Changing of The Guard 4: The Road To Hammelcar
Ecolea


Author: Ecolea 
Title: Changing of The Guard 4: The Road To Hammelcar
Email: ecolea@wt.net
Website: http://web.wt.net/~ecolea/EclecticReadingRoom/index.htm
Rating: PG13 for adult themes and language.
Status: Complete
Spoilers: Nothing is sacred.
Keywords: Highlander: The Series, Stargate SG-1, Crossover, AU
Characters: HL: M DM A SG-1: JO SC DJ T GH. Various and sundry original
characters.
Sequel: Fourth in series.

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

Archive: Heliopolis (http://www.sg1-heliopolis.de) and Seventh
Dimension (www.seventh-dimension.org) All others: Please feel free to
link.

Disclaimer: I am nothing. I own nothing. I am one with the gestalt. Sue
him.

Summary: A simple reconnaissance mission turns deadly when the specter
of Methos' past arises. Will he survive this dangerous confrontation,
or will O'Neill's sanity become a casualty?

Author's Note: This is the fourth volume in an ongoing series. For
those of you who'd like to read the first three books (highly
recommended), they can be found at my web site, The Eclectic Reading
Room http://web.wt.net/~ecolea/EclecticReadingRoom/index.htm as well as
in the Highlander archive, Seventh Dimension http://www.seventh-
dimension.org/ and the Stargate: SG-1 archive, Heliopolis
(http://www.sg1-heliopolis.de/series/e.html) or in the Files section of
my update list (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ecolea).

Personal note: Many thanks to Arameth, for diabolical and fiendish
torment of the author, guidance and without whom none of this would be
possible. His Gracefulness Charles, for being so easy to please. My
thanks to Captain Average, for always flying to my rescue and doing a
superb job of beta-ing this story. Athers, for countless supportive
comments, lots and lots of nudging, nitpicking extraordinaire and for
just being there. And to Karoshi, always an inspiration.
 
Note to canon junkies: This is a crossover and an alternative universe
tale of derring do. It's a good bet you'll find something to get
annoyed over.

Dedicated to all those "Special" guys and "Forceful" gals. Merry
Christmas to all of you!



Changing of the Guard 4:
The Road To Hammelcar

By Ecolea



Prologue

The golf course was lush and teeming with life as Secret Service agents
prowled the green and filtered through the wooded areas doing their
jobs. Jack O'Neill nodded in appreciation as his golfing partner for
the morning let fly with beautiful a back swing and they watched the
tiny white ball drive through the air and land within a few yards of
the ninth hole.

"Very nice, Mr. President," O'Neill complimented the other man.

"Why thank you, Colonel," the President grinned as he handed off his
iron to the agent assigned to caddy and stepped back.

O'Neill moved to set his ball on the tee. "I've been thinking about
what you said," he commented as he settled into his stance. 

"And?" the President asked.

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind. I think he's been through enough."

"I agree," the President sighed and O'Neill shot him a surprised
glance. "I can read between the lines, Jack. For all intents and
purposes, Inanna was Methos' mother. And he was forced to kill her
because we discovered her existence. Something she'd gone to great
lengths to hide. I'm not unmindful of that," he added quietly. "But you
know as well as I do," he went on, "he's the only man on the planet who
knows anything about the culture in-depth. Even if it is ten thousand
years out of date, we need his expertise." 

"It's not fair," O'Neill muttered.

"No, but it's his job."

Jack nodded slowly, sighing tiredly. "And with Inanna's people looking
to cut a deal there's no other choice."

"Maybe Pierson will eventually be helpful in dealing with the Ishri,"
the President said. "And maybe not. But as far as we know they still
have the ability to challenge us. Just as Inanna did. I'm sorry if it
causes the man pain, but we simply cannot afford to waste him as a
resource. "

O'Neill gave his Commander in Chief a curious stare. "Maybe you're
right," O'Neill finally replied.

"So, you'll do it?" the President asked.

O'Neill sighed again and nodded. "We've gotta come up with a plan
though. He doesn't have a background in the diplomatic corp, and you
can't just order him to negotiate on behalf of Earth."

"No, he doesn't," the President agreed. 

"Pierson hates being in the spotlight even more than I do. And he does
have the right to refuse a mission he's not qualified to perform. Even
a diplomatic one. And he'll do it, too."

"Well, we've got a week before his leave is over to come up with
something that will pique his interest and make him want to get
involved. I can probably stall the Ishri a bit longer."

Jack nodded distantly and finally made his shot, sinking it easily and
smiling as the President swore under his breath.

"You know," O'Neill offered as he knelt to remove his ball from the
cup. "We could use some serious recon on the Ishri."

The President smiled. "Yes, we could. You have something in mind,
Colonel?"

"A little something," Jack grinned. "Dangerous, but not dicey. Needs a
man like Pierson to make it work. Of course," he added, stepping back
to allow the President to sink his putt. "It won't sound quite as
interesting coming from me."

The President raised his brows, understanding perfectly what O'Neill
was suggesting. "Well now, if the Joint Chiefs approve and you think it
will make a difference, I think we can find someone important enough to
pitch it to our Immortal Captain."

"All the difference in the world," Jack replied as the little white
ball rolled easily along the grass and gently dropped into the hole. 


Chapter 1

"Where are we going now?" Methos asked in annoyance. They'd been flying
for nearly six hours and instead of heading straight to the base at
Cheyenne Mountain from Paris, where O'Neill had kindly picked him up,
once in the air, they had detoured first to Frankfurt then to Milan. It
seemed O'Neill had agreed to do some courier missions as a favor to an
old friend, or so he claimed. Now they were in Washington DC. At the
hangar, O'Neill had ordered him to change into his dress uniform, which
he had done as well, then hustled Methos into an unmarked car and
headed into the city.

"Don't tell me you've never wanted to see the Pentagon?" Jack grinned
as he turned off Hayes Street and onto Army-Navy Drive. 

"Big building? Five sides? Oh look, there it is," Methos pointed
excitedly. "Wow! That was really thrilling. Thanks, Jack."

"Anytime," O'Neill chuckled. "Look, I just need to pick up another set
of orders. Then we're out of here. Okay?"

Methos sighed and nodded as they pulled into the building's underground
garage. O'Neill showed more orders to a waiting soldier and they headed
inside to park. A few minutes later they walked back out and across the
street into a Macy's Department Store.

"Oh, I get it," Methos sniped. "We're shopping for orders."

Jack snickered. "Of course, who do you think built this place?"

A bored looking rent-a-cop sat at an information desk, where, much to
Methos' surprise, O'Neill showed him his ID and the man waved them to
an elevator. Once inside they headed down for several minutes. When the
lift came to a halt they exited into another small room lined with
mirrors, or what appeared to be a small room, which suddenly began
moving sideways.

"Jesus!" Methos gasped as he tried to get his footing back.

Jack laughed from where he leaned against a wall. "Gotcha!"

Methos stepped back to park himself securely against the mirrors. 

"What the hell is this place?" he asked looking around curiously,
though there was really nothing to see.

"The fun house," O'Neill shrugged, grinning just a little.

"Ah," Methos sighed and crossed his arms, trying to look nonchalant
about it. "It's a secret."

"Places which don't exist," O'Neill pointed out, "technically aren't
secrets."

This was true, Methos silently agreed. "So, we were never here?

"Never where?"

Methos gave a disgusted sigh at Jack's feigned confusion, but said
nothing. If O'Neill wanted to play games, who was he to complain? And
knowledge, especially well kept secrets, were always a good thing to
have.

A quarter of an hour later the "elevator" finally stopped and they got
out in front of another elevator. "This one go perpendicular?" Methos
asked snidely.

"No," the colonel answered quite seriously. "We don't have any reason
to go to the House of Representatives, do we?"

Methos rubbed his eyes. No matter what he did this was a game O'Neill
was going to win. So, he might well just shut up and concede defeat.

This time the elevator did go up in a perfectly normal fashion, except
for the fact that it was slower than molasses dripping. And as it rose,
droning elevator music played an excruciatingly saccharine version of
"Feelings" in a medley with "You Light Up My Life" followed by a
hideously sweet rendition of "It's a Small World, After All." Towards
the end of the second pass O'Neill started humming and Methos glared in
response.

"Don't look at me like that." Jack grinned painfully as Methos
distracted him from his distraction. "One more verse and I'll rip your
head off with my teeth!"

"Not if I don't do it first," Methos gritted. "What did you do wrong
and why am I being punished for it?!"

"It's your turn!" Jack grimaced.

By the time the elevator came to a stop and they gratefully escaped the
government sponsored torture, Methos was ready to scream when he found
himself staring dumbly at another pair of sliding doors.

"I don't care what you say," Methos insisted. "I am not getting in
there!"

"But we're here," Jack told him, looking hurt. "And the only way to
leave from this point is to go back the way we came!"

Methos groaned. "God, man! Just get those fucking orders and let's get
out of here!"

Jack grinned happily. "I have to go in here," he pointed to a door on
his right. "You go through there and I'll meet you on the other side in
a bit."

"So what's in there?" Methos asked suspiciously. "Racks? Hot irons?
Debbie Boone?"

"It's just an office," Jack told him with a hint of exasperation,
waving at the sliding doors.

"Fine," Methos muttered, striding forward and ignoring the pneumatic
doors as he glanced back to see Jack entering what looked like another
office. "It's just an office," he told himself as he stepped inside and
saw the paneled walls. Then the doors slid shut behind him seamlessly.
"It's just-" Methos' chin dropped. "The Oval Office. Shit!"

"That just what I said!"

Methos turned to stare at the smiling man sitting comfortably at the
big desk in front of the windows. I will get you for this, O Great
Satan! Methos thought angrily, finally closing his mouth.

"You look younger than I thought," the President commented as he rose.

"Well you're taller!" Methos retorted, suddenly shocked by his own
response. "Uh, sir," he added, saluting sharply as he hurriedly came to
attention.

"At ease," the President laughed. "It's the tube. We're all just a
bunch of talking heads on the box."

Methos relaxed his stance, nodding distractedly.

"Well, come on in," the President waved him to the sitting area as he
strode over. "Can I you get you something? Coffee? Bourbon?
Nitroglycerin?"

Methos grinned at the last offer and moved to take a seat on the couch.
"My heart's fine. So's coffee, thank you."

"Sorry about all the skullduggery," the President offered kindly as he
poured coffee from a silver carafe into a pair of bone china cups
bearing the Presidential seal. "But we thought you'd prefer it to
having your picture taken with the rest of the masses who come in
here."

"I appreciate that," he murmured, feeling a little more kindly towards
O'Neill for that courtesy.

"It's good to finally meet you, Methos," the President smiled and held
out his hand.

Surreal, Methos thought as he shook it. Oh, he'd met American
Presidents before. Washington, Jackson, and Lincoln to name a few. But
none had ever called him by name or known exactly what he was.

"I have to admit, I've been looking forward to this," the President
confided. "Just knowing there's someone out there who's lived through
everything you have... Well, it's damn near unbelievable. Especially in
light of how you folks live."

Methos carefully blanked his expression and the other man, no fool in
this or anything, nodded briefly.

"I see you understand me. Good. Because that's one of the things I
wanted to discuss at this meeting. Is there any possibility of ending
this Game?"

Methos glanced at his coffee and took a sip. "I doubt it," he shook his
head sadly. "Even if I could get some to believe there are too many
others who would not, or would continue fighting for the sheer thrill
of it. Quickenings can be addictive for some. Though others, like any
individuals, just do it for the sport. And imagine the horror of those
who've killed just to survive, only to discover that those deaths had
no point. It would drive good men and women mad."

"A shame," the President murmured. "Such a waste."

There was nothing to say to that so Methos merely nodded.

"Which brings me to the reason I asked O'Neill to bring you here." The
President reached into his jacket, pulling out an envelope which he
handed to Methos.

"An identification card and passport?" he asked curiously as he
examined the contents.

"Not just any passport, Methos, but one that will never expire. From
this day forward Adam Pierson can go into any American embassy anywhere
in the world and have it renewed. Even have the name changed. No
questions asked. For as long as the United States exists."

Methos simply stared at the man in silent shock.

"And the other," the President pointed out, "is a blanket visa issued
by the United Nations. One of a kind -- like yourself. The bar coding
on the back will allow you diplomatic entry into any nation on this
planet."

"Diplomatic?!" Methos gasped. He could take his sword on any plane and
into any airport and no one would ever question its presence!

The President grinned. "Thought you'd like that. It's just our little
way of saying thanks for all you've done."

"Some thanks," Methos murmured, the cynical side of him wondering just
what he was going to have to do to keep these precious documents
active. 

The President waved a hand in dismissal. "You've more than earned it.
Though there is something else I'd like to discuss with you."

Ah, yes. Here it comes, Methos thought. 

"We need another favor from you, and it isn't something anyone can
order..."

***

"I can't believe I let that...that politician talk me into this!"
Methos complained as he followed O'Neill into the hanger bay.

"You're a good soldier, and a loyal American," Jack commented sagely.

Methos rolled his eyes and snorted in disgust. "Not for a bloody
passport!"

O'Neill grinned widely. "Relax, Captain. It's gonna be fun. And we get
to play with a brand new toy. Well, not exactly new," he added as he
switched on the overhead spotlights. "More of a Goa'uld classic in mint
condition, according to Teal'c."

"So why can't Teal'c go with you?" Methos asked, eyeing the small, two-
man fighter with apprehension.

Jack sighed as he climbed into the pilot's seat. "Because he and
Bra'tac are still working out the kinks with your Immortal buddies."

"So take Daniel. He's your official linguist."

O'Neill sighed dramatically. "I really wish I could, Pierson. But he's
on loan to SG-4. And Carter... Well, she's working on a special project
involving her design for a naquada generator that's at a critical point
in the developmental stage. And this is just a simple recon mission. A
little more complicated than some, but nothing for you to complain
about -- especially after you agreed to the assignment. Are you, by any
chance," he asked dryly, "bucking for a few more pushups this fine
morning?"

Methos grimaced. "No," he muttered. "I just don't see why the President
himself asked me to do this 'simple recon mission' if it's all that's
simple."

The colonel shrugged. "You know politicians. Give with the one hand,
take with the other. And it was a good excuse to meet you."

"Not that good an excuse," Methos grumbled, staring oddly at the ship.

"Maybe he thinks you're special," O'Neill grinned. "I know I do. And
you have the advantage of having Daddy's memories."

Methos shook his head. "I don't have all of Tok'ra's memories to draw
on anymore," he confided, finally taking the gunner's place behind
O'Neill with a disgusted sigh. "I have mine. And from what I can
recall, which isn't much more than bits and pieces, this isn't Goa'uld
technology. It's one of Tok'ra's inventions."

O'Neill turned to stare at him. "You've seen this kind of ship before?"

"Seen it?" Methos smiled. "I learned how to fly one right after I
learned how to walk. Tok'ra was very big on knowledge."

"Fancy that," Jack murmured thoughtfully. Teal'c had told them this
particular Goa'uld fighter was something of a proto-type model. A ship
that was itself a Stargate which could be launched from a stationary
location, navigate the wormhole it created and exit at any other
Stargate point. Obviously, it was not. Like most of their technology,
the Goa'uld had stolen it from another source. "SG-7 found this baby a
couple of years back on another one of those deserted dirt balls. Since
then, our guys in R&D have been trying to reverse engineer this thing
for us."

"Can't see why they'd bother," Methos commented, putting on his helmet.
"If you want more fighters, I can show you where the parts were
stored."

"And you're just sharing this with me now?!" O'Neill asked, very much
annoyed.

Methos frowned. "It's not like I've had to think about any of this
stuff for ten millennia, Jack. I only just remembered when I saw her.
Like I said, it's learn as we go with my memories of Tok'ra."

"Sorry," O'Neill nodded apologetically. "I hadn't thought of that.
Okay," he decided, powering up the ship Teal'c had taught him to fly.
"After we're done, we'll go check it out."

Methos sighed. "Fine. Now, tell me again why we're doing this. I'm sure
I was brain dead when the President explained the problem."

The colonel chuckled. He sincerely doubted it, but if Methos needed
reassurance he didn't mind providing that.

"After you left for Nepal, way back when, Inanna's people contacted us.
Seems they wanted an alliance against the Goa'uld when they realized
their goddess was gone. Since then, contact's been intermittent. No
real negotiations. Just feeling us out from time to time. Until
recently, when they suddenly started burning up the wire with friendly
offers. The thing of it is, the only coordinates we've ever had on them
are somewhere in deep space. They've never been forthcoming with any
details."

"That's definitely suspicious," Methos agreed.

"We did find a gate not far from there, but it isn't attached to a
planet. Not the first time we've come across that kind of thing, but
it's unnerving."

"That would be Tok'ra's combat system," Methos supplied. Again O'Neill
turned to stare at him. "What?! It's not like I can help it."

"Anyway," O'Neill growled. "We need more to go on before we can make
any kind of decision about sending a delegation. And this seems like
the best way to get it."

"So, this is just a recon mission," Methos sighed. "We're not going to
infiltrate and dispose of Inanna's people."

"If need be," Jack acknowledged stoically. "Our job is to get enough
information to negotiate from an advantageous position, or put a stop
to things. I'm for stopping it entirely."

Methos raised both brows in surprise. "Your reason being?"

O'Neill turned in his seat and smiled sourly. "Yesterday, we received a
new request from the Ishri. They asked to speak with Methos-Inanna's
beloved offspring."


Chapter 2

"Did the woman never have an original thought?" Methos wondered aloud
as they floated within visual sensor range of the Ishri ships. "I'd
swear those were the same rust buckets Tok'ra used to complain about."

"They look pretty new to me."

"Probably are," Methos agreed. "It's just the design that's old."

"Same thing with the Goa'uld," Jack commented. "So what's that about?
The longer you live, the less you like change?"

"Not in my case," Methos yawned. "In theirs," he shrugged, "it's about
absolute power. The only way to maintain it is to stifle free thought.
Not a lot of creativity going on there."

"Sounds boring."

"Yup. But not," Methos grumbled, readjusting his ear piece, "as boring
as the Ishri's lack of conversational prowess. If I hear one more word
about 'Misty Eyes' and her celestial harp..." he complained.

"Down, minion," O'Neill chuckled. "Another day and we'll be able to
pull out."

"Easy for you to say," Methos sneered. "You haven't had to listen the
intergalactic equivalent of the Spice Girls for three days. Not to
mention the inane back chatter of-" Methos paused and cocked his head.
"Oh, now that's interesting..."

O'Neill sat up a little and turned to watch his friend. A few days
earlier they'd exited on the far side of the galaxy through a space-
based Stargate within audio range of the Ishri fleet and cut their
engines; cruising gently into visual range on minimal power, while
pretending to be just so much space debris. Thus far, their passive
observation had yielded little, except to slowly drive his Immortal
companion stir crazy.

"Uh oh," Methos grimaced. "Damn it, Jack, we've been made. No, wait!"
Methos cautioned before O'Neill could power up. "They think we're
salvage -- the idiots. Looks like they're sending out a drone ship."

"That's a good thing," Jack grinned.

"Only if you've got a death wish," Methos responded wryly.

"I've got you, babe!"

Methos curled a lip. "Don't quote pop music lyrics at me, or I'll have
to hurt you, O'Neill. And why is it a good thing?"

"Because we're gypsies, tramps and thieves?"

"Speak for yourself, half-breed."

"No, seriously," Jack insisted, grinning. "We're salvage, right? What
better way to sneak on board? You can access their computers from
there, right?"

"And do what? Order room service?"

O'Neill paused and looked thoughtfully at the Immortal. Methos was
never this dense, so... "What's your problem with this, Pierson? I'd
thought you'd appreciate the chance to cut this mission short."

Methos sighed silently. This man is just far too perceptive for someone
his age! "All right. I'm not thrilled about the fact that the Ishri
are, for all intents and purposes, hunting me. That's enough to make me
wonder about their motives. I was never much involved with Inanna after
my formative years. And... Well, I can't know for certain, but there
may have been other Immortals among her entourage."

"So, naturally, you're worried," Jack nodded. "That's fair. But not
enough to stop the negotiations."

"I know that," Methos sighed in dismay. "God, I hate politics," he
muttered angrily. 

"I've wondered about that," O'Neill said curiously. "I'd think living
as long as you folks do you'd want to get involved. Make the world a
better place for yourselves."

"Tried that." Methos shrugged. "Got crucified for my trouble." Before
Jack could question him further, Methos nodded toward the ships in the
distance. "Oh look, here comes our ride."

***

"Oh, this was a good idea," O'Neill commented, wrinkling his nose in
disgust as he opened the hatch. It hadn't taken long before the salvage
drone had locked onto their ship, hauling its prize inside and
thoughtlessly dropping it on a pile of space rubbish.

"Don't knock it," Methos responded. "We have two advantages they
don't."

"Which are?" Jack asked caustically.

"Our ship can move through space from a stationary point -- and we've
both smelled Venice."

"Venice? What the hell does Venice have to do with anything?"

"Do you think anyone in their right mind is masochistic enough to come
down here?"

"Good point," Jack nodded as he climbed out. "And if they're anything
like ships at sea, they'll only dump their trash at the end of the
mission. So we're pretty much safe leaving the ship here."

"My thoughts exactly," Methos grinned, then frowned as he shook
something nasty off his boot heel. "Let's get out of here. This place
gives me the creeps."

"I hear that," Jack agreed, grabbing their packs and tossing Methos his
own. "Ever see Star Wars?"

"Eight times I saw that wretched movie," Methos grimaced as he led the
way, cautiously navigating the cavernous interior toward what looked
like an exit.

O'Neill shook his head. "If you hated it..."

"I didn't hate it," Methos explained. "At least not the first time. Or
the second, when I brought a date. The last six," he shuddered
melodramatically. "I was stuck on a charter flight from Australia to
LA. Little did I know the rest of the passengers were rabid fans on
their way to a convention. It ran continuously. No breaks."

When Jack's laughter had quieted down to the occasional snicker Methos
pointed to the door. "Shall we?"

"Yes, young Skywalker, let's."

Methos rolled his eyes and punched in a code that had been ancient when
he was young. Sure enough it worked. "Little minds," he murmured
absently as Jack peeked around the door jam and into the barely lit
corridor. 

"All clear," the colonel nodded. "Which way do you suggest?"

"That way," Methos pointed to a set of ladder rungs which disappeared
into the ceiling. "There should be a secondary bridge station a few
levels up, if I remember correctly. Inanna's people were very big on
redundant systems. They used it for officers' training, or so she
claimed. I remember Tok'ra saying it was a weak link in their security.
Right about now," Methos grinned wickedly, "I'd have to agree."

O'Neill nodded slowly, moving to the ladder. "Sounds good. Anything we
need to worry about between here and there?"

Methos shook his head. "Haven't a clue," he answered as Jack started to
pull himself up. "I was never actually on one of Inanna's battleships.
I only heard the arguments a year or two before the final battle when
Tok'ra was insisting she redesign. And frankly, I probably had other
things on my mind," he grinned at Jack, who looked surprised. "Female
things."

Jack smiled and continued climbing as Methos followed. "Hey, if you
don't mind my asking, just how old were you when..."

"When I first died?" Methos chuckled at O'Neill's discomfort. The man
really hated asking personal questions. But he liked Jack. And if they
were going to spend eternity looking out for one another, he might as
well be honest. "Twenty-three."

"Jesus!" Jack whispered. "You were just a kid."

"Just a kid now," Methos corrected. "In those days I was practically
middle aged. At least among mortals. It's only been the last fifty
years or so that I've been treated as something less than fully
vested."

Thinking back on his own reaction to "young" Adam Pierson, O'Neill
winced. "That must be really annoying."

"Not as much as you'd think," Methos responded quietly as they passed
another level. "Or it was," he amended thoughtfully. "Until I realized
what an advantage it gave me. The young are forgiven much, and instead
of having to plan identities and their usefulness in decades, with the
judicious use of hair dyes I could plan in generations. And it made me
feel younger, too," he admitted. "Something I thought I'd lost
somewhere along the way."

O'Neill smiled as they paused in their climb to check another corridor.
"We almost there?"

"One more level."

"You sure? They all look alike to me."

"Well, that's what the sign says," Methos pointed his chin at the wall.
"It's not the Enterprise, but I'd say their directory is accurate
enough."

O'Neill shrugged and went on climbing. "I never did get that. Why
didn't Starfleet just put it in neon with flashing lights? 'Saboteurs
welcome, please kill our security guards'."

Methos shoved his face against his forearm to stifle his laughter.
Thankfully, a sudden noise distracted him as O'Neill froze on the
ladder above. He held up a hand and Methos nodded. A moment later
O'Neill signaled clear and he followed the colonel up into the narrow
niche that offset the ladder.

"They must have been headed for Engineering," Methos explained quietly.
"According to that directory, it's on the opposite side of the ship,
but it's the only other department on this level."

"That might make for a fair amount of traffic," O'Neill considered
thoughtfully.

"Means we'll need camouflage," Methos nodded. "Laundry's one level
down. You wait here."

In a flash Methos was gone and back in twenty minutes with a pair of
uniforms.

"Burnt orange?!" Jack hissed when he saw them. "You couldn't get that
nice blue those other guys were wearing?"

Methos grimaced at his tone. "That nice blue is for the rank and file,"
he explained. "They'd have no business where we're going."

O'Neill conceded the point gracefully and they hurriedly changed
clothes, Methos checking their appearance against what he remembered of
Inanna's officers. It wasn't much, he admitted silently. She hadn't had
much use for him once he'd reached his teens and been sent to study
with Tok'ra. 

Another quick check of the corridor and they were sauntering down the
hall as if they belonged there.

"Oh, this is nice," Methos murmured as they reached the entrance to the
emergency bridge and he saw the security locks.

"How nice?" Jack asked, keeping an eye on the corridor behind them.

"Nice enough that I can probably use Tok'ra's personal code to get us
in." Methos tapped a half a dozen of the small lit panels and smiled.
"Open sesame!" And the door slid open with a quiet hiss.

"Well, now that's really stupid," O'Neill commented as they stepped
inside and the automatic lighting flickered on.

"Figures though," Methos sighed with relief as the doors shut behind
them. "If you're not going to update your ship design, why update your
computers? They must be uploading the basics from a central location
for the sake of uniformity. Unfortunately, for them," he grinned
wickedly, "Tok'ra helped design those basic programs to interface with
his fleet. As I recall, Inanna wasn't too mechanically inclined. And
once he was dead, why bother to delete the codes? I doubt she even
thought about it."

"Lousy security," was all O'Neill had to say as he followed Methos
toward one of the computer relays. "This get the job done?" he asked,
taking a seat beside the Immortal, who was pulling out his laptop.

"Yeah," Methos nodded distractedly. "Once I'm in the relay the
mainframe will see me as internal. With the right code and a little
coaxing, she'll give it up." 

O'Neill chuckled softly. 

"What's so funny?" Methos glanced at Jack, a slight frown creasing his
brow.

"You," O'Neill shook his head with amused disbelief. "Five thousand
years in a technology free world and you come up a computer geek."

"Once a geek always a geek," Methos shrugged, silently enjoying Jack's
delight. For a brief moment he recalled how it had confounded MacLeod
no end when he'd discovered his legend was as comfortable with a
keyboard and mouse as he was with a sword. But that had always been his
key to survival. Unlike most Immortals who found a niche and stuck with
it as the ages passed, adapting only outwardly to whatever time and
place in which they found themselves, he had become the chameleon.
Changing with the times, accepting new moralities, becoming who and
what he needed to be in order to move forward with the world and
survive within it, rather than simply passing through as a spectator of
life. 

Three hours later he'd burned at least a few dozen CDs and Jack was
getting antsy. "How much longer?" O'Neill asked nervously.

Methos frowned. "Not long. Why?"

"I don't know," he shook his head, perplexed. "Bad vibes."

Methos nodded sharply. He'd learned never to distrust this particular
soldier's instincts. "Let's start packing it up," he responded.
"This'll only take another minute and I think we've got more than-" His
head shot up as he sensed the sudden approach of another Immortal. Even
shocked as he was Methos had enough presence of mind to hurriedly
disconnect the laptop and shove it into his pack. Just as he was
reaching for his sword, the doors whooshed open and a man in the dark
red uniform, denoting a senior officer, walked in.

"Why aren't you two with the others?!" the officer demanded.

That was the last thing Methos had expected to hear and he gave Jack a
minute shake of his head to tell the other man to relax. The colonel
eased his hand away from his weapon, and though he didn't understand
the language, he accepted Methos' assessment without a word.

"You heard me, boy! Why aren't you with the others?"

"Uh, sir," Methos began, confused, but other Immortal held up a hand
and cut him off.

"Never mind," the man shook his head in disgust. "You know you're not
supposed to be playing down here."

Methos did his best to look chagrined and nodded, but the officer
frowned when Jack didn't respond.

"You know, boy, I can understand you wanting to get your hands on some
real equipment after the mock ups, but interfering with your mortal's
training..." he shook his head. "Language induction for new recruits
begins after lunch. You will both attend. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Methos nodded.

"Well, come on," the officer said, obviously annoyed and pointed to
their packs. "Get your stuff and come along."

Methos grabbed his pack and signaled Jack to do the same. 

"What's going on?" O'Neill whispered.

"He's thinks we're newbies who got lost on the way to training."

"For real?" Jack looked as though he might burst out laughing.

Methos rolled his eyes. "Just play along."

"You gotta be kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not!" Methos hissed angrily. "He's Immortal! And he doesn't
seem the least bit surprised by the fact that I am too." At that Jack
looked shocked. "In fact, it seems to be expected."

Now Jack frowned. "Think there could be more?" 

Methos nodded curtly as the officer shouted for them to hurry it up.
"And Inanna wouldn't do that. She might have one or two around, but she
wouldn't have whole bunches of Immortals anywhere near her. That would
have threatened her position. But who might have gathered them, or why,
I don't know. And it would probably be wise to find out."

"Maybe someone had a free thought," Jack surmised as they followed the
strange Immortal into the corridor. "You're right, we stick around."


Chapter 3

"Are you all right?" Methos asked softly as O'Neill scrubbed his eyes,
weaving a little as he walked.

"Do I look all right?!"

"Well, now that you mention it..."

Jack grimaced and didn't bother to respond. The answer was obvious.
Obvious, too, was that he was not alone in his discomfort. Around them
at least a dozen mortals were being supported by their Immortal
companions, who'd fared somewhat better with the alien device. 

When they'd first been unceremoniously added to the group, only a
handful had spoken the same language. And it was clear they'd all been
brought together for a reason more important than improving their
ability to communicate. What that reason was, or what purpose it might
serve, would, they hoped, soon be revealed.

"Now we know where the Goa'uld and the Tokra got their brain suck
thingies," O'Neill finally muttered as he gratefully accepted the cup
of water Methos offered him.

"I'd say you're probably right," Methos agreed. "Most weapons, even
gunpowder, began as benign inventions, but were perverted to other
uses. And that machine is definitely one step away from the easily
perverted category, if it isn't already. I highly doubt the original
creator intended for a year's worth of language instruction to be
downloaded directly into the brain in less than an hour." O'Neill gave
him a pained smile and gingerly nodded. "By the way, Colonel," Methos
asked quietly. "Are you at all aware that you've been speaking fluent
Ishrini?" O'Neill looked horrified. "I thought not," Methos sighed. "It
may just be a short term side effect of the device, but we'll try out
your language skills when we're in private." 

"God damn it!" O'Neill spat.

"Heads up," Methos hissed. "Here comes the man in charge."

They hurriedly lined up with the rest of the "recruits" and waited.

"Well now," the officer who'd caught Methos and Jack addressed them.
"Now that you can all speak a civilized tongue, we'll begin with
getting your names and backgrounds. I am Third Leader Naxsos. My men
here," he pointed to a pair of junior officers, "will take your
information and assign you quarters. In the morning, we'll begin your
training. I'm sure," Naxsos smiled grimly, "that you are all eager to
begin learning how to kill Goa'uld. Don't worry. You'll get your
chance. Pay attention. Follow orders. And faithfully read your Primer.
Remember, the words of the Supreme Leader are all the words you need to
live by." He nodded once and left the room.

"Their Supreme Leader wrote a moral guidebook?" Methos muttered
nervously as they were sorted into groups. "I don't like the sound of
that."

"He can't be all bad," Jack responded. "I'm for anyone who wants to
kill Goa'uld."

Methos favored him with a wry smile. "That's what the Germans said
about the Communists and look where it got them."

O'Neill frowned. "We'll read it tonight."

"Words to live by," Methos agreed, and they shuffled forward in line.

***

"I don't know whether to be disgusted or amused," O'Neill commented as
the door to their quarters shut behind them. "I haven't seen security
that bad since..." he shook his head unable to find an Earth
equivalent. "Hell," he finally threw up his hands. "The Swiss have
better security and they're neutral!"

Methos chuckled. Their names had not, of course, been on the roster of
new trainees. But then, neither had half a dozen others. Apparently,
the Ishri bureaucracy was still in chaos after the death of Inanna. The
officers had simply shrugged, taken the false information they had
provided, and entered it all into the computer without a second
thought.

"I'm sure the Imperious Leader," Methos waved the small volume they'd
been given under Jack's nose, "will have a few choice words to say
about all that."

"The Imperious Leader," Jack grimaced and grabbed the book as he tossed
his pack on the bed, "can kiss my ass!"

"Shhh!" Methos held a finger to his lips, gesturing at the room. "We
might be monitored...Apollo."

Jack rolled his eyes. "I highly doubt that...Starbuck!"

Methos grinned. "Sorry, but would you rather have been Adama? Or maybe
Baltar?"

"I'd rather have been Jack, or better yet, Colonel, but noooo... You
have to have a yen for sci-fi. And bad sci-fi at that! Battlestar
Galactica?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Hey, I was under pressure there. I kept seeing that flashing red light
on his terminal and....I sorta zoned on it, you know."

"No," O'Neill insisted. "I don't know. We're on the clock here,
Pierson. Try and remember what your priorities are!"

"What's in a name anyway?" Methos huffed as he sprawled on one of the
beds. "I've had hundreds of them. And it's not like you've got to live
with it for any length of time."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm not going to be Apollo when I write my
report," he muttered petulantly. "You are!"

"Fine," Methos snapped. "You be Starbuck, I'll be Apollo. I doubt they
paid attention to which face went with what name anyway!"

"Fine."

"Good."

"Right."

"Enough!" Methos shook his head and sighed tiredly. "Now that's
settled, you want to read the bloody book or should I?"

***

Methos laid the little book aside, staring at the innocuous cover for a
long moment, then shook his head, sighing. It didn't matter, he thought
sadly, if the cover were red and written in Chinese or inscribed with
German lettering and espousing genocide. That kind of manifesto, in any
language, was still a declaration of justified violence against the
minority. Or in this case, the majority.

Oh, that wasn't what the Imperious Leader of the Ishri quite said in
his text. That was all between the lines. But the idea of Immortals as
the Great Benefactors of Universal Harmony was absurd. True, Immortals
were long lived and gained much experience during the course of their
lives, but that was true of all individuals. The ability to become wise
and give good counsel to others was a gift few individuals, whatever
their longevity, were born with. And it was certainly not a birthright
of Immortality! How could the Imperious Leader and his followers expect
anyone to willingly give up their own governance, especially those
suffering under the Goa'uld, to another, albeit more attractive
sounding group of tin gods?

The answer, of course, was that he didn't. Neither had the Fascists,
the Communists, and the Nazis. They'd won the hearts and minds of those
who needed to be led and silenced any dissent. Universal conformity had
been the rule of the day. Or a universe of conformity, if the Imperious
Leader were allowed to follow through with his plans. Either way, it
left Methos with a sense of disgust at the presumption of superiority.
He'd met more Immortals than he could recall that he wouldn't trust to
clean his boots properly, let alone dictate laws.

He looked over to where Jack lay sleeping on the bunk across from his
and shut the overhead light. Poor man, he thought as he settled himself
back against the pillow. That machine had left him too exhausted to
even eat the dinner the Ishri had provided. At least he'd begun
muttering in English again before he'd succumbed to his fatigue.

***

"So what's the Immortal angle in all of this?" Jack finally asked when
Methos finished his report on the contents of the Imperious Leader's
handbook to happiness. "I mean, why would they want to get involved?" 

"Take any disenfranchised group," Methos responded as he combed his
hair, "and Immortals, no matter where we live, are disenfranchised by
the very nature of our immortality, and tell them they were born to
serve a higher purpose. Then tell them that they are also, by virtue of
that nature, not only superior to the majority, which has resented and
oppressed them, but destined to rule over them, and you have the
perfect setup. More importantly, from what I could gather from their
conversations over dinner, the others were all identified and
indoctrinated pretty early -- most while they were still pre-Immortal."

"Makes sense," Jack agreed. "By why would Inanna-?"

"Not Inanna," Methos interrupted, moving to sit on the bed. "You know
as well as I do she wasn't interested in universal domination. Too much
work. She'd carved out a niche for herself and kept it safe and warm.
She was utterly self-absorbed. And more guests at the party wouldn't
have been tolerated. No, this is something else entirely."

"Protege?" O'Neill suggested thoughtfully.

"Maybe," Methos shrugged. "At the very least the Ishri Imperious Leader
is someone who's been planning this for a very long time."

Jack raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to go on.

"Some of those Immortals out there are older than MacLeod. If I were
planning a coup d'etat, I'd definitely keep a low profile. Play the
loyal servant and very quietly gather together those who would be loyal
only to me or my cause. Then, I'd scatter them like so many useful
chess pieces on a board, never putting all my men in one place, but
training them separately so they couldn't unite until I was firmly in
charge. Then I'd bide my time and wait for my chance to seize power."

"Sweet," O'Neill nodded. "And Immortals have lots of time."

"Exactly," Methos agreed. "You could never hope to hold a mortal army
together for as long as the Supreme Leader has. You'd need to cultivate
the Immortals within your sphere of influence and find a way to
convince them to remain."

"Well, yeah. But how?" Jack shook his head. "What could the Supreme
Leader possibly offer? They've got enough time to gain their own wealth
and power if they wanted it."

"The lives of their mortal companions," Methos bluntly suggested.

For a long moment Jack sat in stunned silence. "You think they're
hostages?"

"I don't think so," he shook his head. "But... Have you noticed all the
mortals appear to be slightly older than their Immortals?"

"Yeah, I did," Jack nodded. "So...? What? The Supreme Leader finds
these pre-Immortal kids and sets them up with...a buddy? Someone they'd
feel comfortable with? Someone they wouldn't ever want to lose? And
when the Immortal discovers he's gonna live forever and his friend
isn't he offers them a choice?"

Methos nodded slowly. "Not a choice, but a chance. And if he's got a
sarcophagus or two laid up somewhere he's probably made a big
production number out of it. Mystery religions are always very popular
with the masses. And it's got to be a friend. Wouldn't work with a
spouse or lover."

"Why not?" Jack asked, obviously thinking of his own mindset.

"Romance is a relatively new concept," Methos sighed. "The truth is,
you can lose your lover and still hope to find another, but
friendship..." He shook his head. "True friendship is so rare that it
often comes only once in a lifetime -- even for an Immortal. It's more
than love, more than sex, more than comfort and companionship. It's
about understanding and being understood. The ultimate acceptance of
your soul by another soul. There are no irreconcilable differences
between true friends."

Jack stared at his companion thoughtfully. "You don't believe in true
love, do you?"

"That one true perfect love? I've been married sixty-eight times and
I'll tell you the truth," Methos grinned. "Sex always gets in the way
of friendship. You can be friends with your wife, but to be best
friends and lovers with your spouse is very difficult. I've only met a
few, mortal and Immortal alike, capable of that."

"The reason being?"

"Because the reasons for marriage and the reasons for friendship are
based on totally different needs. It's a modern concept for men and
women to marry and become friends, forsaking all others. Marriage was
always about the biological need to reproduce safely, prettied up with
social ties and relationships. In the old days, friends were your
support system within, and without, the marital relationship. Even as
little as a century ago, no man or woman would ever have insisted their
spouse give up a friend in their favor. Or vice versa. The subject just
never came up."

"So what changed?"

"Sexual equality," Methos smiled. "If a society believes that the man
must be strong in order to protect his weaker wife, his possession,
then he has all the rights. Women no longer believe that-if they ever
did. But now they have the right to speak their minds -- and they do.
Divorce is prevalent again, just like it was in Rome, because women
have become people again, not just sexual objects and adjuncts to their
male relatives. You can no longer barter and trade your women like
sheep."

Jack rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. What Methos said made sense
but, "You're a marrying man, Pierson. The kind of guy who likes being
in a marriage. And you've been married often enough to prove the point.
So, how can you not believe in love?"

"Oh, I believe in love," Methos laughed softly. "I just didn't marry
for 'love' sixty-eight times. A lot of times it was marry the girl or
die -- and beheading was always a popular method of execution. Or,
here's a lovely gift -- have a nice life. Sometimes I just got married
because it was expected, and I wanted to stick around and have all the
social benefits of living where I was. So marrying was a small price to
pay to have the esteem of my neighbors. The times I've married for
love," he shook his head, "I can count on one hand. And each time it's
always ended in tragedy. They died. I didn't."

"So why not an Immortal wife? You and Amanda..." he grinned widely.

Methos simply stared at him in shock. "In a world where there can be
only one? Charming. What happens when there's just the two of us left?
There's nothing romantic about killing the one you love then having to
live with their memories forever. Bad enough to watch them die slowly
over the years, rather than live in dread of that awful moment when you
either have to kill them or die."

Jack shrugged. "Well, now you know that's all a lie..."

"Changes nothing," Methos shook his head. "The Game hasn't ended. Any
Immortal woman would still have to fight and I couldn't interfere. And
much as I like Amanda-"

Before he could finish the warning klaxon sounded, calling them to
assemble with the others.

"So when do we leave?" Methos asked, stopping Jack at the door.

"We've got all we need on the Ishri," O'Neill shrugged. "First chance
we get. Probably when they move us to wherever they're doing the
training. We just hang back, slip away, get our stuff and head down to
the garbage dump."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Methos nodded and they both filed out to
join the others.


Chapter 4

Breakfast was the Ishri equivalent of porridge or oatmeal, neither of
which appealed to the two men from Earth, who were used to more
substantive fare as well as a real choice in the matter. Jack grumbled,
Methos looked resigned, and they both felt relieved when they lined up
with the others to await their orders.

Third Leader Naxsos entered as they all came to attention.
"Congratulations!" he began. "Today is a great day for you all! Our
beloved Supreme Leader has arrived in this sector and we have docked
with the flagship. It has been requested that you be transported there
for a personal greeting." Jack and Methos glanced nervously at each
other while the Immortal recruits cheered loudly. 

"Damn!" Jack muttered as Naxsos began leading them to the promenade
outside their quarters for transport.

"Relax," Methos told him quietly. "It's just a minor glitch. A little
pep rallying with the Imperious Leader and it's off to the training.
I'll bet he does it with all the new arrivals. Makes 'em think they're
special."

"Yeah, Hitler used to do it all the time," O'Neill nodded. "Get 'em by
the balls and their hearts and minds naturally follow."

"About the size of it," Methos agreed.

A few minutes later they found themselves standing on the deck of
another ship. Like the Goa'uld's transport rings, the Ishri had access
to matter transfer technology and Methos still marveled at the process.
His surface memories of his time with Tok'ra were relatively few,
although familiar objects and situations were bringing up new ones all
the time. Still, this wasn't something he recalled from his service
with Tok'ra. Or maybe Tok'ra just hadn't liked using the technology. As
Methos recalled, he'd always been a sort of back to basics, do it
yourself, kind of guy. No wonder he liked Jack so much!

"Greetings." The dulcet tones of a familiar female voice echoed through
the moderately sized hall and Methos slowly turned with the others to
see the Supreme Leader. Jack put a cautious hand on his arm as he
flinched visibly and the memories came rushing back...

"That wasn't very bright, little boy. You'll be punished for that." "I
can't see why he bothers with you at all. You're as dull as that nasty
tribe of savages where he found you." "Get out of my way, boy, or I'll
hurt you." "See my new rank? You'll never have it. I know something you
don't." 

"Quinta," Methos breathed as the others moved forward and he ducked his
head to shield his face from her view. "We've got to get out of here
now, Jack!"

O'Neill didn't question his reaction. And Methos supposed his face was
pale enough at the moment to make the colonel a believer.

"Okay," Jack nodded once, his eyes scanning the room for exits. "She's
making it a personal meet and greet. Stay behind me. We'll move with
the others until there are enough on the other side to mix with. Got
that?"

Methos nodded, keeping his head down and his shoulders slumped. How
could I have forgotten her?! he wondered, feeling sick as they moved
slowly forward in the reception line. For twelve years, until he'd left
Inanna's house to serve with Tok'ra, Quinta had been the bane of his
existence.

While Inanna had been a doting mother, utterly ignoring him once he'd
gone to her husband, Quinta had always made her feelings known. She'd
despised him, or so he'd believed as a child. Now, looking back as an
adult, he could now see her jealousy for what it was. Until his arrival
she'd been the apple of her father's eye. And she'd been old when he
came. Immortal already and long since involved in the affairs of her
elders. No patience and no compassion for a small boy. Certainly not
one whom she must have felt usurped her rightful place in the hearts of
her parents. 

Of course, Inanna's heart had never really had any room in it for
anyone other than herself. But she'd liked her entertainment -- and
he'd been precocious enough to keep her amused. At least for a while.
And Tok'ra, loving father though he'd been, was often gone for long
periods of time, leading the war effort to destroy the Goa'uld.

Methos shuffled forward at the back of the line, trying to calm his
wildly beating heart. He didn't wonder how she had survived. Inanna
would have kept her as close as Tok'ra had kept him. Did she know her
mother had murdered the father she'd so adored? Or did she even care at
that point? Maybe she'd hated Tok'ra as much as she'd hated his son.
Just how long had she served Inanna before deciding to overthrow her?

None of these questions really mattered in the end, Methos realized as
Jack silently nudged him and they casually moved among the milling
soldiers over to the area where food and drink were being offered.
Around them, men and women with brightly glowing faces exuded the kind
of manic happiness that belonged only to the true disciple. 

"I take it you knew her?" O'Neill murmured as they sidled through the
crowd.

Methos grimaced. "The elder sister from hell!" he hissed from between
clenched teeth.

The colonel tried, and failed, to stifle his laughter. "So, I take it
you're not interested in a reunion?"

Methos' grimaced then his face grew taught as he glanced over his
shoulder at the proceedings. "Looks like she's going to make a speech.
Jack, there isn't enough of a crowd! If I turn around she's likely to
notice me."

"It's the nose," Jack observed. "You've got a real stand out there,
buddy."

Methos glared in frustration. "Would you be serious," he gritted.
"We're in danger here! We need to get the hell out!"

"We're moving aren't we?" O'Neill responded calmly. "Just relax,
Captain. There's an exit at the end of the food line. Grab a plate and
we'll go."

"I'm not hungry!" he hissed. "Can't we just make a run for it?"

Jack stared at him curiously then nodded. "Okay. It's your call."

Much to Methos' relief they were soon at the exit. His only mistake,
for which Methos would later curse himself thoroughly and soundly, was
in glancing back. Taking one last look at his past. One moment in time
when he lost all his wisdom, perspective and ancient cunning -- to look
back with the longing of a child. And in that moment, that single loss
of self-control, Quinta noticed the unexpected movement.

Their eyes met across the room and Methos felt a chill run through him
as she smiled in recognition then leaned over to speak with her aide,
discreetly pointing in their direction.

Of course she'd want this done quietly! Methos realized with a some
relief as he and Jack shared a glance before bolting from the room.
Wouldn't do to have the troops get an inkling of their lousy security.

"Shit!" Methos spat as they raced down the hall.

"Later," Jack told him as they ducked into a niche to wait for a small
knot of soldiers to pass. "Let's find their gate and get back to the
SGC. Worry about big sister later."

Methos stared at him, suddenly realizing his second big mistake. "This
is an exact replica of Inanna's original flagship. Tok'ra never
installed a gate."

"What?!"

"She never liked unexpected visitors," Methos explained. "And her
security sucked! So he never put one in. If he wanted to see her, he
took a jump ship like the one we found and used the nearest combat
gate."

"But she had one before," Jack insisted.

"Probably already there," Methos supplied quietly. "She'd have just
built around it. And it would have suited her purposes in controlling
and undermining the Tok'ra to travel that way."

"Great!" Jack sighed. "Any suggestions?"

"Head down," Methos shrugged. "We should be able to find the hanger
bays from here. We are dressed as officers. And it didn't look to me
like she wanted our presence advertised widely. Quinta probably thinks
I'm here to spy on her."

"She'd be right," Jack grinned.

"And since that meeting was totally unexpected," he went on, ignoring
the comment. "She'll also probably expect me to have a way out aboard
the other ship."

"Again she'd be right. Bet you said that a lot when you were a kid,
huh?"

"Yes!" Methos hissed. "She was always right! Okay? It was very
annoying. Now, could we please just escape? I'm really looking forward
to this!"

"You're the guy with the plan. Lead the way, little brother."

Methos gave a heartfelt sigh and started looking for a maintenance
hatch. There was one down a side corridor and they made it inside just
as another group of guards rounded the corner.

"So, you think she's going to be looking elsewhere?" Jack asked from
behind as they crawled along the narrow conduit.

Methos grunted in affirmation. "Quinta always had a plan. And come hell
or high water she'd bloody well stick to it if it killed you."

Jack chuckled. "Not big on spontaneity, huh?"

"Hardly. I seem to remember one time when my tutor was ill and she
happened to be home. Inanna made her take charge of me for the day. She
followed his schedule to the letter. 'Two hours out of doors.' He
didn't bother to mark it that small children generally tend to play,
and that one had to be flexible on account of the weather. Seemed
rather obvious, I expect. Two hours standing at attention in the
freezing rain. Had a mild case of frostbite when she finally let me
back in."

"Ouch," Jack grimaced, trying not to laugh at the unbidden image which
suddenly popped into his head. The one of little Methos running to
mommy to complain that his big sister was being mean.

"Laugh all you want," Methos muttered as he finally found the access
ladder. "But if she catches us she's going to kill me -- and you into
the bargain."

"Why would she want you dead?" Jack asked as he followed Methos down.
"You practically handed her Inanna's power base. I'd think she'd want
to thank you for that."

"She's always considered me her rival, Jack. Now I've gone and killed
Inanna, something she obviously wanted, whatever her reasons, and like
all megalomaniacs she'll be thinking I want her dead, too."

"Okay, I get it. No love lost between you."

"None whatsoever," Methos agreed tersely. "And...she's tried it
before."

"When?" Jack looked down and caught Methos' eyes as he paused.

"It wasn't obvious," he responded softly. "They were meant to be
accidents. A violent death so I would become Immortal too early and
Tok'ra would have to..."

"Have to what?" Jack asked as Methos trailed off.

The Immortal sighed. "So Tok'ra would have to take my head out of
mercy."

"What?!"

Methos glanced away, not wanting to talk about this particular aspect
of Immortality. "Imagine an Immortal child, Jack. They can't grow up.
Can't fend for themselves. Can never be independent. I've seen such
children. Eventually, they all go mad. Tok'ra would never have allowed
me to suffer like that."

"Jesus!"

"It happens," Methos admitted sadly as he began moving again. "More
often than you might imagine.

O'Neill gasped softly as he realized what that meant. What kind of
choices Methos had been forced to make. "You did what you had to," he
finally offered as they continued down.

Methos bit his lip, silently acknowledging this gift of acceptance
which O'Neill had once again extended.

A long time later, Methos halted them at the hanger bay level, waiting
as they both caught their breath. 

"We can probably steal a ship easily enough," Jack finally said as they
observed the relatively empty bay. "The problem will be getting the
outer doors open and then far enough away to avoid being blown to
pieces."

"Doors won't be a problem," Methos shook his head. "The floor of the
bay is designed for explosive drops in an emergency. And," he added
thoughtfully. "I should be able to shut the entire ship down from that
access panel." He pointed to the wall behind them. "Tok'ra's override
worked before, can't see why this ship would be any different."

O'Neill nodded, then, "You can fly one of these things, right?"

"I thought you could?" Methos asked innocently.

"Jes-!" Jack frowned at the Immortal's expression. "Not funny,
Pierson."

"Yes, it was," Methos grinned. "Just as funny as an eight year old
slowly freezing to death, helplessly bawling out his eyes."

"Point taken," Jack muttered sullenly. "Now, can we do this thing? Or
are we waiting for an engraved invitation?"

"I am at your beck and call, O Great Satan." Methos gave a half bow and
moved back into the crawl space.

"Insubordinate minion," O'Neill accused softly.

"Come on, Jack, admit it," Methos commented as he pried open the panel
he needed. "You'd never have gotten this far without me. And in a few
short weeks the Ishri would have been nice and cozy with the
President."

"Maybe you're right," Jack nodded slowly. "Certainly makes the case for
hiring the elderly."

Methos frowned disgustedly. "I'm so glad you're having a good time with
this, Jack."

"Thanks, Gramps! Can we have a catch later?"

"Catch this!" Methos flipped him the bird then shook his head as he
continued his work, programming what he hoped was the proper sequence
for an emergency shut down with explosive drop. This way, every fighter
aboard would blow their locks and make it virtually impossible for
Quinta's personal forces to immediately follow. And with communications
out, hopefully she wouldn't be able to contact the rest of the fleet.

For a moment, Methos thought about going a step further and setting the
self-destruct. But then he reconsidered, remembering that there were
innocent men and women aboard. Some of whom probably deserved a chance
to live -- even if they were deluded. More to the point, once he was
back on Earth none of this would matter. Quinta would be far, far away,
and nothing she could do or say would ever make the SGC give him up.

"Done," he finally nodded. "Communications are set to disengage with a
full emergency drop. That should give us a good ten minutes to get
clear before the system realizes it's been sabotaged and automatically
reinitializes."

"What'd you tell it?" Jack asked curiously.

"That the Vogons were coming to put in an interstellar by-pass and read
us bilious poetry before shoving everyone out an airlock." Methos
rolled his eyes. "What do you think I told it?"

"Dead swans. Dead swans lying in a brackish pool-"

Methos smacked him on the head. "Enough with the dead swans. I knew
that psychotic poetess. She was Immortal."

"You're joking?"

"Nope. So was Lord Byron. In fact, he called her out over it. Took her
head, too."

Jack looked stunned. "He killed her over bad poetry?"

"Yeah. He did," Methos nodded sadly as he shut the panel. "That's what
finally made me say farewell to his little clique of laudanum junkies -
- and stop challenging folks just for the hell of it. A point of honor
is not a reason to commit murder. And certainly not because someone's a
lousy poet."

"Actually, I always thought she was ahead of her time."

"You would," Methos muttered. "Shall we?" he gestured to the hatchway.

"Oh, by all means, let's blow this joint."

"Believe me," Methos nodded, crouching at the exit. "It was tempting."

"But you're a good minion," Jack crooned, patting his shoulder.

Methos didn't bother to respond. "I say we take the blue fighter by the
support strut over there," he pointed with his chin.

Jack glanced around the bay and gestured that it was clear, leading the
way. "Why this one specifically?" he whispered as they reached the
little ship.

"I like blue."

Jack wagged a finger at him. "Now is not the time, Pierson." 

O'Neill lifted the canopy and they climbed in, Methos grinning back at
the colonel. "Nonsense," he insisted airily, strapping himself into the
pilot's seat. "There's always time to laugh in the face of death."

"Good! Because I'm laughing behind his back."

Methos curled a lip, quickly starting a systems check. "No respect," he
muttered. "Older than dirt and I still get no respect."

"None whatsoever. Now let's move!" O'Neill said urgently. "I mean it,
Pierson! Look!"

"Damn!" Methos exclaimed as he saw a dozen soldiers, weapons drawn,
racing across the hanger toward them. "Hold tight!" he shouted and hit
the emergency release.

As the fighter dropped out into space he sent the signal to the
flagship's computer and a moment later a thousand similar ships
surrounded them, automatically heading in different directions. Above
them, Quinta's ship suddenly went dark and began listing to the side.
Methos hit the turbo jets, hoping that he hadn't forgotten how to fly
the damn thing. Not only would Jack be laughing behind his back, but in
his face and for the rest of his life. He'd probably even show up in a
thousand years to laugh some more.

Methos sighed as his automatic responses finally kicked in and he found
the frequency that would guide them toward one of the combat gates.

"So, where we goin'?" Jack asked nervously, looking back at Quinta's
ship.

"Following a signal to one of Tok'ra's space-based gates."

"Good idea. We can land on P3X1138 where the strike force is training
and get home from there."

"Well, that would be convenient -- if we could actually use the gate on
P3X1138."

"Beg pardon?" Jack responded.

"Just what I said," Methos informed him matter-of-factly. "None of the
fighters in this line are equipped with Dial Home Devices. They were
never meant to go into combat without support. Only the jump ships have
them, because they are, themselves, gates."

"Oh, that's just beautiful!" Jack snarled. "So what the hell do we need
a gate for if we're trapped out here? Can't we just find a planet with
a gate? Like, maybe before the air runs out?"

"We could," Methos agreed with a sigh. "But we'd be taking an awful
chance. This is Inanna's domain. If I were her and I wanted to keep it
all to myself, I'd have removed or disabled them."

"Damn," Jack muttered in disgust. "You're probably right. We tried to
find a live gate in the area, but there was only that one hanging in
the middle of space." O'Neill sighed tiredly. "So, if we can't use this
ship to open the gate, I take it you have an alternate plan?"

"As always," Methos grinned. "But... You really won't like it."

"Probably not," Jack agreed, chuckling. "Lay it on me anyway, soldier."

"Well," Methos began, resetting the last of the defaults. "Tok'ra built
the gate system with one thing in mind. Moving large numbers of ships
safely through enemy territory. To do that, he had to build launch
platforms for those ships. Secret, space-based locations where they
could be hidden, repaired and refueled as needed. By my reckoning, and
according to our friend the computer, the nearest gate is three days
away. Which puts us six days out from the nearest platform to that
gate. And..." he sighed. "Three days beyond our re-breathing capacity."

"You're right. I'm not liking this." O'Neill shook his head. "Why not
just head directly for the platform?" he asked reasonably.

"Because I don't know exactly where it is. We have to be within range
of the gate to get any kind of signal from the platform. There's no way
to find it otherwise. Right now, I'm programming the ship to
automatically home in on it and bring us there safely."

"You mean our corpses," O'Neill mumbled resignedly. 

"No," Methos shook his head as he pulled a dagger from his boot and
handed it off to Jack. "My corpse and your very live body."

"You've gotta be kidding!" O'Neill shouted angrily, refusing the blade.
"There's gotta be another way."

"I'm afraid there isn't," Methos told him bluntly. "This is a short
range fighter. Food, water and air for three days max. That's it."
Behind him, O'Neill's head was still shaking. " Come on, Jack, you know
I'm right! That's why you wanted me on your team in the first place,
isn't it? Someone like you that you could trust to make those difficult
life and death decisions? Well, this is one of them."

"Yeah," O'Neill frowned then slowly nodded. "It is."

"Look. This is no picnic for me either. I don't relish the thought of
laying here for a week with a knife stuck between my ribs. But if it
gets the job done, I won't complain. The only other choice is that we
both die -- and cruise through space for the rest of eternity. I'm not
up for that today. This way, we both come out alive, okay?"

O'Neill squeezed his eyes shut and finally agreed. "All right. But what
about Quinta? She'll be looking for us."

"I've disabled the homing beacon, so she can't find us the easy way.
And, while she probably knows about the gates in this sector, I doubt
she knows about the platforms. Inanna wasn't likely to have given that
secret to anyone."

"Okay," Jack sighed, hefting the blade as he steeled himself to act as
he knew he must. "Any last requests?"

Methos smiled grimly. "Food and water are in the panel behind you. One
of the pilots might have left something to read as well. I hope so, for
your sake. If not, try and sleep. There's a medical kit back there,
too. It should have something to help you rest if you need it. Other
than that," Methos shrugged. "Make sure the knife stays in deep. My
body will try to heal itself by expelling the dagger. Happens with
bullets, though I've never seen it with a blade, so I don't know how
long it might take. I'd check every few hours just to be safe. Better
yet, use one of the seat belts to secure the hilt. Wouldn't do for me
to wake up every so often and use up your air. It's too precious a
commodity."

"Not to mention I'd have to kill you again," Jack swallowed, nauseated,
and wiped his sweating palms against his pants.

Methos smiled gently. "Thank you."

"For what?" Jack asked dully.

The ancient Immortal laughed softly. "For giving a damn." He sighed and
shook his head ruefully. "The Watchers were very cavalier about this
sort of thing. No matter how many times, or how badly an Immortal died
on their watch, if it wasn't a true death they didn't really care. They
liked to think it didn't really hurt us. That no Immortal was ever
afraid of a little death. Truth is, we hate it. No one wants to be
vulnerable, Jack. Me as much as anybody. Now, stop talking," he ordered
gently, settling himself back against the seat cushions. "And get this
thing done."

O'Neill grimaced as he tightened his grip on the weapon, moving slowly
forward to bring his arms around Methos' shoulders.

"You ready?" Jack asked softly, looking into Methos' eyes as he used
his free hand to clasp the Immortal's chin, deliberately turning his
face away.

Methos nodded, only briefly surprised a second later as the hand on his
chin suddenly shifted to his cheek and he felt, then heard, the loud
crack-pop as O'Neill deftly snapped his neck.

The knife slipping sharply into Methos' chest was a far away burn and
he silently blessed O'Neill's name. Good man, he thought distantly as
he died peacefully. Knows how to kill a fellow properly.


Chapter 5

Jack let out the breath he'd been holding and eased his hand away from
the hilt. God, that was awful, he thought bitterly. Not that he hadn't
killed men in the same way at least a hundred times, but never a friend
-- even if he couldn't die permanently. 

Pierson's head lolled against his arm as he shifted and he straightened
it, making sure it lay comfortably against the head rest. Not that
Pierson would feel it, but because it was more dignified.

He sat back a little and checked the other man's posture. Legs
stretched out, not splayed. Arms resting neatly by his side. Except for
the knife in his chest, Pierson looked liked he was napping. O'Neill
nodded. Okay, he could live with that.

He looked around the interior of the little ship then shook his head.
Just keep moving, he told himself harshly. Get it done now. Get it done
right. And move on.

He pulled his own knife from his boot and easily cut the seat belts
from his chair then carefully sliced a small slit in the center of
each. Leaning forward again, he worked one strap over the hilt of
Pierson's dagger then the other. Pierson's head fell forward flaccidly,
but he ignored it as he crisscrossed the belts around the breathless
chest. Blood spurted up and out of the wound at the movement, globules
of it floating into the weightless environment, and bobbing sickeningly
above his head. O'Neill batted them aside as he worked. At least there
hadn't been much blood as the knife went in, he thought with relief.
And no thrashing or gasping for air. A nice, easy death--to keep both
of them from feeling the horror of it.

Finally, he secured the straps to the struts of Pierson's chair,
anchoring them with hard tugs so they wouldn't work loose. Without
thinking too hard about what he was doing, O'Neill ran his hands over
his handiwork. It would do for now, he thought practically, then he
righted Pierson's head and sat back, absently flicking a large blood
bubble away from his nose and onto the window.

It spattered soundlessly. Some of it adhering to the canopy, most of it
foaming into a mist which drifted slowly outward. Nice, O'Neill thought
disgustedly as he wiped his hands on his pants. 

He took a moment to settle his emotions then shifted around to find
that panel and sort through his supplies. Six canisters of water,
twenty-four dry bars, a copy of Quinta's manifesto, along with the
medical kit Pierson had mentioned, and two small holographic
projectors. One of which contained some truly obscene Ishri porn stars
doing things he didn't even want to dream about, the other... 

O'Neill chuckled. The complete works of Misty Eyes and her Celestial
Harps. Good thing Pierson's dead, he thought wryly. He'd have killed
himself if he'd had to sit and listen to this stuff for six days! On
the other hand, Jack grinned, he'd always kind of liked the Spice Girls
-- especially that Sporty Spice. Maybe Misty and her celestial harp
would be easy on the ears and eyes.

He glanced over at Pierson and his smile faded. This whole scenario was
somehow wrong. Surreal, he thought with a shake of his head as he
watched a thin trail of blood working its way toward the ceiling to
pool in the well of the canopy. In a few days it would probably be
raining in here.

Wonderful! he thought disgustedly, putting aside the rations for which
he now had no appetite and settling back in his chair to watch Misty.
He'd sleep later. Right now, what he most definitely needed was
something to distract his mind.

***

Day two, O'Neill recorded in the journal of his mind. Misty is totally
cool. Too bad Pierson isn't awake to make snide remarks. I miss being
able to snark on the guy. Read Quinta's little book last night. Girl
definitely has a few screws loose. Wish Pierson were here to talk about
this stuff. God, he looks like he's sleeping. Wonder what it's like.
Being dead and still alive. Not sure I believe MacLeod on that score.
Have to ask Pierson about that when he wakes up.

If he wakes up, O'Neill thought, then hurriedly brushed the thought
aside. He'll wake up, Jack told himself firmly. He'd seen him do it
before. Though just that once, and maybe Anise had... Stop it! he told
himself angrily. He'll wake up!

Jack leaned forward and checked the straps again, trying not to look at
Pierson's face as he did so. Blood from the chest wound had been
steadily welling up, soaking the straps and Pierson's clothes along
with them. Dead and yet not dead, he thought. Blood still flowed,
albeit sluggishly, and the body was just slightly cooler than normal
temperature. Rigor hadn't even set in. And not long after he'd broken
the bones, the neck had reset itself with a sharp crackling, making
Jack start at the sound.

Just a little while longer, he thought leaning back. Get some sleep, he
silently ordered himself, before you start hallucinating. 

Jack sighed and sipped some water, then wiped the thin film of bloody
sweat from his face and closed his eyes. He'd eat something tomorrow he
promised himself. Right now, he just didn't have the appetite.

***

Day three. 

Jack pressed the knife deeper, cursing the blood soaked material which
had stretched taught then ripped while he was sleeping. Damn! he cursed
silently as more blood spurted from the wound onto his face. Gotta do
something about that. His eyes searched the little cabin, finally
focusing on his seat cushions. Some of that padding might do...

He cut a few swaths from the back rest and wadded them around the base
of the blade. It seemed to help, but there was nothing to be done about
the rest of the fluid, which hung in the air sliming the canopy above. 

A moment later he nearly jumped out of his skin as a light on the panel
in front of Pierson flickered on and started beeping. The ship suddenly
lurched to his left as the engines kicked in, throwing him sideways
with a hard thump.

"Shit!" he spat, coughing as blood from the ceiling splashed across
him. He wiped his face with his sleeve, then checked the knife as the
ship finally righted itself. Must have found that gate, he nodded
silently, keeping his lips pressed tight. Good work, Pierson.

He shifted the body back into place, righting the head then glanced
down at Pierson's blood covered face. With the edge of his other sleeve
he tried to clean it up, messily smearing it instead. His stomach
churned and Jack felt bile rise up in his throat as he turned away.

Just a stupid gut reaction, he thought. Especially since he hadn't
eaten all day and had nothing to bring up.

Only a little while longer, Jack reminded himself faithfully as he set
his watch to alert him every four hours. He'd need to keep checking now
that the straps weren't holding too well.

Grabbing one of the water bottles, O'Neill swished some in his mouth,
gagging as he tasted blood and spat it out. Forget that, he thought,
nauseated, tossing the water back inside the storage compartment.

He sat back in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position now that
some of the padding was gone then decided he needed another
distraction. Misty was usually helpful, but the light of the images
picked up the glistening particles hanging wetly in the air, and the
red haze which now surrounded her was singularly horrific.

Sleep, he thought. That's what he needed, sleep. Had he set his watch?
Yes. Right. Did that already. He yawned tiredly, or maybe the air was
thinning. All this moisture couldn't be good for the filters. Too late.
Too bad. It was what it was. Now all he needed was to go to sleep. He
closed his eyes against the red, red of the canopy above and passed out
-- weak, tired and possibly dying. Right now though, he just didn't
have the energy to care.

***

Day four. 

Blood. Blood. And more blood. Jack was dreaming of it. Bathing in it.
Swimming in it. Drowning in the stuff as he killed his friend over and
over and over. 

Why do I have to kill him? He couldn't quite remember. But he liked the
guy. 

Doesn't matter. Tough luck. Have to do it. No choice. Do it again.

Jack shoved the knife in deep as Methos sat there smiling. His chest
split open and a white light began to pour out. Terrified, O'Neill
tried to staunch the bright flow of energy. This was bad. This was
wrong. He had to catch the light. Shove it back in before Methos really
died.

But he was already dead, wasn't he? Still, if he was dead, where did
all the blood come from? Corpses don't bleed -- experience had taught
him that. 

But... If he wasn't dead...did that mean he should kill him some more?

The beeping of his watch alarm woke Jack from his nightmare. Or had it?
Without thinking he reached forward and pushed the knife hilt until it
felt secure. Nightmare asleep or awake, what did it matter?

He reached out and tried to wipe the red mist from the window, but it
was foggy outside and he couldn't see the stars. No more sleeping, he
thought dully, but he should drink some blood.

With a start, O'Neill realized he was losing it. He wasn't eating,
hadn't really been sleeping and he hadn't been able to get down a
single drop of water since the last time he'd tried.

How long ago had it been? He checked the date on his watch. Two more
days to go he nodded. Just a little while longer. He could hold it
together for that long, couldn't he? 

Come on, Pierson, say something! Oh right, Pierson's dead. Never mind.

***

Day five.

Red alert. Have to kill him. Red alert. Have to kill him. Red alert.
Have to kill him. Red...

***

Day six. 

One hard red pull and...

Done!

Chapter 6

"Proximity warning! Proximity warning! Proximity..."

Methos dragged moist foul air into his lungs, choking as the metallic
taste of blood filled his throat. He coughed hard, holding his chest,
which felt like someone had taken a jagged saw to his heart.

"Proximity warning! Proximity warning!"

Squinting, Methos peered through the red mist clouding his eyes. What?
Where?

"Oh my god!"

Methos looked wildly around the cockpit then down at himself, foolishly
flinching away from the horror. There was blood everywhere. On every
surface, covering the floor, even the air was filled with the sticky
fluid. It looked like a slaughter house!

"Jack?" he whispered, turning in his seat which squished as he moved.
"Jack!" 

Oh, fuck.

He reached out a hand and took the dagger away from the unconscious
man. O'Neill was soaked in blood and Methos didn't doubt he looked just
as bad. Reaching out tentatively, he checked the colonel's pulse and
what he found shocked him thoroughly. The man's wrist was far too thin,
the skin too cool, and with all the blood he couldn't tell whether or
not he was clammy. But O'Neill's pulse was weak and thready which was a
good enough indicator that he was very close to dying.

"Proximity warning! Proximity warning!"

Methos growled and kicked the panel until it stopped beeping at him. 

"Jack?" he called. "Come on, Jack!" He shook the other man gently, then
harder when he didn't respond, finally slapping his face. "Wake up!"

O'Neill's eyes fluttered open as they tried to focus on him. 

"Hey!" Jack croaked. "Did I wake you? Or do I have to kill you?" His
hand swung weakly toward Methos. "Sorry. Too tired," he whispered as he
started to pass out again. "Can't..."

"God," Methos whispered, appalled. He'd driven the man half mad. But I
never thought... 

He swung around in his seat, hurriedly checking the instrument panel.
There was no time to worry about that now, he realized. He had to get
Jack to the medical facility inside.

Inside where? Methos thought wryly. He couldn't see a damn thing
through all this blood. He reached forward, trying to clear the window
and succeeded only in smudging it further. He looked around for
something even slightly clean and found the blood soaked chair padding
Jack had used on the floor. It gave him a moment's pause as he realized
O'Neill had cut up his own seat instead of the dead man's. 

He shook his head. Well, now was as good a time as any to use his own.
The seat was soaked, but the back rest around his shoulders was fairly
dry. Methos cut out the padding, using it to wipe down the instrument
panel and the window in front of him.

A few hundred kilometers ahead he saw what looked like an asteroid.
Frowning slightly, he shrugged. Guess Tok'ra was in one of his creative
moods, he thought as he sent the proper signal to open the landing bay
doors and turn on the station's environmental systems.

Several agonizing minutes later Methos finally landed the craft,
shaking with relief after only two of the fighter's landing systems
failed. Still, he thought, looking around as the asteroid's gravity
caused the blood to rain down on both of them, the little ship would
never fly again. Not if he could help it anyway. First chance he got
he'd blow the damn thing out into space.

"Come on, Jack," he murmured as he opened the canopy and wiped the
falling blood from his eyes. "Let's get you inside and cleaned up."

Methos climbed out, slipping on the blood slicked floor and cursing his
own lack of foresight. Sticking a knife in his chest had seemed like a
reasonable, logical solution to the problem at the time. He'd never
even considered how it would affect Jack.

No, that wasn't entirely true, he admitted as he finally lifted his
companion from the hideous cockpit. What he hadn't considered was how
his blood would react in a weightless environment. Nor, he realized,
had he considered just how much of it his body would produce in six
days. Good God, he thought as he hefted O'Neill onto his shoulder and
had a last look at the horrific interior, there has to be at least a
couple of gallons. It looks like something Caspian might have dreamed
up!

The nauseating stench of the stuff clung to them as he carried O'Neill
toward the lift. Squishing boots and itching body aside, Methos could
barely imagine the nightmare Jack had lived in. Guilt assailed him. Not
regret, or remorse, but guilt--plain and simple. He should have thought
of something else. He should have found another way. Even telling Jack
about Tok'ra's gift of Immortality would have been better than this. 

Selfish bastard, you can feel rotten about it later, he chided himself
angrily as he slapped the call button. You knew he'd hate it. Why moan
about how badly you feel now? Especially now!

Methos grunted as he hefted Jack higher, getting them into the elevator
and hitting the panel when he recognized the symbol that would take
them to the medical bay. These stations, as he recalled, were generally
unmanned, though they held everything one might need in an emergency.
Occasionally, Tok'ra had launched an attack from one or two. But until
the final battle, when he'd used them to launch all his forces against
the Goa'uld, they'd acted as way stations and repair platforms for
ships in trouble. Of course, that meant they weren't very big. And
doubtless, since all his forces were destroyed, had never been
restocked. Still, this was their best hope for getting home, even if
Jack wouldn't like hearing the rest of his ill advised plan.

The doors opened on a clean, neat interior. It was slightly musty and a
bit chilly inside, but Methos didn't care as he found what seemed to be
a bathing area and lowered Jack into a wide basin, large enough for
both of them to lay down in if need be.

He found his dagger and cut away Jack's clothes first, then stripped
off his own. Above the basin several kinds of shower heads could be
seen jutting from a rack overhead. He found one with a retractable hose
and pulled it down. Removing it from its alcove turned the water on and
simply moving his thumb along the side made it hotter or colder as need
be. Cool, he thought, smiling as he gently sluiced the water over his
friend, watching the blood drain away through tiny holes in floor of
the basin.

When Jack was clean, Methos hurriedly washed himself. The man was far
too pale for his liking. Definitely in need of fluids and nourishment.
Probably a good psychiatrist as well, but you worked with what you had
was Methos' motto. And as far as O'Neill's sanity went, it certainly
wouldn't do to have him wake up and see a speck of blood on either of
them.

Which reminded Methos. He'd have to clean the floors and the lift, too.
Ah well, he thought, looking around for the soft, velvet-like towels he
vaguely remembered from his very brief youth, Adam Pierson couldn't
afford a maid anyway.

He found what he wanted on a nearby shelf and quickly got them both
dried, rousing Jack just a little to get him to the other room and into
a bed. The place had warmed up nicely and he located a robe for himself
before beginning his search for medical supplies. 

A short while later Methos rubbed his damp hair, frustrated when he
couldn't find anything that resembled an IV drip. Finally, he started
translating the labels on some of the packaging he'd found. One was
marked, For Pain. Another, For Burns. And yet another, For Dehydration.
"One-stop shopping, I guess," he muttered. 

He ripped open the last packet with his teeth and found a pair of
tablets inside. "Now for some water," he murmured, looking around.
After opening several sliding panels he finally found a small container
that looked enough like a cup to be useful. Across the room was another
basin like the other, but much smaller; set into a wall and enclosed by
some translucent material. Just above it jutted a pair of miniature
nozzles and Methos ran his hands beneath them until he found the one
that held only water.

Returning to Jack, Methos made him wake up a little to take the pills
and drink the water, but the colonel became agitated, insisting he was
trying to give him blood.

"When I want you to drink my blood," Methos told him snippily. "I'll
make sure it's in a crystal goblet, fine vintage that it is."

Jack's eyes seemed to focus more clearly at the comment and he muttered
the words, "Smart ass," before finally accepting what Methos had to
offer.

The Immortal grinned as Jack took the pills and slowly sipped the
water. Apparently, insults were the ticket to better mental health in
this case. Though he wouldn't normally recommend it for patients
recovering from traumatic shock. Of course, O'Neill thrived on
insubordination, so why should this situation be any different?

"More," Jack whispered when he'd finished all there was.

"Later," Methos told him gently, easing him back down. "I've given you
something that should help replace your fluids, but too much now would
make you sick."

Jack nodded, closing his eyes for a moment and Methos thought he'd
drifted back to sleep. He stood and began to move away when O'Neill
suddenly clasped his wrist.

"You're okay?" the colonel asked nervously.

"I'm fine, Jack. All better."

"Not dead?"

"Am I wearing my head?"

Jack grinned tiredly. "I was worried."

"Thank you," Methos smiled, honestly touched by the other man's
concern. "And now I get to worry about you. So, relax and rest. I'll
stay nearby."

"Okay, Pierson. You're the doc."

Methos laughed softly. "Yes, I am," he murmured as Jack finally drifted
into real sleep, probably for the first time in days.

With a great sense of relief Methos found a chair, pulling it closer to
the bed and sat down. He too was exhausted, but pleased that Jack was
still Jack and not a raving lunatic. Or worse, totally withdrawn thanks
to what he'd put him through. Still, he could berate himself later.
Jack needed him and he, to a lesser degree, needed the same things as
Jack. Food, water and rest. Methos looked over at the bed across from
where he sat and thought briefly about climbing into it.

Maybe later, he thought as he leaned back to rest a bit. He'd wait and
see how O'Neill was doing first before availing himself of the comfort.

***

Jack woke with an anxious start, relieved to find Methos sitting in a
chair beside his bed, obviously asleep. Or was he? Nervously, he
watched the Immortal's chest rise and fall as he gently breathed.
Slowly, one shaky hand reached out, moving aside the thin cloth of the
other man's robe.

"All healed," he heard the light, teasing tenor of Methos' voice.

"Sorry," Jack murmured, drawing back his hand.

"It's okay," Methos smiled, understanding that O'Neill would probably
be checking on him for a while. He'd need to reassure himself from time
to time that he wasn't hallucinating or dreaming. And making an issue
of it would only make Jack even more uncomfortable.

"More water?" Methos asked as he checked O'Neill's pulse, noting with
relief that it was strong and steady.

"Please," he nodded.

Methos rose stiffly and refilled the makeshift cup. "You're looking a
lot better," he remarked as Jack carefully tasted then slowly drank the
water.

"Just tired," O'Neill muttered between sips.

"Think you could try a little soup in a bit?" If I can find any, Methos
thought worriedly. There must be something resembling a kitchen around
here.

Jack gave him a thumbs up. "As long as it's not tomato anything, I'll
give it a shot."

Methos chuckled. "I don't think we ever had tomato. I seem to recall
something that tasted a little like beef and barley. That do?" O'Neill
nodded and Methos bit his lip worriedly. "I may have to leave this
level for a bit. That okay with you?"

"Sure," he murmured sleepily as Methos took the empty container from
his hand the helped the colonel settle against the pillows. "Just be
back soon. I'm starving."

"I'll be quick," Methos reassured him. "Rest now."

A minute later O'Neill was out and Methos hurriedly went to find some
clothes. There'd been more sliding storage cabinets between here and
the bathing room, he recalled. Hopefully, they'd hold something more
substantial than a thin velvety robe. He found them easily enough,
suddenly looking with stunned amazement at the floor of the bathing
room across the hall.

"I'll be damned," he grinned. The place was spotless. "Self-cleaning
floors and walls!" 

Methos suddenly caught sight of his dagger lying near the basin, though
their blood stained clothes were missing. Perfectly sanitized, he
nodded thoughtfully as he fetched it. Too bad whatever cleaned the
floors took the finish off. At the thought, he realized their uniforms
must have dissolved. Oh, well, he shrugged. Pity about the dagger
though, he sighed softly. He'd have to dispose of it or Jack might
pitch a fit when he saw the thing. No great loss really. He had dozens
more back home.

With a shrug, Methos went back to the storage closet and dressed
himself in a pair of gray coveralls that seemed to fit. He checked on
Jack and found him resting easily, then headed for the lift. He sighed
with relief as he stepped inside. It too was shipshape and tidy, though
he'd go down to the hanger bay later just make certain that area had
also cleansed itself.

Methos sighed as he examined the symbols on the panel again. There were
six levels and none of the glyphs showed anything that looked remotely
edible. His stomach rumbled noisily. To hell with it, he thought. Just
go to the top and work your way down! 

When the doors opened on the uppermost level he found what appeared to
be an operations center. No food, but he'd definitely be back to
explore later. Next down was an open area, which seemed to be for
recreation, exercise and storage. The third level held the officers
quarters and mess. Eureka! he thought, grinning cheerily as he strode
into a large central room filled with couches, tables and chairs. To
one side of the hall, a series of rooms lined the wall. At the far end
of the central corridor, behind a pair of tall doors, was a more
private lounging area with a fairly large dining room. And beyond that
was the kitchen. Or what Methos supposed was the kitchen.

"Damn it!" he muttered. "What I wouldn't give for just one
knowledgeable servant!"

"May I take your order?" a voice asked in a language familiar from his
childhood. 

Startled, Methos looked around, smiling as he realized what Tok'ra must
have done. The place was fully automated. With thousands of soldiers
coming from hundreds of different worlds it would have to be. Of
course, the computer wouldn't understand English. It had merely
responded to a voice command with a language default.

"One beef steak, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables and a bowl of beef
with barley soup," he responded in Ishri.

"Define beef. Define potato. Define barley," the computer requested in
a dialect of the same language.

Methos sighed. "Beef. Meat from a domesticated bovine. Potato. Tuber-
like fruit. Barley. Grain related to wheat."

"Our apologies, ally. We do not have the requested comestibles at this
time. May we offer an appropriate substitute?"

"Certainly," he smiled. He hadn't thought they'd have anything he
really wanted, but one worked with what one had. It would probably be
close enough to suit.

"May we offer you a beverage with your order?" the computer asked as a
covered tray slid out of the wall.

"Beer?" he asked hopefully.

"Define beer."

"An alcoholic beverage made from barley, water and hops, another member
of the wheat family."

"Our apologies, ally. Alcoholic beverages are not permitted at this
time. May we offer you an appropriate substitute?"

"Damn you, Tok'ra!" Methos hissed. "No wonder you lost the fucking
war!"

"Define fucking."

Methos laughed and shook his head. "Never mind, darling. A carafe of
fruit juice will do just fine."

A moment later it appeared beside his tray and he left the room
chuckling softly, heading back toward the elevator. As soon as he was
able he was definitely moving Jack up here. He'd have a blast defining
things like pizza and tacos then bitching about whatever bizarre
substitutes the computers were providing. 

Sanity through sadism, he grinned widely. What a life!


Chapter 7

"We can leave now," O'Neill insisted as he sat up. "I don't need to be
the picture of health to make it to the gate." Two days later O'Neill
was awake and talking -- though he tired easily and was still too gaunt
for Methos liking. "And don't you worry," he added with a wry smile.
"Doc Fraser will make sure I eat as soon as we get back."

"I'm sure she will," Methos told him. "But we can't leave just yet."

O'Neill frowned. "There a problem with the gate?"

"No. No problem with the gate," Methos sighed as he sprawled, well out
of reach on the bed across from Jack's. "There just isn't one with
which to have a problem."

"There's no Stargate?" Jack looked horrified. "You mean we're stuck
here?! Oh, that's just beautiful, Pierson!"

Methos rolled his eyes. "We are not stuck here. If you'd just listen
for a minute! No, there isn't a gate on this rock. This is a combat
platform and, as near as I can tell, a listening post from when the
Goa'uld used to control this sector before Inanna got her claws into
it. So no, Tok'ra didn't install a Stargate. That would kind of kill
the whole secret base thing, now wouldn't it?"

"I'm not getting into that fighter again," Jack insisted quietly.

Methos shook his head and sighed. "You won't have to and I'd never ask
it. I'm truly sorry about that, Jack. I wish... I didn't think," he
apologized. "I should have found another way. I didn't realize that
would happen."

"You couldn't have," O'Neill told him. "I thought about that a lot the
first couple of days. And unless I wanted to keep strangling you over
and over again--which really seems like a good idea now," he growled.
"I don't think we had any choice."

Methos smiled ruefully. "It's not as bad as it sounds," he told the
colonel, silently acknowledging that apologies had been offered and
gratefully, if obliquely, accepted. "It may not have a traditional
Stargate, but this is one of those places I mentioned where they stored
parts for the jump ships." O'Neill's face brightened at the mention.
"I'm pretty sure I saw a couple down in the hanger bay when I was
bringing you up. I don't know what condition they're in, but if they
were left here they're probably in need of repair."

"Okay," Jack nodded. "That's good. That's a plan. We've got the parts,
right?"

"Absolutely. Only one tiny problem," Methos added nervously.

"Which is?"

"I've never actually repaired one," he admitted cautiously.

O'Neill smirked. "Have you ever worked on your car?" he asked in the
same tone he often used with Daniel.

Methos curled a lip in disgust. "Of course I've fixed my car. I'm not a
complete moron!"

Jack looked at him thoughtfully. "What make and model?"

"It was a Ford." Methos crossed his arms belligerently. "And the model
was T."

O'Neill stared at him in total disbelief for a long moment, then
laughed until tears ran from his eyes and he coughed so hard Methos was
afraid he'd choke.

"God, I missed that," Jack finally gasped. "What happened? The hand
crank fall off?"

"Happy to be of service," Methos grumbled sullenly. "And no," he
sneered. "I popped a wheelie on a loose cobble stone taking a corner
too fast and bent the tire rim. Had a hell of a time pounding it out."

"Don't sweat it, my little speed demon," O'Neill offered expansively as
soon as he stopped laughing again. "You work that listening post and
keep an eye out for Quinta. I'll handle the backbreaking labor."

"Sir, yes, sir. Colonel Satan, sir," Methos saluted.

"And don't you forget it," Jack nodded, yawning widely. "You're my
minion and nobody else's. Not even your twisted sister's."

Methos smiled with intense satisfaction as O'Neill drifted back to
sleep. Now that was the O'Neill he remembered. So what if he thought
Methos was a hopeless geek when it came to automotive expertise. It
made Jack feel like he had a purpose again -- and that was the
important thing. 

***

The gentle touch of fingertips lightly laid against his sternum wasn't
what awakened Methos. That was just the little game they played. He
pretended to sleep while Jack obtained the reassurance he needed. They
both knew, but neither would ever say a thing.

Nor had it been the sound of O'Neill quietly leaving his bed and
padding into the bathing room. When he wanted to, the man could move as
soundlessly as a cat. Even Methos was hard put not to comment on the
excellence of his stealth. But O'Neill had not been attempting stealth
tonight, because they both knew that Methos had been awake long before
that.

"Another nightmare?" Methos asked softly as Jack returned.

That was what had awakened him. The pitiful moans and half-strangled
scream that had driven O'Neill from his sweat soaked bed.

"It'll pass," the colonel replied in a tone that ended the discussion.
Still, it told Methos enough. The dreams were no better, even if they
weren't getting any worse.

"Good," Methos responded. "Then you won't mind if we move upstairs this
morning. The beds look a damn sight more comfortable in the officers
quarters than they are in here."

"More comfortable?" Jack asked eagerly. "Hell, Pierson, you can move in
the morning," he said, tightening the belt on his robe. "I'm heading up
now."

Methos suppressed a smile as he grabbed his own robe and followed him
out. 

"They got any real clothes up there?" O'Neill asked, panting a little
as they reached the elevator. Before Methos could respond, a gentle
series of tones sounded throughout the corridor and probably the entire
station. "What's that?" he asked worriedly as the lift doors opened.

"No idea," Methos admitted with a shake of his head.

"Unidentified craft approaching. Unidentified craft approaching," the
voice of the computer warned in several different languages.

"The operations center," O'Neill said tersely and Methos nodded as they
got on the elevator. "Any weapons aboard?" he asked as they arrived and
Methos helped him over to the command chair.

"Probably," the Immortal nodded. "But maybe we should have a look at
what's out there first," he added, taking a seat at one of several
banks of control panels. "We're pretty well camouflaged in here. No
need to kick up a fuss if they're only passing through, right?"

"We'll see," was all O'Neill would say as Methos switched on the view
screen.

"Damn!" Methos cursed softly as he finally identified the craft.
"That's one of Quinta's ships. Running a search pattern would be my
guess."

"So, they don't know we're in here," O'Neill commented thoughtfully.

"I doubt she even knows about the platforms," Methos responded with a
shake of his head. "Quinta was a line officer and didn't have much to
do with security per se. And it wasn't the sort of information Inanna
would have given her after Tok'ra was dead. As paranoid as she probably
became, she'd never want even a loyal follower to have that kind of
advantage."

"So what's that ship doing out there?"

Methos shrugged. "Well, if I were Quinta, I'd have followed my first
plan -- which would have been to search the immediate area after our
escape. She probably does know about the combat gates in this sector --
no way to really hide something like that," he sighed. "Some of them
could easily handle a ship ten times the size of her flagship. And
they'd be useful for local commuting between systems, especially after
Inanna stripped the other stargates from their planets."

"Makes sense," O'Neill nodded. "Go on."

"Knowing about the gate herself, Quinta might have figured we'd head
there."

"We're three days away from the gate," O'Neill reminded him
unnecessarily. "So why look here?"

"Just Quinta being her usual charming methodical self," Methos grinned.
"Perhaps Inanna had some sort of warning system on the gates to let her
know when they were being used without authorization," Methos suggested
as the ship on the screen continued its wide, slow circle of the area.
"It could mean that Quinta knows we haven't left the sector. She also
knows there's only two of us. And she's not stupid, Jack, merely
arrogant. She knows just how much extra oxygen those fighters carry."

"She's estimated our distance and flight time," he nodded slowly.
"Probably has people checking the nearest habitable planets too."

"I'd say you're partly right," Methos agreed quietly. "But she's
estimating my location, not ours." O'Neill's eyes narrowed
questioningly and Methos sighed. "She'll expect me to have killed you
and not the other way around," he said bluntly. "Neither she, or
Inanna, would ever have put themselves in that vulnerable a position."

Jack nodded slowly, fully understanding the trust that had been placed
in him. "It looks like they're leaving," O'Neill jutted his chin toward
the screen. "And good riddance."

Methos smiled wanly. "They'll be back. Quinta's like a pit bull when
she wants something. Never lets it out of her teeth."

"But she doesn't know about the platforms," O'Neill stated succinctly.

"She'd have been here already," Methos agreed.

"Unless..." Jack murmured thoughtfully. "She could have stumbled across
something that gave her a reason to think we might be hiding out
somewhere safe and cozy."

"I hope not," Methos said worriedly. "But if she did, she would never
have been able to make use of the information."

"How's that?" O'Neill asked as Methos did another quick scan of the
area, turning off the viewer when he found nothing.

"Well, from what I can recall, at least in general the platforms
themselves aren't very sophisticated," Methos explained as he helped
Jack back to the elevator. "Essentially, they're very big boxes
drifting in space. Derelict barges that from the outside look barely
spaceworthy, let alone like they could hold anything worth salvaging.
But they've got very sophisticated security. Attach an unidentified
craft to the hull and all the equipment inside fries itself
automatically. Send the wrong signal to the sensors and it does the
same. By the time anyone got aboard they'd have found only a useless
shell. Maybe they'd get something for the salvage, but they really
aren't worth towing. I mean, they really are just big ugly barges."

"I like the way Tok'ra thinks -- or thought. No. Thinks," he amended a
little confused because the being that had been the Ancient Tok'ra
still existed, even if he was just a big bundle of energy.

"Anyway," Methos grinned as he pressed the glyph to take them down to
the officers quarters. "Like I said, if she knew about the
platforms..."

Jack shook his head, interrupting his friend. "She doesn't have to be
Sherlock Holmes to figure it out, Pierson."

"Figure what out?"

"That if we're not anywhere she expects us to be, then we are somewhere
we wouldn't expect her to think we'd be." 

Methos felt the color drain from his face, but they did have to
consider every possibility. If Quinta realized he knew how to access
the platforms, she might imagine he had lots of other useful
information that could be just as interesting.

"Wonderful," the Immortal muttered as the doors opened on their new
digs. "Now I have to worry about how long she'll torture me before she
kills me. Thanks, Jack! You're a good buddy." 


Chapter 8

After nearly a week of bed rest and puttering around the officers
quarters tormenting the station's computer, Jack finally felt ready to
make his first excursion down to the hanger bay. That is, he decided he
must be ready to confront the awful reality of the other ship. It
wasn't that the nightmares had stopped, or that he didn't check on
Pierson several times a day-- albeit as covertly as he could manage. It
was the simple fact that time was passing all too quickly and he
couldn't afford to put it off any longer.

As near as he could estimate they'd been gone eighteen days on a
mission that had been scheduled for three or four, even a week at most,
and by now the SGC would certainly know there was trouble. What kind of
trouble wasn't important. Their disappearance alone would be enough to
stall the talks with the Ishri. But the folks back home would be
worried, especially since they didn't have another jump ship and the
chances of a rescue were dismally apparent as slim to none. 

He'd understood that from the get go, Jack mused as the elevator doors
opened and he stepped inside. That had been one of the reasons he'd
wanted Pierson along as opposed to Teal'c. Pierson didn't have a kid
and wasn't chock full of current knowledge about the Goa'uld. And, he
was virtually indestructible as he'd so ably proven during...

With a silent sigh O'Neill pressed the glyph which would take him down
to the hanger. He really didn't want to do this, he thought nervously.
What he'd really like was to see someone in Psychiatric Services, dump
the whole mess into their head and move on. And if he were back home
that's just what the Air Force would require that he do -- no if, ands,
or buts -- before they re-certified him for active duty. Well, you
don't have that option, Jack thought pragmatically as the doors opened.
And it ain't like this is the first time. So just suck it up and move
on.

He stepped out into the cavernous bay that could probably have dry
docked a thousand ships and still had room for more. 

"Just a little way station," he murmured, shaking his head in wonder as
he looked around. More like a staging area for launching a war, he
thought, impressed with Tok'ra's foresight. God, he liked Pierson's dad
-- even if he was a hugger! And especially since Tok'ra had made the
station easily accessible to all his forces, some of whom were as
technologically challenged as Earth currently was. None of that super
high tech gadgetry that stymied him every time he looked sideways at
the stuff.

O'Neill set his jaw as he looked for a blood trail, quickly surmising
that the self-cleaning process Pierson had mentioned seemed to have
done its work. 

Good, he thought as a sense of relief washed over him. Out of sight was
out of mind in his book. If the past wasn't staring him in the face, he
could just get on with the job and ignore the rest of the hangar bay.

Now, let's get to it, he thought, settling himself into a more
professional demeanor for the work ahead. He headed left -- the
direction Pierson had told him to look -- and found the two jump ships
sitting catty corner near what looked liked a diagnostic station.
"Bingo!" he grinned, taking a slow turn around the ships, nodding or
shaking his head occasionally as he looked them over.

There was quite a bit of scoring damage from energy weapons along their
hulls, but that made sense given what Pierson had discovered in the
station's log. According to the commanding officer in charge of the
listening post at the time of Tok'ra's last battle, at least a hundred
ships had come to this location seeking to escape what they had
believed was Goa'uld treachery. The frantic, sometimes near hysterical
recording, showed a station in chaos. Tok'ra was dead, along with every
Ancient in the fleet. Even Inanna, or so it was believed. Yet, while
major Goa'uld strongholds lay in ruins, Tok'ra's forces were fleeing to
their home worlds, terrified that they and their loved ones would be
next on the snake-heads' list. 

At least, O'Neill thought with a great deal of respect as he took the
tech's seat at the terminal, the commander had had the good sense to
keep the panicked troops from raiding the station's stores before
bugging out. Apparently, she and her small staff had waited another
month, no doubt hoping for new orders, or some indication that the
alliance still survived, before finally abandoning their posts and
heading home in the last transport they had.

These two ships, he contemplated thoughtfully, tapping the panel top to
bring up the monitors, hadn't even been considered for use. Now why was
that? he wondered as he keyed in the code Pierson had designed which
would allow him to work the computers in Ishri. 

"Damn it!" Jack muttered a long time later after he'd read through the
original technician's hurried notes.

While both ships had intact DHDs and internal Stargates, jump ship A's
main engine was shot to hell and needed a complete refit along with
repairs to a dozen onboard systems. That would take several months,
maybe even a year, given the amount of work involved.

Jump ship B was in somewhat better condition. Thrusters and stabilizers
were in need of heavy repair, communications were busted and several
internal mechanisms controlling the fuel distribution and environmental
functions needed to be replaced. Eight, maybe ten weeks to make sure
everything worked. 

Not as good as he'd hoped for, but better than nothing, O'Neill decided
with a tired sigh as he shut down the terminal and went to inform one
very annoying Immortal.

***

The bad news didn't seem to faze Methos at all.

"Pity we can't just use one of the gates to get home," he sighed and
O'Neill nodded, commiserating.

The jump ships worked on the same basic principle as traditional
Stargates, but with different results. Originally designed to launch
from a stationary base, the ships created their own wormhole, but
required an exit gate the same as any other. They had been meant for
guerrilla runs using the space-based combat gates as an exit point.
They were not designed for pulling dangerous, flashy maneuvers in
confined or limited areas immediately upon egress. And without thruster
controls or stabilizers, the ships would be just so much junk hurtling
through the wormhole at phenomenal speeds to crash and burn on the far
side. Which meant they couldn't even consider the option Methos had
mentioned -- not and both hope to survive.

"So, how's it coming in here?" O'Neill finally asked, looking around
the operations center. After pulling up as much of the station's
specifications as he could locate, along with the command logs, Methos
had done an excellent job of learning the systems and making them his
own. "Any sign of Quinta?"

The ancient Immortal grinned. "I was hoping you'd ask. This is an
amazing set up, Jack," he gestured toward the computer bank where he
was seated. "Tok'ra may have designed the station to the lowest common
denominator, but the listening devices he planted are incredibly
sophisticated. I can hear voice traffic from all over the sector and
focus on a single conversation anywhere, as needed, instantaneously. No
wonder he was able to strike so quickly. The Goa'uld had no secrets
from him."

"Quickly?" Jack asked. "Just how quickly are we talking?"

"Well," Methos shrugged. "From what I know, from the time Tok'ra and
Morgot became blended it only took about a hundred years to launch the
final battle. And most of that was spent building the necessary war
materials and bringing all the allies up to speed. That's a fantastic
accomplishment if you think about it."

"Damn straight," O'Neill nodded. "So, you can hear Quinta?"

"Not her," Methos explained. "But her forces. The relays out there," he
waved at the screen, "unscramble all transmissions, search for key
words -- which I've reprogrammed," he grinned smugly, "to suit our
needs -- then send everything back in priority order to the central
listening post here. The amount of detail is incredible, especially at
these distances."

"Interesting," O'Neill murmured thoughtfully, imagining the benefits
such a system could provide his own world. "Can it send messages?" he
asked suddenly.

Methos stared at him for a long moment. "That's a brilliant idea!" he
exclaimed as he fell back against his seat. "I hadn't even considered
the possibility. There had to be a way of relaying the information
retrieved here to Tok'ra's main receiver," he added with excitement as
he turned back to the computer, hurriedly tapping the panel in front of
him. "I'll have to reroute the defaults, of course, then locate the
nearest transmitter to Earth. Then I need to figure out how to get a
signal to one of our satellites and from there bounce it to the SGC on
one of their frequencies, but I think," he looked over his shoulder and
grinned. "I think we can do it."

"Well, get on it," Jack ordered, smiling at Methos' enthusiasm as he
stood.

"You do realize, of course," Methos called softly, making Jack pause as
he entered the elevator to return to his own task with renewed vigor.
"They still won't be able to help us."

"Maybe not," O'Neill agreed. "But they'll know we're alive, where we
are and what the Ishri are really up to. And that," he reminded Methos,
"was the whole point of this little excursion."


Chapter 9

"Sir, it's them," Samantha Carter announced as General Hammond came
striding into Stargate Command's control center.

"Where are they?"

"Still in Ishri space, sir. But we can talk to them."

"In real time?" the general asked, quietly amazed.

"Pierson sent us the specs in the first transmission we received. We're
linking with the Mars satellite now and reconfiguring it to interface
with Tok'ra's relay system on the planet. Apparently, he had a major
base stationed there -- right under the Goa'uld's collective noses."

"Well, I'll be," Hammond murmured as a technician informed Carter that
the communications system was ready.

"Colonel O'Neill, this is General Hammond," he said, leaning over to
speak into the microphone.

"Well howdy doody!" that familiar, sarcastic voice called back. "Good
to hear you, sir."

"What's your status, Colonel?"

"Alive and well, but stuck here for the time being," the voice
responded.

"And where is here?" Hammond asked.

"One of Tok'ra's hidden bases," O'Neill answered, careful not to give
specifics which might be overheard. "We've got a way to get home, but
it's going to take a while to work out a few problems."

"Approximately how long?"

"Three, maybe four months," O'Neill replied. "We need to make repairs."

Hammond looked at Carter, who shrugged. Neither knew if either Jack or
Methos were up to the task, but were willing to accept that they at
least believed they were. "Is there any assistance we can render?"

"Nah," O'Neill responded. "We've got it under control. It'll just take
a little time."

"Very good, Colonel. I'll expect regular reports. Pierson can work out
the scheduling details with Major Carter."

"Yes, sir."

"Hammond out." The general turned the microphone back over to Carter. 

"Colonel O'Neill?"

"Hey, Carter! How the hell are you kids?"

Samantha smiled briefly. "We're all fine. Teal'c and Daniel are here,"
she looked to her companions. "We're all very glad to hear you're both
okay."

"The food could be better and the cable sucks, but other than that, no
complaints."

"Can you tell us anything about our new acquaintances?" she asked.

This time, Methos responded. "Pierson here. I'm sending all that out in
a burst transmission as soon as we're done with the housekeeping."

"Adam?" Daniel Jackson leaned forward and spoke tensely into the mike.

"Hey, Danny!" came the cheerful response. "Aren't you supposed to be
with MacLeod and Company or something? The real reason I'm stuck on
this rock and you're not."

Daniel grinned. "We heard you guys were missing in action, so we came
back to see if we could help."

They could almost see Methos smiling. "The only action we're missing is
some decent music. You taking requests?"

"I'll see what I can do," Daniel laughed. "I hear Aerosmith's doing a
remake of the Hymn to Ninkasi."

There was a bark of laughter, but before Methos could say anything more
Carter interrupted.

"Loss of signal in three minutes," she reminded everyone. "We'll pick
you up again in thirteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, when Mars reaches
it zenith again."

"That's a go," O'Neill responded. 

"Commencing transmission, now," Methos reported. "Catch you on the flip
side."

A few minutes later the download ceased and the signal went dead.

"Did we get it all?" Samantha asked the technician at the controls.

He nodded. "Looks like it. And Major," he added quietly. "Whatever it
is, it's big."

Carter looked thoughtful, while across the galaxy two men were quietly
celebrating.

***

"Good work, Pierson," O'Neill complimented as Methos reset the system
and sat back with a sense of relief. After a week spent re-calibrating
Tok'ra's incredibly sensitive arrays to carry voice transmissions as
well as data, and another spent translating everything into secure
code, the Immortal was glad just to have it over.

"Thanks," he sighed, stretching his long limbs.

"Hungry?" Jack asked and Methos grunted an affirmative. "Come on, I'm
buying."

Methos followed him to the elevator.

"Hymn to a Ninja Queen?" O'Neill asked curiously as the doors slid shut
behind them.

"Ninkasi," Methos corrected with a grin. "And she wasn't a queen, but
an ancient Sumerian goddess," he explained

"A snake-head?!"

Methos shrugged as the elevator stopped and they headed for the dining
hall. "Who knows? But she was certainly important, culturally speaking.
I know I spent many happy hours singing her praises."

"You? Singing about a Goa'uld?" O'Neill grimaced.

"Absolutely."

"O-kay," Jack drawled, considering the source of this bizarre
statement. "And what was so important about her? Culturally speaking,
of course."

"Well, not her per se," Methos admitted. "More what she invented."

O'Neill waited for him to continue, but the irritating Immortal
remained silent. "Well?!" he finally demanded. "What was it?!"

"Oh," Methos shrugged. "Beer. Ninkasi invented beer." Jack's eyes
popped. "And it wasn't so much a hymn," he added ruefully, "as it was a
drinking song. An ode to making beer."

"This I've got to hear," O'Neill chuckled. 

"Not from me," Methos insisted, striding into the kitchen.

"Aw, come on, Pierson. You're the only entertainment around here."

"May I take your order?" the computer automatically responded to the
sound of their voices.

"Tell you what," Methos smiled slyly. "You make this thing," he
gestured with his chin at the panel which represented the computer's
food terminal, "give me a decent brew to drink and I'll sing it. In the
original Sumerian."

"Make it English, and it's a deal," O'Neill replied, entirely too
quickly for Methos liking.

Methos frowned. The translation would be horrendous. Ah well, if it
made O'Neill happy...

"English," he nodded in agreement. "But it had better be decent."

O'Neill grinned. "Well, I was saving this for a special occasion,
but... Mabel?"

"Mabel?" Methos muttered, rolling his eyes. "You named the computer
Mabel?"

"Shhh!" Jack hissed. "And learn from the master."

"How may I serve you, Colonel O'Neill?" the computer asked promptly.

"Two of those giant burritos, a large nachos and a pitcher of the
fermented barley, hops, malt, water and honey we discussed the other
day. And two glasses." The panel opened and the requested items slid
out. "Thanks, Mabel.

"Always a pleasure to serve you, Colonel O'Neill."

"Well?" Jack waved at the pitcher and Methos went over, pouring a small
amount of the amber fluid into a glass. Sniffing it curiously, Methos
raised both brows. The aroma seemed about right, now... He sipped
carefully at first then finished it off in one quick swallow.

"How the hell...?" the Immortal began, setting down the glass as he
grabbed the tray and O'Neill grinned smugly.

"It's all in the asking, minion," the colonel grinned and swiped a
couple of nachos from the plate as they headed back to the dining room.

"I asked!" Methos insisted. "It told me alcohol wasn't permitted."

"Yeah, but Mabel doesn't have any orders against supplying the contents
of recipes and fixing them the way you like 'em. Took a while, but I
finally convinced the old girl that fermentation is done for health
reasons."

"You win," Methos laughed delightedly. "I'll sing."

They took their familiar places at one of the smaller tables in the
large empty hall.

"Okay," O'Neill gestured for him to continue. "Sing."

"You didn't specify when," Methos retorted smugly.

"But--!"

"First we drink." He poured two full glasses of beer. "Then we eat."
Methos handed Jack his plate. "Then we drink a lot more."

"And then you sing," O'Neill nodded in understanding.

"No, then we tell tall tales of conquest, rapine and pillage --
saluting our manly prowess with even more drinking. Then, when we're
incredibly full of ourselves, not to mention enough beer to float a
battle ship -- only then do we sing."

"We?" Jack asked dubiously.

"Don't worry," Methos patted his shoulder consolingly. "You'll like it.
Especially the bits about the big shovel, the noble dogs and the holy
bappir."


Chapter 10

"Blessed Ninkasi handles the dough, and with a big shovel mixes it up. 
"Blessed Ninkasi, fair of form, adds the date honey to the big pit
filled with the holy bappir. 
"Sweet bappir, baked and..."

"Oh, shut up!" O'Neill whispered, bleary eyed as he held his head in a
vain attempt to keep his brain from exploding at the sound of Methos'
singing.

His nemesis chuckled unsympathetically. "Feeling a little under the
weather are we, Colonel?"

"Just a little," O'Neill muttered, groaning miserably as the warning
klaxon sounded making his eyeballs swell. "Great," he gasped as the
computer reported another unidentified ship in the area and he followed
Methos to the lift.

The other man sighed and pulled a couple of small packets from his
pocket and opened them. "I was going to let you suffer just a bit
longer," he explained as he handed them to Jack. "That was a stupid
stunt, letting me get you drunk."

O'Neill shrugged as he chewed and swallowed the bland tasting tablets
dry. 

"The mission's complete and we needed to blow off some steam," he
offered, grimacing as the doors opened on the operations center with a
loud hiss, though he could already feel the vise around his forehead
slowly being lifted.

Methos simply nodded as he took h