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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We're fine," Carter called up.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About a replacement?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

"Pretty boring between lives, huh?"

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

"Old bones aching?" Dawson grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Medium rare."

"Baked potato?"

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

"Please come with us, sir."

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

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

"Your complete cooperation," the voice responded neutrally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Got the job?" Methos asked, confused.

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

"Mine," Methos echoed, feeling numb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

"Adam?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How so?"

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

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

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

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

***

"It's a legitimate request, Jack."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So what was this whole conversation about?"

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Danny?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pretty much the same way you did."

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

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

"Couldn't resist?"

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

"Classified?"

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

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

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

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

***

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

"That's classified, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

"Colonel," Methos greeted him, shaking hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Methos nodded. "I like to travel light."

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are these all the tablets?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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