessary tools of our survival. And as you know they have a language all their own."

"Yes, they do," he agreed softly. "Let's go talk to Hammond. He'll need to be briefed before we can make any moves." Methos nodded. "And it'll have to have Presidential approval." At that, Methos' eyes went wide. "Don't worry, he knows what's at stake here."

Methos didn't like it, but what could he do? MacLeod had forced the issue. And once Mac became involved in anything he'd set his mind to, the big Scot would never let it go.

Ah well, if it came down to a war against Immortals, Methos thought with a secret smile, he'd just evacuate himself the hell out. He'd been going through Daniel's reports on some of the worlds they'd visited and a few didn't look half bad. Surely one would be safe enough to call home for a while.

***

The meeting with General Hammond had gone well, better than Methos had expected. The only people in the government who were going to know about Immortals in general were the Joint Chiefs and the President -- who told nobody anything -- not even themselves. As far as anyone else was concerned, if they could gather together enough participants, the identities of the team members would remain 'need to know' only.  And since no one really needed to know, Methos felt sure they would be safe. As for himself, it was agreed that Adam Pierson would continue as he was, with no one, not even the other Immortals, any the wiser about Methos.

With a couple of hours left before he and Jack needed to head over to Mac's hotel, Methos decided to check in on Daniel and see what he'd come up with on those scans. Returning to his work room he was surprised not to find him there, but then perhaps Daniel had gotten tired and gone back to his quarters. As he started leave Methos glanced at the table, staring in shock at the empty stands where the tablets had been. His eyes quickly turned to the corner where he'd stacked the cases, finding them missing as well.

"Son of a bitch! Daniel!" he hissed furiously, stalking out of the room. Now where would the brat have taken them? He stopped the first person he passed in the corridor, asking if they'd seen Dr. Jackson. After three tries he finally found someone who knew and was directed to an empty staging area on another level.

After a short search he found the room. And, angrier than he'd been since this whole thing had started Methos flung open the door with a foul curse...and tripped. Shouting in surprise he rolled, trying to disentangle himself from the obstacle -- Daniel's crutches by the sound of it -- and put a hand out to steady himself.

"Shit!" Methos gasped, yanking his hand back as he touched something hard and cold then felt a surge of energy racing up his arm. "No!" He scrabbled back, at last seeing Daniel and Major Carter parked in front of a bank of portable monitors near the door.

"What the hell was that?!" Daniel demanded, trying to rise. While Methos could only shake his head, staring in horror at the large contiguous octagon in which the tablets had been laid out.

"Pierson?" he heard Carter ask as he uselessly grabbed his head, feeling overwhelmed by the awful noise of a tremendous buzz. A moment later the tablets began to pulse with power.

"Get out!" Methos shouted as he finally made it to his feet, doubling over as he staggered away from them and from the tablets which had suddenly begun to glow. "Get MacLeod!"

Suddenly, a single column of energy rose from the tablets like a tower of light. It searched the room, moving sinuously past the two mortals as if they weren't even there. Then it focused on Methos, hauled back like a fist and slammed into him hard.

By the door, the two horrified spectators saw him thrown across the room until he was pinned to the far wall by the sheer force of the energies involved. Then the tablets began to rise above the floor as they metamorphosed into a solid golden ball. This too began to alter itself almost immediately. Growing brighter and more translucent so that Carter and Daniel were forced to huddle against the wall shielding their eyes. Then suddenly it too joined in the stream of light piercing the ancient Immortal until it seemed that every last particle of energy was trying to fill him up.

How long this went on Methos didn't know, his mind was overwhelmed with images. Times and places worlds apart that meant nothing to him. And at some point he even saw himself. Young and, god help him, tiny. Quite literally a babe in arms. And he knew who it was who held him. Knew the man who fed and clothed and raised him up to call him Father. And when his own insignificant form could take no more, Methos screamed and went on screaming as bolt after bolt of lightening shot out of his body to send the SGC into electronic chaos before ricocheting back in a vain attempt to be reabsorbed.

But it was all too much. The power of this bizarre Quickening, the staggering amounts of information cascading into his brain, the sheer volume of the knowledge being provided was more than Methos could handle for a time. And he found himself a safe place in his mind to hide and prayed to a god he didn't believe in to please, just let this pass him by.

***

"How long has he been like this?" General Hammond wanted to know.

O'Neill shook his head, staring in awe as Methos somehow hung suspended in mid-air, hands folded against his chest, eyes closed as if he were merely sleeping, surrounded by a nimbus of blue-white light. "He was like this when I got here." Jack swallowed hard and nodded to the clutch of people on the other side of the door. "Carter and Daniel were with him."

"Dr. Fraiser?" the general asked as he stepped over. "How are they?"

The petite woman shrugged. "A few cuts and bruises from when things exploded in here. And Carter's hands are a little singed -- apparently she tried to get him down after the fire works stopped. Other than that, they're fine."

"And Pierson?"

The doctor shook her head. "We can't get close enough to tell. Now that the back-up generators are running, we can set up some monitoring equipment and see what turns up. I'll keep you apprised."

"Very good," Hammond nodded and turned to O'Neill as she moved away. "Think he's still alive?" he asked quietly.

"Well, his head's still attached to his neck, sir. I think that's a good sign."

"Right," the general nodded uncertainly. "Find out what happened here, Colonel. Let me know if anything changes. I'll be in Operations."

As soon as Hammond was gone Jack went over to Samantha and Daniel, taking them out to the corridor to give the medical team room to work. "Everything okay you two?"

"Fine, sir," Carter responded as Daniel nodded.

"I take it you saw what went down?"

"I'm not really sure what I saw," Daniel admitted. "I mean, Adam came in and, uh, tripped over my crutches. I guess I didn't hear them fall," he babbled apologetically. "His hand came to rest on the tablets and there was this weird spark. But it went out of his fingers and into the tablets. Then it kind of got sucked back into his hand. After that, all hell broke loose and he was shouting for us to get out and get him a magloud, whatever that is."

"MacLeod?" Jack asked and looked at Sam. "He asked for MacLeod?"

"That's what it sounded like, sir. But I think Daniel just mentioned something important. I hadn't really thought about it, but the first day Pierson got here something happened in Daniel's office. Teal'c and I had just delivered some of the tablets. I left him looking at the first one and something about it literally made him jump. He said it was nothing. Just a little static shock from the carpet."

"Uh, Sam, I don't have any carpet in my office," Daniel pointed out.

"I know that," she rolled her eyes. "But it didn't register at the time. The air down here is pretty dry and with all the electrical equipment around I'm always getting shocked."

"And he always wore gloves whenever he handled them," Jack mused thoughtfully. "Said he didn't want to mess them up with his oils or something."

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "He told me they gave him a rash."

"Jesus!" Jack shook his head. "So he knew something was wrong when he touched them. But why would he hide that from us?"

"Maybe he thought it had more to do with what he is than what we are?" Sam suggested. "Those electrical charges looked a lot like what General Hammond's friend described."

"But how could he have a Quickie? Only you two were around."

"What are you guys talking about?!" Jackson interrupted angrily. "Look, that's my friend in there and you're acting as if there's nothing wrong with him. Well, news flash! He's floating in the middle of the room and we don't even know if he's dead or alive!"

"It's a long story," Jack sighed. "Carter, fill him in. I'm going to do what Pierson wanted."

"And that would be?" Samantha asked.

"Get MacLeod. He's another one and he's right here in town. Oh, and Carter?" O'Neill turned back as he suddenly thought of something. "You said he fell against the tablets. Well, where the hell are they?"

"They're inside him, sir," she whispered, going a little pale.

Daniel nodded. "I think they're what's holding him up."

***

"MacLeod?"

Duncan turned at the sound of O'Neill's voice. From the expression on his face he could see there was something wrong.

"Where's Methos?" he asked quietly, hurriedly getting up from his stool at the bar.

"Oh, just hangin' around back at the base. In fact, I'm taking you to see him now," Jack said as he took his arm.

MacLeod pulled free. "I'm not going anywhere with you until I know what's wrong. Where's Methos?"

O'Neill sighed in frustration. "He's back at the base, hanging around. I mean literally, MacLeod. Right now, he's floating in mid-air. And the last thing he asked for before whatever happened to him nearly blew the base sky high, was you. So either you come quietly, or so help me, I will shoot your ass and drive back with your corpse."

"Look, if this is a joke you two have cooked up..."

O'Neill pulled out his side arm. "Get in the fucking car."

MacLeod preceded him outside, the other patrons pointedly ignoring them. With Cheyenne Mountain just down the road, no one questioned the fact that the military had the right to make an arrest when required.

"Aren't you going to cuff me?" MacLeod asked nastily as he climbed into the jeep.

"You aren't under arrest," O'Neill muttered as he slammed the door shut and raced around to the other side. "I wasn't joking," he said after he got in and pulled out of the lot.

With a start, MacLeod realized he'd never shut the engine off. "No," he finally said. "You're not." MacLeod turned in his seat as the car peeled onto the highway. "All right then, what's wrong?"

"Just what I said. Pierson was working on something for us and apparently it blew up in his face."

"I don't buy it. Methos is smarter than that."

"Whatever you say," O'Neill curtly responded. "Just tell me one thing. Would Pierson ever withhold information about something he considered dangerous to one of us? To non-Immortals, I mean."

"We call you mortals. And no, Methos would never do that. He might avoid the situation entirely after he gave it, but he'd definitely give you fair warning."

O'Neill looked relieved. "Okay. But would he keep quiet if he thought it might pose a danger to himself?"

"Yeah," MacLeod nodded thoughtfully. "He would. Especially, if he thought it could be used against him. But that's absurd, because there isn't anything on earth that could be a real danger to one of us, unless it's another Immortal with a sword."

"On Earth, you say?"

MacLeod opened his mouth to respond, suddenly looking around as he sensed another Immortal presence. "Methos? Stop the car, it's Methos!"

O'Neill barely glanced up from the road. "Pierson's back at the base, MacLeod."

"No! I just felt him. We have to go back. Stop the car!"

"What do you mean you just felt him?"

"His presence. I felt his presence! It's how we know when another Immortal is close. Now turn around and stop the car!"

"MacLeod," Jack insisted. "I swear to you, Pierson is at the base."

There was a long pause and finally MacLeod spoke. "You may be right," he responded slowly. "It's the strangest thing, but I can still feel him, and if he was back there," MacLeod looked down along the road they'd just traveled. "I shouldn't be able to." He shook his head which was still buzzing. "How far is the base from here?"

Jack looked to the side, noting the next marker. "About three miles out -- and one mile down."

MacLeod's eyes went wide. "That's impossible!"

"Is not!" O'Neill shot back, his tone filled with sarcasm.

"Okay," MacLeod rubbed his forehead, trying to overcome the growing noise in his head. "Now, just tell me from start to finish exactly what happened..."

***

O'Neill quickly navigated them through base security, while MacLeod looked around, seeing dozens more armed soldiers than there had been this morning. He still wasn't sure he believed O'Neill's version of events, but then he was in no position to argue.

"Nice set up," MacLeod commented as the elevator traveled down.

"Rehabbed missile silo." Jack shook his head. "Don't ask."

They came out into a corridor lined with guards, none of whom could have done a thing to stop the man whose presence had put them on alert.

"You might just as well let them stand down," MacLeod told the colonel. "If it comes to it, I'm probably the only one who can prevent him from doing any harm."

"How's that?" O'Neill asked as he led the way, clearly ignoring the suggestion.

MacLeod pulled his coat aside to show him the grip of his sword. "There's only one reason I can think of why Methos would have sent for me. To take his head if something's gone wrong."

At that, O'Neill stopped cold and flung him against the wall, shoving his gun under MacLeod's chin. "You lay a finger on him without authorization and I'll blow your fucking head off!"

"It's not my choice!" MacLeod growled angrily. "It's his! He's asked this of me before, O'Neill. And I've refused. I don't want his head, or his Quickening! But if he isn't Methos anymore then he has to be stopped. He knew that when he sent for me."

Jack let out a deep breath and eased up just a little. "Why would he ever ask you to do something like that?"

"Perhaps because he considers me honorable. There have been times when he's been more afraid of the wrong man taking his head and gaining his power than he has ever been of dying." MacLeod gave him an ironic half smile. "I've managed to avoid it thus far. And I swear on my life, Colonel, that I will do nothing unless it's absolutely called for."

"How will we know if it is or not?" O'Neill finally backed off.

"I'm not sure," MacLeod admitted cautiously. "But an educated guess says he wants us to find out."

O'Neill stared at him coldly. "Fine. But we make the call."

MacLeod stared thoughtfully at the man and finally nodded. "Agreed."

A moment later and they were standing outside the door. "Major Carter, this is Duncan MacLeod." Samantha nodded a brief greeting. "Any change?"

"About ten minutes ago his eyes opened and closed. Nothing since then, sir."

O'Neill looked at MacLeod. "That'd be about the time..."

"He felt me coming," MacLeod nodded.

"Right. Come on."

As MacLeod entered the room the sense of presence grew even stronger. It certainly felt like Methos, but more than that there was a subtle undercurrent of something different. He looked across the room and his stomach tightened in shock. Perfectly, utterly calm, Methos hung breathless and still above the floor.

MacLeod moved forward slowly. "Clear the room," he told O'Neill. "If this goes badly I don't want to see anyone get hurt."

"We're soldiers, MacLeod. Just get on with it."

"No. You made him a promise. Get them out and turn off those monitors. Allow him some dignity, Colonel."

"Oh yeah, this is real dignified," O'Neill gestured toward the silent Immortal. "He looks like an ad for The Exorcist XX. Death takes a holiday -- ten feet off the floor!"

"Colonel, please!"

With a sigh, Jack ordered the monitors off and everyone out, then crossed his arms and stood staring at MacLeod.

Duncan took a deep breath and suppressed a shudder. One wrong move and O'Neill would kill him, of that he was certain. What had Methos had done to engender such loyalty? Then again, did he really want to know?

Ignoring the psychic daggers stabbing him in the back, MacLeod moved forward. Ten feet, twenty. When he was an equal distance away from Methos he held out his arm and brushed it against the radiant nimbus of light. It sparked against his finger tips and he felt the pull of those Quickening energies inside him answering the call. This was amazing! He'd never even heard of anything like it before. And it was caused by some alien artifact?

He stepped within the corona and the buzzing within his head suddenly died. "Methos?" MacLeod whispered as if afraid to wake what lay within the sleeping man. "Methos?" he repeated more firmly.

"Hello again, Mac."

He nearly jumped out of his skin as the luminescent eyes opened.

"Am I late for dinner?"

Without warning, the light surrounding the ancient Immortal suddenly winked out and Methos dropped heavily to ground. MacLeod rushed forward, halting just outside of grabbing distance.

"Methos?" MacLeod asked, laying a hand on the hilt of his sword. From behind, Duncan heard the deliberate sound of a trigger cocking. If they got out of this, he decided, very much annoyed, he was going to have to seriously reconsider his position on Methos' continued existence. "Do you remember why you sent for me?"

The writhing Immortal groaned, clutching his broken ankle. "Of course I remember, you nit wit! To take my head in case something had gone horribly wrong."

"And what do you think about that now?"

"That if you don't get your stupid, ignorant, blue painted arse over here and give me a hand, I'll be obliged to take your own stupid, ignorant, blue painted head off!"

He removed his hand from his coat and turned to Jack. "It's him," he sighed in disgust, walking away. The crisis was over. Let Methos' new friends deal with his whining. Whatever the hell that was, he thought as his empty belly grumbled loudly, he'd rather worry about it on a full stomach.

***

"And how is my favorite minion this fine morning?" O'Neill asked, altogether too cheerful as he sauntered into the infirmary.

"Hungry," Methos responded petulantly as he pushed aside a plateful of bland scrambled eggs. "And how did I suddenly get to be your minion?"

"Don't you read the papers?" Jack puffed up his chest. "I am the Great Satan!"

"For now," Methos smirked. "Just don't let it go to your head. I may want that title back in another millennium."

"Spoilsport!"

The conversation paused as Dr. Fraiser came over with a clip board.

"He ready to be sprung yet, Doc?"

Fraiser sighed and shook her head, extremely puzzled. "Well, I can't find anything wrong with him. All the test results came back negative. We've scanned for everything we know how to scan for -- and a few things our techs came up with on the spur of the moment. Even his limp is gone. He's completely, impossibly normal."

Methos smiled widely, hiding his relief as the doctor disconnected him from the monitors and returned to her duties. Whatever energies his Quickening was made up of apparently hadn't registered on their machines.

"You look like the cat that ate the canary," O'Neill commented as he waited for Methos to finish dressing.

"I always look like this after I've taken a 10,000 year old Quickening."

Jack's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You told Hammond you couldn't remember anything."

Methos nodded. "Last night I didn't. It sometimes takes a while for things to settle down in here," he tapped his forehead. "I very nearly lost myself in the midst of it. One of the things I hate most about Quickenings," he confided. "Everybody else's bits and pieces. Not to mention the flotsam and jetsam of everything they've picked up from others over the years. I was on my way back when Mac showed up. Thanks to you, by the way," he nodded and Jack waved it off. "Seeing him helped ground me -- literally and figuratively speaking. Otherwise, I might have still been up there."

"So that's not something that happens normally," Jack concluded.

"Not as far as I know," Methos agreed. "But then Tok'ra was an unusual being."

O'Neill stared at him for a long moment. "I think we'd better call a meeting."

Methos tied his last boot lace and sighed, looking forlornly back at his barely touched breakfast dishes. "Could I at least get something decent to eat? I was sort of hung up during dinner."

***

Methos was finishing up the last of his biscuits and gravy when Daniel carefully negotiated the conference room and sat next to him. Silenced reigned for nearly a full minute until Methos turned to stare at his friend. "What?!" he finally asked in exasperation.

"You could have told me, Adam," Daniel responded, his tone filled with hurt.

"Told you what?" Methos calmly poured another cup of coffee. "Told you my name? My age? My entire life story? Something I've barely spoken of to anyone in nearly two thousand years. Who are you that I should put my life in your hands?"

Daniel flushed and shifted uncomfortably. "You're right. I'm sorry. It was presumptuous of me to think..."

"To think you were different?" Methos smiled kindly. "You are different, Daniel. You're my friend. And while I do appreciate that, let me remind you that I am not an icon. I'm just a guy trying to survive."

There was not much left to say as the general entered followed by O'Neill, Teal'c, Carter and MacLeod.

"Dr. Pierson," Hammond nodded in his direction as they took their seats. "I trust you're feeling better this morning?"

"Right as rain, feet firmly planted on the ground," Methos responded cheerily.

"Glad to hear it," the general smiled. "Now," he began, growing serious. "Can you tell us why you saw fit not to inform anyone that you were having a problem with the tablets?"

Methos took a deep breath and pushed his tray aside. "I wasn't exactly having any problems. The tablets seemed to be reactive to my Quickening. Why? I couldn't tell you. I've never seen anything like it before. Was I worried? Not really. I frankly didn't know what to be worried of. Did I think it concerned you as mortals? No. I did not. I was hired to do a job, so I put on a pair of gloves and got to work."

The general nodded and leaned forward. "You were afraid we'd use that information against you, weren't you?" When Methos remained silent the general went on. "You don't have to answer that, son. I know you were. I'd have been afraid too. But I want you to understand something. My people can and will protect you, but we need to know what to protect you from. We can't do that if you're not forthcoming with us. This whole mess could have been avoided if you'd simply trusted us."

"Those are fine sentiments, General Hammond. But what would you have done if I'd told you the tablets were feeding me power ten times my own?"

"They what?" Duncan blurted, stunned. "That can't happen!"

Methos just looked at him and shrugged. He really didn't understand it either.

Ignoring MacLeod's outburst the general answered Methos' question. "What would we have done? We'd have run more tests on the tablets. And, if you were willing, on your reaction to the tablets. In any case, everything would have been done in a controlled environment, with your safety very much in mind."

"My safety was never in doubt, General. My sanity was. And I would never have agreed to any sort of experimentation. I don't want power. And..." Methos struggled to find the words until he finally looked at MacLeod. "You tell them, Duncan."

MacLeod nodded and sighed. "Only once has a Quickening ever been recorded. Luckily, I destroyed the only copy."

"But why?" Samantha asked. "The amount of energy I observed... If it could be studied and quantified. One day even harnessed--"

"We're not some damned power plants!" MacLeod heatedly interrupted. "We're men and women! Some of us might be willing to make certain sacrifices for the sake of mortals, but to give up our lives to make your engine run faster is not an option!"

"He's correct, Major Carter," Hammond added. "And as I understand it, none of our equipment has been able to detect one iota of evidence that this energy even exists." Carter looked ready to rebut his argument, but he held up a hand. "I know, you think you can eventually figure it out. But at what cost? I will not authorize any undertaking in the pursuit of something that might end in death or derangement for those involved. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Carter nodded, clearly disappointed.

"All right then, let's move on."

What followed was a brief account from Daniel and Carter as to what had happened from their point of view and an even briefer one from Methos'. He was more surprised than they were to find out that the tablets had somehow metamorphosed and were even now inside him, but then that explained a lot.

"Would you like to elaborate on that?" Hammond asked.

Methos shrugged. "I believe it was as Daniel suspected. That the tablets were in fact Tok'ra's carapace."

"Ah, you've lost me," O'Neill suddenly interjected. "Are you saying the Ancients were bugs?"

Methos grinned. "No, I'm saying the Ancients were probably somehow related to Immortals. And somewhere along the line they learned to manipulate the energy of the Quickening. To use it in such a way that they could, for want of a better word, transmogrify."

Taking a deep breath Methos tried to explain. "To understand, you need to know a few things. First and foremost that when an Immortal takes a Quickening he gains not just the other party's power, but his or her knowledge and life experience. Not all of it, of course -- that would drive us insane. But a good portion of those memories that were considered important."

Methos smiled ruefully. "The bigger the Quickening the more information. And I learned a bloody lot from Tok'ra," he sighed. "Now, let me tell you a story...

"Eons ago Tok'ra was given a choice. He could join the other Ancients on some kind of spiritual journey, or he could remain behind," Methos began quietly. "But Tok'ra had a friend. A man who had been taken over by a sentient parasite. Morgot, had been among a large group of colonists who, after landing on their brave new world, were systematically taken over. Now, it wasn't deliberate, mind you. At least not the first time. The symbiots didn't know they were parasites. It was an accident. One of the colonists was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But then, that's how these things happen.

"Of course, not all of the symbiots were evil. Like all beings everywhere there were both good and bad among them. The first to blend though was. It saw the benefits of not mucking about in the slime and decided it liked technology -- and perhaps more of its friends would like it too. So, it introduced a number of its brethren into hosts. That's how Morgot became joined.

"As it turned out, some of the symbiots weren't interested in the things the first Goa'uld was. Some actually liked their hosts. Wanted to experience life with them. Others wanted to take the colony ships and find bigger and better worlds with more technology to exploit. Naturally, they fought. Unfortunately, the good guys lost. Morgot and his companions fled through the Stargate they'd discovered on their world, which is how he ran into Tok'ra. They became friends and it was Tok'ra who helped broker the defensive alliance among the galactic powers once they realized the danger the Goa'uld represented. But the alliance wasn't the declaration of war Morgot had wanted. He was disappointed that anyone not of the five great powers would not be protected, so he convinced Tok'ra to help him stem the tide of invasion in those areas where the alliance's writ did not run. So, off they went on their mission of mercy.

"Now, as I said, Tok'ra was given a choice, and it was right around this time Morgot became ill. He was, in fact, dying. Not the symbiot, but the mortal body of the host. Since there was no other willing body around, Tok'ra decided to manipulate his own energy field, I suppose you'd call it, in order to save at least one of his friends. Otherwise, the Ancients, like Immortals, are immune. Apparently, Quickening energies tend to fry the poor buggers. And for some reason, taking Morgot into his body prevented Tok'ra from joining the other Ancients. He was content though. And, inspired by his new relationship with Morgot, headed off again to confront the Goa'uld. This time, instead of hit or miss guerrilla runs, they were going to build an army."

Methos' storytelling was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the klaxon alerting them that the Stargate was in use.

"That would be Jacob," General Hammond announced as he excused himself and went to greet his old friend.

Methos leaned across the table toward O'Neill. "Has MacLeod seen...?"

Jack shook his head and grinned. "Now's as good a time as any, I'd say."

"Come on, Mac. Time to see the elephant," Methos told him, getting to his feet.

"What's this about?"

"Well," Methos began, leading the way to the gate room. "You know there are aliens involved in this, right."

MacLeod snorted in disbelief. "So I've been told. But I haven't seen anything yet that would convince me. You floating in mid air from an unusually large Quickening sounds more like something Connor once told me about the Quickening he took from the Kurgan, rather than a visit from ET."

"Then hopefully what you are about to see will convince you. If not, I'll ask Teal'c to show you his tummy."

"The guy with the gold stamp on his forehead? Are you trying to tell me he's an alien?"

"No, he's perfectly human. It's the larval Goa'uld incubating inside him that's the alien."

"Right!" MacLeod rolled his eyes and followed him into the gate room just as the wormhole exploded outward.

"Mother of God!" MacLeod shouted as he flung up his arms and jumped back.

"Oh relax, Duncan, it's only an energy vortex," Methos smirked. "Happens every day around here."

At that instant, Jacob stepped through the Stargate.

"He's not an alien!" MacLeod whispered after getting a good look at the man.

Jacob turned in his direction and smiled as his eyes started to glow. "You're right," came the deep vibration of Selmak's voice. "Only one of us is from another planet. And she's a girl."

MacLeod muttered something in Gaelic and Methos chuckled.

Selmak raised one of Jacob's eyebrows. "What did he say?"

Methos grinned. "My friend here says he likes girls, but you'll forgive him if he doesn't ask you out. You seem to be missing certain equipment he considers crucial to the process."

Selmak laughed. "Tell him perhaps next time I won't be and we shall have to plan for that." Suddenly, Jacob came to the fore. "Hey, you! Stop hittin' on my girl! Get your own damn symbiot if you want one so bad."

At that MacLeod shut his mouth, obviously determined to keep it that way as Methos just stood there and laughed.

A few minutes later they were all back in the conference room, Methos enjoying the presence of a very subdued Duncan MacLeod.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Jacob said as he settled into a chair. "But we have what could be a serious problem and I wanted to wait until the last of our scout ships reported in. We've detected an unknown fleet massing in a sector just outside of Goa'uld space."

"That would be Inanna," Methos interjected, smiling sardonically at the shocked faces around the table. "I was trying to tell you, I just hadn't gotten to that bit yet."

"Well?" Hammond gestured for him to move it along.

"Right. To recap for our late comers... Tok'ra joined with Morgot, determined to build an army capable of attacking the major Goa'uld strongholds simultaneously. The problem turned out to be that while there was support for this endeavor from many systems, there was also no cohesive power base to bring them together. Each of them wanted Tok'ra to lead their forces and none was willing to compromise with any other."

"Yes," Selmak interjected. "This is what our legends tell us. But how Tok'ra overcame this, we do not know."

"I was about to tell you," Methos complained again at the interruption. "Anyway, Tok'ra had a wife. Or, he'd had a wife before he blended with Morgot and changed his name to Tok'ra. I'm not sure. But, in any event, his wife, Inanna, who'd infiltrated the Goa'uld here on Earth, suggested that they gather together all of Morgot's companions and as each one's host died, the symbiots could then be joined to others like she and Tok'ra, and therefore never die. Apparently, Tok'ra's example of remaining behind rubbed off on a number of others. They could each take charge of a group of allied forces which seemed like a great idea to everyone involved. And, just to prove they were on the up and up to the other Ancients, she volunteered to go first.

Methos paused and looked slowly around the table. "Problem was, Inanna already had a symbiot. And they were the best of friends. Like minds and what not. Her plan was to gather together all the good symbiots and set them to fighting the bad symbiots in the hope that they would destroy each other. Or, at the very least keep each other busy enough so that she'd be left alone to consolidate the little empire she was planning to establish. More importantly, she knew how to destroy Tok'ra and his friends. And they were her biggest problem."

Selmak leaned forward. "This is not in our archives."

"No," Methos agreed. "I'm sure it's not. But this is Tok'ra's story as he recalls the events."

Selmak sat back and simply nodded. "I am listening, Companion of Tok'ra."

"First of all, I wasn't his companion. I was his student."

"So you have lived for over 10,000 years," Carter nodded.

"Technically," Methos shrugged. "But I spent most of the first half of that under a couple of tons of rock. So, we can't really count that as living, now can we?"

"Ten thousand?" MacLeod murmured, awe struck.

"Five or ten, Mac, what's the difference? It's all just numbers. Now, can I get on with this story before Inanna shows up? She won't wait to start shooting while we finish having tea and biscuits."

"Please," General Hammond told him, eyes widened with shock.

"Thank you," Methos nodded politely. "Inanna's plan was to have Tok'ra's forces either crush, or at least severely damage the Goa'uld, then she would turn and destroy Tok'ra. Of course he trusted her. And when the battle was done, and Tok'ra had gathered together all his forces to celebrate, she killed them all. Only, she missed me, because I was still mortal and very dead after the first few shots."

"But what about the carapace?" Daniel asked. "Why didn't it protect Tok'ra?"

Methos sighed. "Because he loved and trusted Inanna. Somehow, she'd gotten close enough to strike from the inside. The carapace was an extension of Tok'ra, a sort of protective covering, and when it shattered a portion of his Quickening remained within the parts. Without knowing exactly what it was, Inanna took what she thought were the pieces of a very advanced fighter and brought them home as a trophy for her wall. Then you found them, and I touched them and what was left of Tok'ra's essence remembered me. The rest is as they say, history."

"But how do you know Inanna is coming here?"

"Because, my friends, she, and not her late husband, or his dead followers, established the Tok'ra."

***

"So what haven't you told them, Methos?" MacLeod asked as they stood outside the entrance to the SGC compound. They were waiting for a car to take Mac back to his hotel and this was as good a chance as any for them to talk in private.

Methos didn't even bother to hide his smile. "How Inanna managed to kill Tok'ra."

"Which was?"

"They exchanged tokens before they parted. Her own necklace blew his head off."

MacLeod flinched at the thought. "Good call. But," Duncan sighed. "I've never heard of a Quickening being that detailed. Let alone of something as odd as a partial Quickening. Images, yes. Even words sometimes. "

"Well, that's the other thing I didn't mention. I now have all of Tok'ra inside." MacLeod brows rose in disbelief, but the big Scot nodded for him to go on and Methos sighed.

"I was mortal and acting as his aide. Tok'ra usually kept me close. Except for that time, when he went in alone. Of course, I was waiting there to meet him after the battle. Inanna's ships came in low as if to land and started firing. Like I said, I was killed in the very first strike." Methos shrugged and looked away. "I'm not sure how long it took for me to revive, but almost as soon as I did his Quickening hit me. You can imagine what that was like. The next thing I knew the entire world seemed to be falling in on me. I think the magnitude of that Quickening, even split as it was, shook the planet. When I woke up -- I think an earthquake must have moved the rock -- I didn't know who I was, or where I came from. Just the name had stuck. When I touched the tablets the rest of Tok'ra pretty much dashed inside and some of those memories came back. Don't ask me to explain it, Mac. That's just the way it was."

"So, these Ancients were Immortals?"

Again Methos shrugged. "More like super Immortals if you ask me. Or maybe, Immortals who grew old without the Game and learned to use their Quickenings for something other than a light show. I can't honestly say, Mac. I really don't know. "

MacLeod shook his head and sighed as the car finally pulled up. "It's certainly given me something to think about."

"You're not alone."

MacLeod smiled. "By the way," he said as he began to climb inside. "Tell your friend O'Neill he needs to ease up on that trigger happy finger of his."

"Jack? Why? What happened?"

"I don't know how or why you've conned him into thinking you're god's gift to this green earth, but next time you send for me, make sure the cavalry knows I'm on your side."

"He threatened you?"

MacLeod nodded. "Big time."

As the car pulled away Methos stared after it, thoughtfully considering the possibilities. He'd planned to go it alone, or to at least try. But if he could count on O'Neill to back him up... With a smile of pure pleasure he turned on his heel and headed back inside.

***

Methos knocked on the door of Jack's real office, entering as he was invited.

"MacLeod gone off to rally the Immortal masses?"

"What he can of them. I wouldn't hold my breath, if I were you. Immortals don't tend to congregate in groups."

"What, no reunions? No weddings? Nada?"

Methos shrugged. "Reunions tend to be held at the point of a sword. Weddings now, those occasionally do occur." Methos looked thoughtful for a moment then deliberately changed the subject. "Jacob gone?"

Jack took the hint and nodded. "Yeah. Selmak wasn't happy, but she agreed to say nothing about what you told us."

Methos nodded and sauntered into the room to take a seat on the big leather couch across from O'Neill's desk. Now this was an office, he thought, complete with TV, mini bar and microwave oven. Homey right down to the pictures of family and friends littering the credenza and the hockey memorabilia on the walls. For a long time Methos just sat absorbing the ambiance of the room, until Jack finally stood up and took a seat on the other end of the couch.

"All right, Pierson, give. Something's on your mind. What is it?"

Methos snorted. "There's always something on my mind. Right now I'm considering the possibilities."

"Which are?"

He leaned back and crossed his arms. "Alone or with company."

"Company, of course. Now, where are we going and what do I need?"

Methos smiled. "Just your passport."

"And why would I need a passport?"

"Because one generally requires one to get through customs."

"I don't." Methos raised an eyebrow and Jack smiled. "I've got the plane, you've got the plan, let's go."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah, come on. Just let me make a couple of calls and we're out of here."

"Just like that?" Methos repeated.

"Just like what?" O'Neill asked, obviously amused.

"Aren't you going to ask me where we're going and why?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready."

"Isn't that rather trusting of you?"

"That's the point," he grinned and went back to his desk.

With a shake of his head, because he wouldn't trust himself if he were him, Methos waited while Jack notified Hammond they would be off base, called the hanger to requisition his personal plane and dashed out a quick set of orders. In moments they were gone and on their way.

Four appalling hours and in Methos' mind, at least a thousand stomach churning loop the loops later, they landed at a nameless base in London which even he hadn't known existed. And apparently, at least for this mission, neither did they, thanks Jack's preparations. All of which gave Methos a mean case of visa envy. With one set of orders in lieu of a passport O'Neill could go anywhere he pleased, be anyone he pleased and never have to worry about anyone questioning his identity. And as Methos knew very well, no matter how superb the quality of the forgery, there was no Immortal immune to that instant of terror when the customs agent approached. Maybe there was more to this modern military than he'd previously considered?

A car was waiting at the exit and Jack deferred to Methos as he tossed him the keys.

"I hate driving on the wrong side of the road."

"It's the right side."

"No, it's the wrong side."

"No, it the right side." As Jack frowned Methos smiled and added, "As compared to the left side, of course."

"Whatever!" Jack slammed the door. "Just drive! We've got maybe 24 hours before the shit hits the fan. So go!"

"I'm going, I'm going!" Methos laughed. "Relax. We'll be there in twenty minutes."

"And where is there by the way?"

"Home. I need to get something."

"I see," Jack responded dryly. A moment later he turned in his seat and exploded. "What do you mean we're going to your house?! What'd you do? Forget your favorite CD?"

"Now that you mention it..." He relented as Jack began to turn a little too red. "Okay. We're going to get something that should get us into Inanna's stronghold."

"Oh." Jack sat back, looking mollified. "That's a good thing."

"Just remind me to pick up those CD's on the way out." O'Neill groaned in disgust. "As long as we're here mind you."

A short while later they pulled up in front of Methos' old manor house.

"You live here?" Jack asked, astounded as they trotted up the front stairs.

"No," Methos responded sarcastically. "We're breaking in."

"Cool!"

Methos rolled his eyes as he unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. Everything had been under drop clothes since he'd decided to join the Watchers and a light layer of dust shrouded the room.

"I think you need to fire your housekeeper," Jack commented sardonically as he followed the other man inside.

"That dear sweet lady? Never! Although," Methos added thoughtfully. "I've been gone so long she might be dead. Oh, well," he went on with a shrug. "She'll have left the position to her daughter, or maybe her granddaughter by now."

Jack stared at him in disbelief, refusing to dignify the idea of hereditary maid work with a comment. Especially, maids that apparently didn't have to clean anything.

"This way," Methos smiled. "It's in the museum wing."

"You have a museum in your house?"

"No, I have a wing where I keep old things. My things."

"That's too strange for words," Jack shook his head staring at the eclectically decorated rooms.

"Well, I'd keep them in the attic but there's not enough space."

"Try the garage."

"I have six cars in there. No room."

Jack just shook his head and followed. "The rich are weird."

Methos chuckled, leading the way through a gallery filled with art works by the great masters, known and unknown, which he'd collected over the centuries. As they passed through a series of corridors, Methos pointed out which era each room contained.

"The room to your left was my Renaissance period."

Jack looked in to see a hall crammed with every bit of paraphernalia from horse riggings to clothing and shook his head. And he though he was a pack rat!

After a couple more rooms on the same order, he threw up his hands in exasperation. "Ah jeez, its Super Daniel!"

"Hey!" Methos complained. "This is my stuff. Okay? You have your stuff and I have my stuff. No one's stuff is better than anyone else's. Besides," he added, slightly aggrieved. "This is just a small fraction of what I did have. Most of it was lost. Although, every now and then, something turns up at an auction or estate sale and I get lucky and bring it home."

Jack was about to make a smart ass remark when he recalled what Hammond had told him. Immortals couldn't have children. And the wistful expression in Methos' eyes when he'd spoken about weddings meant they had little hope of a normal life with friends and family. This, he looked around more understanding of it's purpose, was essentially a poor man's substitute. No wonder he treasured his bits and pieces.

"Kidding aside," Jack told him kindly. "Someday you'll have to let me come back here and explore."

Methos turned to look at the other man, surprised at the warmth in his voice. "Of course. Just don't bring Danny. He'll walk into the Egyptian room and we wouldn't see him again until he was old."

"He'd die in there," Jack insisted. "And then we'd have to stick him in one of those mummy cases."

"Now there's an idea," Methos grinned. "I have several to choose from."

They finally reached the Roman exhibition hall and Jack hung back in awe. Room after room of shields, swords, chariots, and even furniture.

"How'd you manage to save all this stuff?" he asked as he followed deeper.

"Stored it in the wine cellars, of course. I lived here once, right before the Christians took it over. See that little beauty?" Methos pointed to one of the smaller chariots. "I drove her for the Greens before Tiberius at the Coliseum and won. Had my pick of any man or woman in Rome that night," he added proudly. Methos looked back over his shoulder and smiled. "Look, this may take a few minutes. I have to find the damned thing. So, why don't you have a look around."

He left Jack to his wanderings and headed for the far side of the hall where he'd neatly stacked several dozen trunks. Methos scratched his head as he examined the boxes. He knew it was in one of them, but which? He'd packed it away so long ago and never gotten it out again, even when the need to hide it had ended that the only clear memory he had was of laying it up with his clothing. "Best just get started," he sighed and grabbed the first of them.

It was just as hard as ever, he realized after a time of shifting and sorting, to go through these old, dear things without pausing every now and again to relive the memories. There was the fine, white cloak he'd worn to Publius' party and the wine stain the fuller had never managed to get clean. And here the leather sandals with gold embroidery he'd received as a wedding present from Clodia three months before she'd died of the fever, while beneath it lay his gift to her. A scarlet gown of rare silk from Chin, hemmed in silver fringe and stitched with fanciful winged creatures. He could never bear to part with any of it. Each little trinket, even the old clay thimble he'd used to keep his kit in good repair held a meaning and a memory for Methos. Until, at last, he took a deep breath and just got through it.

After perhaps the tenth such walk down memory lane Methos finally found it. "Here you are!" he exclaimed as he reached the bottom of the trunk. It was wrapped in a piece of medium quality dyed leather. Deliberately made to look worthless, although it was in fact the most valuable of all his possessions. He took out the pendant and held it up to the light. Such a dull looking thing with it's plain, unpolished exterior. Yet, it held such meaning for him. It should have born an inscription, he knew, like the images of others he now held in his memories thanks to Tok'ra. And had he come of age, become an Immortal while the Ancient had lived, it would have. Now, thanks to Inanna's betrayal, it never would.

Methos put the trunks back where he'd found them and went to find Jack. It wasn't that difficult, and when he did he slapped a hand over his mouth, biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud. The good colonel had on one of his favorite dress helmets, worn only in procession, swishing the great plumes around like a drunken ostrich. With it he wore a centurion's cloak, while having at the air with a cavalry blade. He looked completely ridiculous and utterly charming.

"Having fun?" Methos finally asked, enjoying the sight of O'Neill playing dress up.

"Oh yeah!" He whirled about and nearly fell over as he tried to properly balance the weight of the helmet.

Methos laughed as Jack looked thoroughly chagrined. "No," he grinned when the colonel removed the helm and started to put it back. "Keep it. It suits you. But here," he came forward and searched through the pile of clothes. "This is the proper tunic and here's the breast plate and cloak. And take that short sword by the bust of Apollo instead. We'll find you the rest of the gear later."

It amused Methos no end to see the colonel both flabbergasted and deeply touched by his gift.

"Are you sure?" O'Neill asked tentatively, obviously shocked to be given the priceless treasures he just happened to be caught playing with.

"Yes. I'm sure."

Jack nodded. "Thank you," he said gravely. "I promise to look after them well."

Methos simply smiled, understanding the unsaid words O'Neill could not express. That not only had he been given something of great monetary value for the excellent condition they were in, but of great personal value as well, which was far more important to both of them. Jack now had a piece of Methos' own history to remember their friendship and to know that no matter what happened something of the ancient Immortal would always be with him.

"So, did you find what you were looking for?" Jack finally asked as they left the room and started back.

"Right here," Methos held it up for inspection.

"Ah... Nice necklace. What's it got to do with Inanna?"

Methos grimaced. "It's not a necklace, it's like a bulla."

"Well, bulla for you, but it looks like a necklace to me."

With a sigh Methos handed it over. "A bulla was the Roman equivalent of an ID bracelet. Children wore them until they came of age and were initiated into whatever sacred rites their parents decreed. Then the bulla would be symbolically sacrificed to the gods."

"So what makes this one so special?"

"It was the only thing I was wearing when I woke up in that pile of rubble five thousand years ago. And," he reached out and scratched the surface until the cheap silver dip he'd put on some 1500 years earlier flaked away. "I think it's made of the same stuff as the Stargate."

"Your point being?"

"Really, Colonel," Methos drawled, taking it back and tucking it into his pocket. "You don't imagine you're the only ones to ever come up with the idea of transmitting an identification signal when passing through the Stargate, do you?"

***

Methos gave a last tweak to the detonator and stood back, admiring his handiwork. Inanna had always liked pretty things as he recalled. Fitting the thin filigree sheath of gold and tiny gemstones around the pendant and chain of naqueda had been easy. Setting and connecting the tiny charges within the hasps which held the jewels in place had been hard. Harder yet, he frowned as he critically examined the work, would be wearing the damn thing until he could exchange it with Inanna.

With a sigh he placed the bulla in the small bomb proof case O'Neill had provided, clipping the detonator, made to look like an innocuous cell phone, to his belt. Behind him, the door to his work room opened and he turned to find Jack waiting patiently.

"Teal'c on board?"

O'Neill nodded. "He wasn't pleased about leaving Hammond and Carter out of the loop, but I think he understands."

"And you have no problem with this?" Methos asked, already knowing the response.

"I'm a soldier," Jack replied. "I do what I have to for the sake of my country."

Methos shook his head. "This isn't a soldier's mission. It's an assassin's."

"We make the hard choices here," O'Neill smiled grimly. "This is one of them. If we can stop Inanna before the fleet launches I'm willing to accept the consequences."

Methos nodded. What they were about to do would never be sanctioned, but the powers that be might look the other way after the fact as long as they succeeded. If not... Well, Methos didn't really think that would be a problem. Either they'd be dead and the world along with them, or Inanna would be no more.

"You have the stuff?" Methos asked quietly as he picked up the case and they left the work room, heading down to operations.

"Already planted," Jack grinned. "I'll signal Teal'c just before we hit the gate room. He'll set off the gas bomb and move into position. Once it's locked down we'll have about three minutes while they reconfigure the codes."

"And Teal'c?"

"The destination will automatically wipe once we're through. I know enough to do that," he added wryly. "But Teal'c will tell them the truth. Hammond will understand. So will the others."

Methos nodded. Teal'c would be all right. There was not much they could do to him anyway. Not with what he carried inside him and his knowledge of the Goa'uld.

"All right then," Methos agreed. "Let's get this show on the road."

***

It was a simple plan and it worked with simple beauty. Since the invasion alert all the SG teams currently off world had either been recalled or ordered to stay put. With only a skeleton crew left in operations they were easily rendered unconscious by the colorless, odorless ether Jack had managed to procure. Now they waited anxiously, ignoring the alarms as Teal'c activated the gate.

Methos opened the case and removed the bulla, closing his eyes as he slipped the deadly device around his neck.

"Now you're sure that thing will get us through?" O'Neill asked as the gateway finally opened.

"Reasonably sure," Methos grinned as he stepped up to the wormhole.

"Reasonably?!" Jack growled. "You said it would!"

Methos shrugged. "Well, there's always plan B."

"Which is?"

"We walk in the door and I shout, 'Hi, Mom! I'm home!'"

At that, Methos stepped through, leaving Jack to stare after him in horror.

"Jesus!" he hissed. He hadn't even guessed, though he should have known. Methos had all but told them truth. She was Tok'ra's wife and he the man's mortal student. And Immortals couldn't have children. Which meant...

Jack suddenly felt ill. Methos had known all along and still he'd chosen to do this. Jack shuddered at the thought of being forced to make such a choice. A choice that took more than simple courage. The moral implications alone would have left most individuals unable to function.

O'Neill looked back at Teal'c and saluted then stepped through the gate, vowing silently that no matter what happened, no one else would ever know.

*

"Looks like it worked," Methos grinned as Jack exited the wormhole.

The colonel glanced around the rather plain reception area, noting the lack of guards then stared calmly at Methos, who wordlessly accepted the other man's regard. He knew what O'Neill was thinking which was why he hadn't said anything before. But morality aside, Inanna had killed him once and would do it again if she believed for an instant that he was a threat. The trick was to make her certain he wasn't.

Jack nodded once and stepped up beside him. "Let's move out," he ordered. "And remember, I want that thing off your neck as soon as you can manage it."

"I assure you, that's at the top of my list. And you remember, too," he added. "We set it off when we're back at the gate. Not before."

O'Neill shrugged, obviously not understanding. "Sure. Not before we're clear. Got it."

"First things first," Methos grimaced as he turned toward the door. "The throne room is this way.

"You've been here before," Jack surmised as Methos easily led them through corridor after nearly identical corridor.

"No," the Immortal responded. "But Tok'ra's memories record Inanna as being a creature of habit. Disorder is uncertainty to someone like her. She'll have copied the old ways as closely as possible and Tok'ra knew the layout of her palace."

"So, what are you going to tell her about me? I mean, isn't she going to wonder why you didn't come alone?"

"Well, I'd planned on saying you were my servant, but I don't think that will fly anymore," he looked pointedly at Jack's gun, though he'd deliberately come lightly armed with only a dagger for show. The point was to appear harmless and naive. Just a boy and his mom.

"How about your bodyguard?"

"Why would I need one?" Methos grinned. "No," he sighed regretfully. "You'll just have to be my lover."

O'Neill glared at him then shook his head in disgust. "Fine. But if we have to spend the night, no stealing the covers."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Methos laughed, then his face went still as he sensed her.

They rounded another corner and came face to face with Inanna's guards. Methos lifted his chin and said something in a guttural language and they parted, allowing both men to pass. A moment later they were through the antechamber and into the throne room proper. At the far end, Inanna waited, seated on a mound of giant pillows surrounded by her retinue.

"Remain here," Methos murmured. "And no matter what I do don't react." With that he moved away, giving O'Neill no chance to argue.

He approached Inanna's throne with his eyes respectfully downcast. At the foot of the dais he knelt, leaning forward in the crouch to lightly kiss the hem of her dress.

"Welcome, Methos."

A cool response, but he'd expected as much. This should warm things up. "Greetings, my lady mother."

"My son." A hand reached down and rested gently on his head, indicating that he had permission to look at her.

"It is good to see you, Mother," he smiled, noting that she was just as beautiful as he recalled. Pale and slim with hair the color of midnight. "I feared you were dead. Killed in the final attack which the Goa'uld launched against my father's forces."

There, Methos thought smugly, that should give her something to think about.

"And I you, my beloved son." She reached out a hand and he took it, allowing himself to be drawn up to kneel beside Inanna. "But how did you find me, little one? And after so long? Could you not have come sooner?"

"The gate was lost and when I awoke from my long sleep of the first death I could not find it. Recently, I discovered the humans had not only recovered it, but learned how to open it. I came as soon as I could, Mother."

"But how did you know where to find me?" she asked again, squeezing his fingers a little too hard in her eagerness for a response.

She was so predictable, Methos thought with disgust. "I did only as my father bid me," he gave a tentative smile. "He spoke of this place as one you and he had found during your wanderings, long before I was fortunate enough to receive the generosity of your home. He said that if all were lost it would be to here, the place where you were once happiest, that you would come."

Tok'ra had never said anything of the sort, but his memories held this place to be located close to the fleet she'd amassed and it seemed a logical conclusion. In any case, the death grip on his fingers loosened and Inanna relaxed, laying back against her pillows.

"Who is the human?" she asked casually, signaling for Jack to come forward.

Methos nodded imperceptibly for O'Neill to do so. "This is my friend, mother."

She laughed at his delicate use of the term friend in her language, which might mean either playmate or lover.

"Greetings," she said in perfect English, startling both men into stunned silence. Still, it confirmed something Methos had only suspected. Inanna did not just have spies among the Tok'ra, but doubtless had the ability to move among them at will. Or, at least to send her symbiot into their midst with no one the wiser. "And does the friend of my son have a name?"

"Jim Dandy," O'Neill announced, bowing more gracefully than Methos would ever have given him credit for. "A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

"It pleases me also," she smiled sweetly, but Methos could see the calculation in her eyes. She might never have seen a gun, but she knew a warrior when she laid eyes on one. But then, what else would the son of a warrior choose as his companion?

"Come, let us dine together. Then we shall make plans for our future."

"I'm afraid we can't, Mother," Methos announced sadly. "We must return to Earth. The Goa'uld are about to launch their forces against our friends there." The expression on her face was priceless. "I came only to see that you were well and to let you know that I lived, maintaining our fight against the common foe."

"Of course you are, dearest. I only wish I were able to help. But my ships are scattered and not very powerful."

Methos gently touched her hand. "I have missed you, Mother," he said, suddenly feeling the weight of the bulla against his throat. "Would you...?" He rested the fingers of his other hand against the pendant.

Inanna smiled. It was an ancient custom among her people, done only before battle. Which was how she had managed to overcome Tok'ra.

"Yes," she agreed as she removed her own. "I will keep your name safe. And if you should fall, I shall open my throat and speak it daily."

Methos carefully removed the bulla, stilling the trembling in his hands by force of will as he held it out and she lowered her neck to receive the gift. He did the same, trying desperately not to telegraph his sudden fear. Once the chain was firmly clasped he rose.

"I will return soon. I promise, Mother. And then we will visit for longer."

She nodded, fingering the pretty filigree. It was not customary to decorate the bulla, but Inanna seemed pleased. "I shall look forward to your return then, my son. Go," she added as Methos turned to leave. "Bring back memories to me of your father."

He nodded, his throat suddenly closing up and he needed Jack's arm around his shoulder to guide him from the room. As soon as they were out of sight of the guards, O'Neill suddenly yanked the chain from his throat.

"No!" Methos screamed, even as Jack set off the detonator, tossing Inanna's bulla back toward the throne room.

The double explosion knocked them off their feet, but Methos desperately scrambled up. "Run!"

"What!" O'Neill yelled as he chased after the terrified Immortal. "She's dead!"

But Methos didn't dare look back. "We're too close, damn you! I don't want her inside me! Now run!"

"Oh fuck!" he heard Jack shout, but still he wouldn't stop. He didn't know how far away he needed to be, but he knew he was still too damn close. Her memories, her life. He didn't want any of it. But they were nearly at the gate, maybe there would be time enough. Maybe...

"Oh god!" he whispered as he felt the first tiny tendrils of power seeking him out as the hot wind of her Quickening howled up the corridor. "Hurry, Jack! Hurry!" Methos cried as O'Neill reached the DHD and started punching in the address home.

But it was too late, and Methos knew it even as the gate opened and the first bolt of energy raced along the walls and surged into the gate room. He flung out his arms to steady himself and in the instant it struck felt his own Quickening arise within him and burst outward in response. It flowed through him and toward Inanna, burning his senses as it passed, leaving him lying in a heap at the base of the DHD with O'Neill crouched above.

"What the hell?" Methos asked, shielding his eyes the whirling maelstrom overhead.

"You're asking me?!" Jack exclaimed, hauling him to his feet and dragging him toward the gate as the ground shook with the energies exploding around the room. "Let's just get the hell out!"

They practically fell through the gate, breathlessly tumbling down the ramp to the floor as they emerged on the other side. Behind them, the iris sealed itself and General Hammond stalked forward. Around the room a dozen armed soldiers stood at the ready, the klaxon still blaring an alert.

"Is there any reason," Hammond asked curtly. "Why I shouldn't have the pair of you immediately arrested?"

"Well, Inanna's dead," Jack gasped, staggering to his feet.

"She is, is she?"

"Permanently so," Methos nodded reassuringly.

"Then why did we just receive word from the Tok'ra that her forces are on their way and will be here any time?"

Methos and Jack looked at each other.

"She is dead, General." Methos insisted. "She has to be. I just outran her Quickening."

"Then who's leading her forces?!"

"Good question," Jack admitted. "Maybe when they find out they'll just turn around and go home," he suggested optimistically.

"Let's hope so, Colonel. For both your sakes, let's hope so."

O'Neill nodded and grabbed Methos' arm pulling him toward the exit. Angrily, Hammond turned to stop them.

"Just where the hell do you think you're going now?"

Jack paused to stare in disbelief. "To scramble, sir. We're going to need every plane in the air if they get here and decide to fight anyway."

"With him?" the general asked, pointing at Methos, who looked equally baffled.

O'Neill nodded. "He's qualified," was all the colonel had to say as he tugged Methos from the room.

"Qualified?! What do mean I'm qualified?" Methos demanded trying to break free of Jack's grip as he was pulled down the corridor.

"I just qualified you."

"You're not serious?! I puke in your plane and now I'm qualified to co-pilot?!"

"I fly," O'Neill explained as if he were a five year old. "You shoot the weapons."

"But that's not--"

"This isn't the movies!" O'Neill shouted as he shoved him into the elevator.

"Why me?" Methos asked, bewildered. "Why not Teal'c or Carter?"

Jack grimaced in annoyance. "Teal'c can fly his own plane. And Carter isn't a pilot. She's not even a gunner. And unless it's in space she probably can't even navigate. You on the other hand..."

"I couldn't find my way out of a paper bag, honest!" Methos insisted.

"Look, I went with you, now you go with me. Get it?"

"I knew this loyalty thing sucked!" Methos complained.

The elevator arrived at the surface and O'Neill commandeered a nearby jeep to drive them the mile or so to the air field. At the hanger, O'Neill ran them to the lockers and tossed Methos a flight suit. With a grimace of distaste Methos stripped as Jack ordered and slid into the uniform. He really didn't want to do this. Going out in a blaze of glory had never been his idea of a good time. But if he ran Jack would probably shoot him and drag his dead body along anyway.

"What now?" Methos sighed disgustedly as he followed O'Neill down the hall and into the men's room.

"Pee now, fly friendly," was all O'Neill had to say as he whipped it out and aimed.

Methos curled a lip and nodded, doing the same. Pissing into an ice cold relief tube had been a singular experience during his first flight. One he wasn't eager to repeat.

"You know," he muttered as he zipped up after and went to wash his hands. "The Romans would never have stood for this."

"Guys in skirts don't have to worry about metal teeth catching anything when they need to take a leak. Shall we?"

Methos glared, but followed anyway. Out on the tarmac, empty now that they were the last ones to leave, Methos raced alongside Jack to the far end where his plane stood waiting. As O'Neill hurriedly removed the blocks which kept the plane from rolling in the high winds, Methos glanced back at the mountain as he felt the ground begin vibrate and every hair on his body stand on end.

"What the--?" Jack looked up and his mouth dropped open as the top of the mountain was suddenly engulfed in a cloud of boiling light.

Methos began to backpedal away from the plane. "Get out of here, Jack," he ordered. "Take off. Do it now!"

"What the hell is that?" he asked.

Methos shook his head desperately, knowing there was no where to run. If it could find him here... "Not what. Who!" he gaped in horror. "That's Tok'ra! Now move!"

"I'm not leaving you!" Jack insisted. "Get in the plane!"

"Don't you get it?!" Methos shouted as the monstrous Quickening rounded in their direction as it pin pointed his position. "It had to have come through gate! You wouldn't be safe with me in there. Now go!"

"I'm not going anywhere!"

"Then stay back!" Methos snarled and began to run. Distancing himself not from the impossibly large, apparently sentient Quickening, but away from Jack's proximity. He might survive, but the fool hardy mortal wouldn't stand a chance against the power of Tok'ra's energies.

As it barreled down on him, Methos found himself in the middle of the field not knowing what to do. Stand and take it, or huddle and hope it didn't kill him too many times before it was over? Suddenly it was there, swooping down over his head and Methos fell to the ground, throwing his arms up in a vain effort to defend against it. Then... Nothing. Methos opened his eyes, shaking with a terror so profound a small voice inside his head told him he should be grateful he'd already emptied his bladder.

Quiet laughter suddenly filled his mind. "This time, Methos," the voice rumbled gently through his senses. "I have a moment to ask."

"Tok'ra?" he whispered, trying unsuccessfully to swallow his fear as the Quickening surrounded him in a thick roiling cloud of sparkling fog. A small finger of vapor reached out to tickle him. "Hey!" Methos slapped at it, feeling the static discharge warmly enfolding his hand.

"I said I had a moment, son. Not all the time in the universe to answer your questions. We have a fleet to stop, don't we?"

"But..."

"I need your body, Methos. I cannot fully manifest on this plain without a physical form. Inanna's symbiot still lives and seeks vengeance for her murder. Now, will you allow our Quickenings to join?"

Not again! he thought desperately. But what choice did he have at the moment? "Just do it!" Methos squeezed his eyes shut, steeling himself against the onslaught.

Yet, instead of the intense pain he'd expected, Methos felt a gentle, comforting warmth filling places he'd never known existed with a peace as profound as his terror moments earlier. There were no gut wrenching memories and no colossal blasts of energy to make him scream in agony. He felt safe and loved even as he knew he was rising up again, but this time he didn't care.

His lack of fear lasted only as long as his eyes were closed. The instant he opened them and looked down to see Jack O'Neill a tiny figure, growing more indistinct with every second, Methos had to fight the urge to grab hold of something.

"Father? What's happening?!"

"I won't drop you," Tok'ra promised, his tone filled with amusement.

"That's comforting!" Methos snapped, annoyed.

There was more gentle laughter. "Don't be afraid, son. I've gotten you safely this far, do you think I'd let anything happen to you now?"

"You what?" Methos asked, confused, trying not to think about the stars quickly drawing closer above.

"I couldn't leave you alone and unprotected. Not with Inanna still alive."

Methos felt something inside him start to squirm with what felt like embarrassment. "You were there? With me for everything? You saw?"

The warmth seemed to spread more deeply into his limbs, offering comfort. "Yes, son. I saw."

"Death. The Horsemen. The centuries where I..." Methos choked on the words. He'd lived so selfishly, so utterly without morals or conscience in light of what Tok'ra had taught. "And you said nothing? Did nothing to stop me?"

"I am your father, not a god, Methos. It is your life. It was your choice."

That was true, he admitted sadly. "Now what?" Methos asked nervously as the nimbus surrounding him began to solidify.

"Now we build our armor and finally end this fight."

With a gasp of surprise Methos felt the energies flowing through him. A part of his mind watched in awe as Tok'ra manipulated their joined Quickening, sloughing off cells from Methos' body and weaving the hard outer casing until it was glowing with life. Completed, the shell was a neat square, virtually indestructible and transparent.

"Impressive," Methos commented, reaching out to gently touch the inner carapace as he floated down to sit on the floor.

"Thank you. And if you can avoid that ridiculous Game of yours, you too may one day be able to do this on your own."

"I did not start that," Methos insisted.

"No, but you played it all the same," Tok'ra pointed out as they flew past the moon. "One does not acquire power from other Immortals, son. That is a lie."

"But..."

"What did I teach you?"

Methos hung his head. "Live. Grow stronger," he whispered.

"Our energies increase with every moment of life, not with the death of another."

"Then why the Quickening?" Methos asked, raising his head. "Why does it enter us?"

Tok'ra sighed. "We are not born into mortal bodies, child. Our parents, the beings that give us life, are made up of energy -- and we are but a small fraction of their power spun off into mortal corpses. They give life where there was none and leave the new child in a place where it will be cared for. In the course of time the Ancients leave this offspring to develop on its own, knowing that the energy within cannot die, but will eventually evolve. Every Quickening you've taken is a separate entity which cannot face the fact that it has been deprived of its home. So, it seeks out what it knows. Resides within you until it decides to move on."

The whole idea of hundreds of people currently living inside him gave Methos reason for pause. "Can they...?"

"Band together?" Tok'ra finished. "Feed on your energy and eventually take you over?"

Methos nodded.

"Not the ones you hold. They are far too young to even be aware of the others. And as I said, one Quickening does not feed upon another. In time they will leave of their own accord. Many taken long ago already have."

Well, that was a relief! "And if they were older than me?"

There was a long pause as Methos waited, catching sight of the first of many ships as they came through some kind of vortex. Finally, Tok'ra spoke.

"Inanna could have taken you. She was powerful enough to cast you out and force you to find a new home. Or trap you there with the others."

"You prevented that," Methos sighed.

"Indeed," Tok'ra's voice smiled. "I forced her to evolve."

"But how does one--"

"No more questions," Tok'ra suddenly ordered. "Now, watch carefully. It is time to fight."

There was really nothing to watch, Methos would think later. It was simply a matter of focusing his thoughts. Pointing helped, but as Tok'ra showed him, his Quickening did not reside in the tips of his fingers. It was true enough, Methos realized, that one Quickening could not devour another. But it was also true that the energies could be willingly combined. Still, that required an effort of concentration which left Methos exhausted. Worse was the knowledge of the deaths he was causing. For even as he sent out his energies, the touch of which destroyed the ships, some of it surged back into him, carrying the weight of those lives in a brief flash of shared understanding before their souls moved on.

When the last of the ships had either exploded or retreated, Methos collapsed, holding his head in his arms.

"It is not easy to be a weapon, my son," the voice of Tok'ra offered kindly.

"It does seem to have its drawbacks," Methos whispered painfully.

"As you discovered on your own," Tok'ra pointed out.

No matter how many times he'd heard mortals say it, he knew now that he'd never quite understood. You were always a child to your parents and they could, with a few well chosen words, make you feel just that small. Methos felt himself flush with shame. "I did learn."

"Yes, and I am proud of you for that. It was not easy for you to give up your anger."

"But what was I angry at? I can't even remember now."

"Me," Tok'ra sighed. "For dying, for bringing that mountain down on you to shield you from Inanna, for feeling abandoned and lost. For more things that I can recount, child."

"About Inanna," Methos began, feeling his chest tighten at the words. "Was that your idea or mine?"

"You came to that unfortunate, but necessary conclusion on your own."

"Wonderful. Haven't seen the woman in 10,000 years and the first thing I do is kill her," Methos murmured, disgusted with himself. Suddenly, it hit him. "I murdered my mother!" he realized with a ghastly start. And for the first time in 5,000 years Methos truly began to weep. For himself. For Inanna. For Tok'ra. And for the inconceivable nature of his own corrupted heart. What was he that he could logically deduce and carry out such a heinous act?

Death, came the quiet whisper of his own mind. Methos cringed at the thought. What a fool he'd been to think he had so easily conquered the bastard. The fear and anger induced horror that had once been the most inhuman scourge to ever walk the Earth. He'd beat out his three companions for sheer brilliance in planning the kill and seeing it through. But Death was more insidious than that, he suddenly realized. He had learned new ways to make his presence felt. How subtly, how rationally he'd planned it all and done the deed with little care for anything else. In spite of all his hard won humanity, Death was still just below the surface, waiting for him to slip up.

"Sneaky little shit," Methos muttered, wiping his eyes.

"Don't, Methos," Tok'ra's voice was stern now. "Don't compartmentalize this aspect of yourself. He is not a stranger, but a part of who you are. Think of what the world was like 3500 years ago when every major civilization in your part of the world was collapsing in on itself. In an insane world you acted insanely and that is how you survived. And when the world was again safe and sane you put all that aside."

"Oh, that's sweet!" Methos laughed derisively. "Been there, said that, took the easy philosophical out. I murdered my mother, you son of a bitch! Not to help you, not to save the world, but to keep my own worthless neck intact!"

"Inanna forced your hand and you reacted in the only way you knew how," Tok'ra admitted calmly. "As ruthlessly and as without compassion as she had acted towards you. You are the child of us both and you have always behaved accordingly, for good or ill. You were raised to survive. Regret the necessity, but never the many years of your life."

"And the innocents I killed. Should I not regret that?" Methos asked angrily.

"Yes. Regret that. But accept and move on. Death is not who you are, it is what you sometimes must become. And even as Death you have often shown compassion."

"Compassionate Death?!" Methos snorted. "What I did I did for myself. If I chose to spare a life it was to use it for my own purposes."

"As do we all, my son. Even the best of motives are never entirely selfless. I have watched with interest the rise of the Christ. He wished to save mortals because he believed they were all a part of his God. In effect, saving a part of himself that otherwise might have been lost."

"You're calling God selfish?!" Methos laughter verged on hysteria.

"I would be if I were him and they were mine." Tok'ra's voice held a smile. "But in this case, we are speaking of you. And I taught you to survive for my own selfish reasons. Because like the god of Christ views his own children, you are mine and I love you."

It was pointless to continue the argument Methos realized and their dialogue ended as he lapsed into silence, watching as they neared the Earth and passed easily through the outer layers of the planet's atmosphere. Now, he was not only physically exhausted, but emotionally drained as well.

They landed in a meadow a few hundred feet below the snow line near the air base, the carapace slowly fading away and returning to its place inside him.

"It is time, son."

Methos nodded. He'd be leaving soon too if he could manage it. He'd had quite enough of this Stargate business. Let Mac and the others take point if Hammond was so hot to have Immortals working for the SGC.

"Any last words of wisdom," Methos drawled, distancing himself from the moment as he got to his feet.

Tok'ra sighed. "I think I've said enough, don't you?"

Methos winced inwardly. He was being a prick and he knew it, but 5,000 years of bitterness was hard to shake off in less than an hour.

"I'm sorry I'm not what you wanted," Methos mocked him. "But as you said. It's my life."

"Indeed it is. But watch and learn, young one. Teach the truth if you can."

Methos held out his arms as he felt the energies within him begin to slide gently through his pores to coalesce above him.

"This is your Prize!" The mass of energy laughed as if discovering a whole new universe filled with delight. "Evolution to a higher form! That is the great journey of the Ancients!"

He watched in awe as the power of Tok'ra's Quickening seemed to grow and expand then contract until it was a mere pinpoint of light. Then, just before it winked out, Methos came to his senses.

"Father! Wait! I... I'm sorry. I... Thank you."

The whispered response was almost inaudible and Methos wasn't quite certain he'd heard it correctly.

"The ninth symbol is Time..."

Bereft, Methos sat in the grass waiting as a handful of jeeps raced up the mountain. There'd be the long debriefing and the obvious questions to which he must respond, but in the end he too would go. Maybe for a time, maybe for good. Right now he didn't want to think about any of it. A moment later, he was surrounded and O'Neill was coming forward, followed by Carter and MacLeod.

"You okay?" Jack asked as he knelt beside Methos.

The older man nodded. "He's gone."

"Our satellites picked up some pretty weird images about an hour ago," Samantha commented as Methos slowly got to his feet.

"Wasn't me." He gave a rueful grin and sighed. "Was Tok'ra. I was just along for the ride."

"Nice ride," MacLeod smiled. "Care to educate the rest of us."

Methos shrugged. "Live. Grow stronger. Evolve."

At that, Methos turned away and climbed into the nearest transport. O'Neill quieted the others when they would have pressed him for more, getting in beside the eldest Immortal and giving him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder to let him know he understood.

"How 'bout dinner?" Jack asked as they drove away, deliberately changing the subject in order to give Methos time to adjust and unwind.

Methos smiled. Normalcy was just what he needed, and he appreciated that more than anything. "I hear O'Malley's in town is pretty good."

"Uh... Yeah, it's great. But we're banned from going there anymore."

"You're banned?" Methos asked, genuinely surprised.

"Yeah, Danny-boy got into a bar fight and well, Carter and I kinda helped it along."

"Daniel? In a bar fight?" Methos laughed long and hard at the idea. Finally, he wiped his eyes and sighed. "Well, I'm open to suggestions."

"Barbecue? My place?"

Methos nodded and it was decided. As they hit the highway Jack shifted into high gear, speeding past the base in obvious violation of his orders. There would be no debriefing tonight. No questions Methos felt unable or unwilling to answer. Just a quiet night of sharing food and friendship with someone who at least knew when to be silent.

***

Epilogue

Three months later...

Of all the places for Adam Pierson to go to ground Jack O'Neill had never considered Nepal to be one of them. Maybe he should have, he thought wryly as he very carefully landed the small Harrier jet on the side of a grassy slope not far from where the transmission signal emanated. Methos had been fairly terse, even abrupt during his debriefing before being given compassionate leave. Hammond hadn't asked, and no one else had said a word, but it was clearly understood that Pierson had been very quietly hurting. Whether he'd come back, of course, was the obvious question.

There wasn't much to see around here, O'Neill thought as he looked around, and maybe that was the point. The Himalayas of course were spectacular, and Methos' hiding place was just as spectacularly hidden within the upper foot hills of the mountains. But it had taken just one pass of a satellite to determine that the ancient Immortal was very much in residence.

He found the entrance with very little trouble, although unless you knew what you were looking for it was neatly hidden by an optical illusion of perspective, appearing to be nothing more than a small bump in the side of the mountain. Inside, it was as dark and dank as one might expect. Further back it narrowed so that one thin man with a hand truck might easily pass through. On the other side of that narrow opening Jack found the first signs of habitation. Maybe ten tons of stored goods dating back to the turn of the century if the labels were anything to judge by, and several thousand propane tanks stacked neatly against the walls.

"Nice. A little paranoid, but nice," Jack murmured as he moved through the storage cave, coming across a small door about half way through. He opened it cautiously and smiled. Now this was a hideout, he thought as he stepped outside. The cave led to a small sheltered valley within the peaks. A miniature Shangri-La of sorts and he wondered if that was where Pierson had gotten the idea.

Behind him, he heard a gun cocking and Jack lifted his arms. "I come in peace."

"Next time," Methos responded testily, putting up his weapon as O'Neill turned around. "Call first." He held up his cell phone and pointed to the camouflaged satellite dish and microwave tower on the hill above them. "Don't you know there's a war going on here?"

O'Neill shrugged and lowered his hands. "Didn't think you'd answer and it might have made you leave."

Methos scowled. "Just how did you find me, anyway?" he asked, heading toward the house he'd built about half a mile away.

"You took your transmitter with you. Little known fact, Pierson," Jack confided as he followed down the steep hillside.

"They can act as homing beacons," Methos concluded with a sigh. "Shit!" They reached the house and he opened the door, stepping aside to allow his somewhat welcome guest inside. Placing both hands together, Methos bowed and gave the typical Nepalese greeting. "Namaste."

"Huh?"

"Make yourself at home," Methos rolled his eyes.

"No can do, Pierson. Get your stuff and let's go." He looked at his watch. "Another six hours and thirty-seven minutes and you're AWOL."

"Don't be ridiculous," Methos scoffed. "You have MacLeod and his friends to back you up now. And Daniel should have returned to work already. What do you need me for?"

"Let's just say, I like your style, Captain Pierson."

"Captain?" Methos laughed.

"Yup. Hammond thought it was appropriate, since you were no longer a captain of industry. Oh, and," he fished a flat velvet display box out of his jacket. "If you hadn't lit out so quick you'd have gotten this from the man himself."

He tossed the box to Methos, who opened it gingerly. "The Presidential Medal of Honor?!" he gasped. "Don't you have to be dead or something to get this?"

"Yeah. So? You've been dead and your...something. I left the others back at the base," he added. "There are at least a dozen. The Iron Cross, the Victoria Cross, the Croix de Guerre. A Gold Star from the Russians. Not to mention a bunch of other distinguished service medals from our guys -- and the Purple Heart."

"The Purple Heart?" Methos asked, dumbfounded. "The only thing wounded was my dignity."

"My idea," Jack grinned. "Knew you'd like it."

For a long moment Methos stood speechless until finally he closed the box and laid it aside. "How nice. More pretty baubles."

Jack grimaced. "That reminds me. This," he pulled a silver box out of his pocket, "is from the Tok'ra. Glows whether it's in the dark or not."

Methos raised his hands, demurring. "You keep it. It's probably a homing device."

"That's why it's in a lead lined box," Jack grinned.

"So all this," Methos cocked his head in amazement, "is to convince me to come back?"

"No," Jack smiled. "That's to say thank you. This," he pulled out his gun, trying not to laugh at Methos' affronted expression, "is to convince you to get your ass packed and in that jet. Don't you know the punishment for going AWOL is more time in the service -- with no furloughs. And," he added cheerfully. "We also dock your pay for six months."

"But--"

"Aw, come on, Pierson! Don't make me do the corpse thing. I don't need any more of your bodily fluids messing up my cockpit."

Methos frowned and started looking for his duffel bag as Jack tossed him clothes, a CD player, a few discs and some personal items, never lowering the gun.

"This is so typically American," Methos sniped as he hurriedly filled the bag.

"You should know, Mr. Revolutionary War plaque."

"Ingrate," Methos sneered, hiding a smile. He hadn't really thought they'd want him back, not after what he'd done to Inanna. But it felt good to be wanted. And after taking some time to think about it, he truly had wanted to explore the other side of that Stargate. Still, he could get a lot of mileage out of playing the unwilling victim.

"All right," he growled, yanking the duffel shut and slinging it over his shoulder. "Let's go."

Jack followed, finally putting away his weapon as he closed the door. "Did I mention this was a nice little vacation spot? You'll really have to invite me back sometime."

Not having invited him in the first place, Methos rolled his eyes. "Use it anytime you want," he grated.

"Gee, thanks! How's the fishing?"

Methos twisted his lips in disgust. "It's wonderful, Jack. Help yourself."

As they reached the jet and climbed in O'Neill turned and smiled happily.

"So, my little minion. What'd you get me during your visit to Nepal?"