Changing of the Guard
Ecolea


Rating: PG - 15 for language and mature themes
Spoilers: All of HL & SG1

Feedback: Comments, flames, superfluous remarks and vicious character 
assassination may be cheerfully sent to: ecolea@wt.net

Archive: All ready sent to Seventh Dimension and Heliopolis. All 
others go for it.

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me and I'm 
not making any money. So, please sue me. At least that way I can maybe 
get on Oprah and have the other 7 minutes of my 15 minutes of fame.

Summary: Methos' plans for a little Research and Recreation take a 
decidedly dangerous turn when the Air Force discovers he's an 
Immortal. Can he survive the present, confront his past, and save 
Earth's future all at the same time?

Author's note: Many thanks to Arameth for guidance, assistance and 
quibbles. And Karoshi, for painlessly picking out the nits. Everyone 
should be so lucky!

For Estella, who deserves more and better.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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