Changing of the Guard 3: Be All That You Can Be 2/22 [PG13] xover
Ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Mon, 24 Sep 2001 08:46:07 GMT
Chapter 2
It was midmorning when they landed at the airfield outside of
Seacouver, Washington. Keeping a low profile, Jack commandeered
an SUV from the local National Guard and headed inland. While
Methos drove O'Neill studied the file Dawson had provided. The
Senior Watcher hadn't been exactly thrilled at being reactivated,
but Jack could tell some part of the older man was pleased with
the idea. The part that had felt frustrated and betrayed when
he'd been mustered out on a disability rating from active duty
when he'd lost his legs back in Viet Nam. Standard procedure in
those days. In these more enlightened times Dawson would have
been given the option of continuing in service to his country as
a civilian, albeit with a less physically demanding assignment.
With a frown O'Neill flipped another page in the thinly filled
folder labeled A. Philipson. Not much in here, he thought, and
what there was didn't seem all that noteworthy -- militarily
speaking. No date of first death either, though Methos claimed
that was very common with older Immortals.
According to the Watchers Philipson had first been identified in
China during the 7th century while living as a recluse in a
remote mountain region. The next entry was almost two hundred
years later. He'd moved on to India, then over the next few
hundred years wandered haphazardly across Europe, Arabia, and
Africa; mostly studying at various monasteries, universities and
mosques. Then in the early 17th century he'd left Europe for the
Americas, worked his way around the newly formed colonies as a
fur trapper and guide, eventually crossing the continent as a
surveyor with the Lewis and Clark expedition. He'd been in
America ever since.
There were more entries. Brief notations on Philipson's
whereabouts and activities over the last three hundred years.
Wanderlust seemed to be a strong personality trait. That and a
desire for hard work, O'Neill determined. The man had been
everything from a farm hand to a cowboy -- he'd even helped build
the Hoover dam. In addition, he was also a brilliant scientist
who'd taken degrees in both Biology and Botany during the past
forty years. Currently, he was employed by the National Forestry
Service as a Park Ranger, stationed on Fire Watch duty for the
summer somewhere out in the back of beyond while keeping an eye
on the local flora and fauna. The only military activity listed
anywhere in his file was a brief stint in the Navy during the
Second World War. He'd fought as a gunner aboard an aircraft
carrier during the Battle of Midway and several other major
conflicts then served in the Aleutians after the bomb was dropped
until he was discharged from active duty. As for his presence in
the Game that was negligible. When challenged he fought, but
never actively hunted and there were no Immortals listed as known
associates.
Not an impressive resume -- except for maybe the Lewis and Clark
thing being pretty cool, O'Neill thought with a mental shrug. But
Methos insisted Philipson was the man to see and since they were
still working on the ancient Immortal's trust issues O'Neill
decided to let him run with it. They were working on other things
too, like the six thousand three hundred and fifty push ups
Methos still owed him, Jack thought hiding a smile as they turned
into the North Cascades National Park entrance, but that was a
trust issue as well.
Several hours drive from Seacouver, the park boasted some of the
most spectacular scenery O'Neill had ever seen. Beautiful
mountain vistas and crystal clear lakes just perfect for fishing,
kayaking and anything else one could think of. They drove past
the Visitors Center and deep into the forested hills until they
had to leave the car in one of the designated parking areas and
hike the rest of the way in. It took two days just to reach the
northernmost Ranger station only to discover that it was another
three days march to the remote fire tower where Philipson was
stationed.
"Is this guy paranoid or what?" O'Neill asked on the morning of
the third day as they were breaking camp.
"Alex?" Methos chuckled. "Nah. He's okay. Just likes the great
wilderness. And exploration. He's fanatical about that. The last
time I saw him was back in the sixties. He was big into the space
program then. Moved to Cape Canaveral to watch all the launches
for a few years. Worked as a welder on the Saturn 5 rockets, too,
for a while. I swear, if he could have figured out a way to get
into the astronaut program he'd have done it. But security was so
tight back then..." Methos shrugged. "Triple checks on everyone
down to the janitors. You know the drill. The closest I could get
him was that welding job and even that was a squeaker."
"That's not in his file," O'Neill commented as he doused the
remains of their camp fire with water.
"He's not high on the Potential Winners list," Methos explained,
gathering up his pack. "Although he should be," he grinned. "The
Watchers can't be everywhere, you know. And Alex isn't really
high profile enough to warrant a full time Watcher. Actually, the
only reason they keep anyone on him at all is for training
purposes. He's considered an easy first time field assignment.
The only danger he represents to a Watcher is falling down a
mountainside if they try to follow him when he's rock climbing or
doing something equally adventurous."
"Sounds like fun duty," Jack nodded appreciatively, recalling his
own early training in covert ops.
"So I've heard," Methos agreed.
"Where'd you meet him?" O'Neill asked as they, once again, set
out for the fire station.
"Egypt," Methos stated, pushing back a branch as he found a deer
trail leading in the right direction. "364 AD. His body was
secretly being moved by a group of worshippers to save it from
the latest Christian depredations going on at the time."
"Worshippers?" O'Neill asked confused.
"Yeah. Poor guy had been entombed for centuries in some local
shrine. Real hero worship stuff. That was kind of a big deal back
then. Every town had a couple of shrines dedicated to some local
war hero where you went to pray for bravery and courage in
battle. But when they removed his body from all the preservatives
and let the corpse dry out, his Quickening finally had a chance
to heal him from the mummification process. He'd just revived and
was trying to fight his way out of his new sarcophagus when I
felt his presence and let him out."
"Bet he was grateful."
Methos looked back over his shoulder and grinned. "Extremely. But
he took it really well. At first I thought he'd go nuts with the
Game and all, and he did for a little while. But Alex has a
unique point of view when it comes to fighting. If you're good
enough to fight you're good enough be his friend. The better the
man, the better the warrior, the better friend they make. And
once he calls you friend he's your friend forever. There's
nothing he won't do to help."
"I like that," O'Neill murmured, nodding slowly. "Anything else I
should know?"
Methos shrugged. "He's got a violent temper, especially when he's
drunk. But," he added at O'Neill's frown, "Alex has been clean
and sober for nearly seventy years."
"Don't tell me. He was a charter member of Alcoholics Anonymous."
The Immortal nodded vigorously as they picked their way across a
narrow stream. "He was an alcoholic when he died, so of course
the need to drink stayed with him. But I've never met anyone so
capable of setting aside his own needs and sticking to his goals.
Once he realized he had an addiction he put the bottle down and
never looked back. A difficult thing to do, especially when
you're raised in a hard drinking, hard fighting culture like he
was."
"You admire him," O'Neill surmised.
"His determination certainly," Methos agreed. "But I'm also kind
of partial."
"Sure. He was your student," O'Neill nodded.
"Hardly," Methos snorted. "He didn't really need a teacher when
it came to arms, just a few instructions in the rules of the Game
and a social guide to reacquaint him with the world for a few
years. By the way," Methos added hurriedly as he suddenly
stiffened feeling another Immortal presence. "He doesn't know me
as me, but as Metopholus, or Pierson."
Methos started to reach for his sword then quickly slid his hand
away from the hilt. There couldn't be more than two Immortals in
this ridiculously remote area. And since he was one of them the
other had to be...
"Alex?!" he called. "Adam Pierson here! With company!"
There was a tiny rustle in the leafy canopy above and Methos and
O'Neill looked up to see a small, slim figure with a shock of
bright golden hair drop to the ground.
"Adam! What the hell are you doing here?"
O'Neill stared as the two Immortals greeted each other. Philipson
wasn't just small, he noted, cautiously assessing the man, but
tiny. If he measured even five foot tall in dress shoes Jack
would be astonished. Still, that miniature frame was perfectly
formed, compactly built and neatly, if not heavily muscled.
Brilliant blue eyes turned to observe him with an equally
assessing stare as the younger Immortal's head cocked to the side
and with a slow blink seemed to come to a decision that he liked
what he saw. Philipson held out a hand and O'Neill shook it.
"Any friend of Adam's," he said in a light almost sweetly
high-pitched voice.
"Jack O'Neill," he greeted the man, a sudden sense of familiarity
coming over him as he stared into the deeply tanned, sun seamed
face. Worry lines crossed the broad brow and the Immortal's clean
shaven, boyishly good looking features seemed eerily reminiscent
of something. Still, he knew for damn sure he'd never met this
man and the Watcher file hadn't contained either a current
picture or much of a description.
"So, what the hell are you guys doing out here?" Philipson asked
again.
"It's great to see you, too," Methos grinned.
"Sure it is, but I know you, Adam," the other man nodded, head
remaining tilted to one side as he gazed up at his old friend.
"These days you wouldn't hike five days into the deep woods
unless your life depended on it."
"Not true," Methos disagreed amiably. "I was in Seacouver
visiting a friend when Jack here said he was interested in doing
a little fishing. Figured you'd know all the best places, so here
we are."
Philipson pursed his lips knowingly then spoke in Greek. "You're
an excellent liar, Metopholus. But I've been targeted by the
best." He glanced at O'Neill who was fumbling with his pack,
ignoring the conversation and went on. "The mortal knows what we
are, doesn't he?" Methos nodded affirmatively. "And he isn't your
shield mate. I'd take an oath on that," Philipson smirked.
"Yeah, body language is all wrong," Methos agreed. "In fact, I
think he'd kick my bum from here to Athens if I even suggested
it."
"More like he'd kick you out of this man's army," the other man
grimaced wryly, "if I'm not mistaken."
"Close enough for government work," Methos nodded with a rueful
smile. "Air Force actually."
"Really?" Philipson's eyes widened with excitement then grew
serious. "He's not one of those Watcher fellows, is he?"
"No," Methos told him. "But he does have a reason for being here
-- other than the great fishing. And," Methos sighed. "I really
would appreciate it if you'd talk to him. In a professional
capacity, if you take my meaning."
Philipson's eyes narrowed in understanding. "Anything for you,
old friend," then he switched back to English. "I'm done checking
my experiments for the day," he said lightly. "My tower's a
couple of hours hike up that way," he pointed to the nearby peak.
"Fresh fish for lunch okay?"
***
O'Neill watched the new Immortal effortlessly move through the
forest -- nimble, quiet and utterly self-confident. As a first
stage evaluation the colonel had to admit he liked what he saw.
The interesting exchange between Philipson and Methos had also
been enlightening. The man was both clever and astute, seeing
through Methos' admittedly weak cover story with an ease that was
surprising. He'd pretty much summed up his mortal companion at a
glance too. And with great accuracy, O'Neill thought with
pleasure. Skills like those were rare and valuable commodities
even in the Armed Forces.
They reached the base of the fire tower, a newer one made up
mostly of concrete, stone, metal and glass. It stood above the
tree line providing a clear view of the surrounding timberland.
Philipson led them inside past the ground floor laboratory and
sub-basement storage areas, where food, fuel, extra fire fighting
and medical equipment was kept. Stairs led to what was nominally
the second floor living area -- a basic one-bedroom apartment
that was relatively clean and neat. But it was at the top of the
tower where the lookout and station offices were that Philipson
had really made his home and Jack could see why. The view was
spectacular from all sides.
Philipson left them up there while he went to prepare lunch and
O'Neill took the opportunity to examine his surroundings more
closely. Around the spacious room books, CDs, note pads and the
occasional piece of clothing littered the area. Along the walls
was the station's monitoring equipment. Radios, measuring devices
for the weather and other necessary items. There was also the
more personal gear of television, VCR and a state of the art
stereo. Methos made a beeline for the stereo, checking out the
recordings with a smile.
"Mahalia Jackson," he said, holding up a CD case for Jack's
inspection. "Alex loves gospel music -- and Blue Grass
apparently," he added, wonderingly, as he picked up another pile
of discs.
"This guy doesn't do anything by halves, does he?" O'Neill asked
as he stared at the CD cases stacked against the wall. There must
have been at least a few thousand. He peeked into a small side
room where a narrow bed and a low round table took up most of the
space. Along the walls were stacked books of every color and size
in languages O'Neill couldn't even identify.
"Halves?" Methos repeated. "I don't think Alex even knows what
the word means. He's practically the embodiment of the 'seize the
day' philosophy."
O'Neill nodded, turning as the younger Immortal came bounding up
the stairs. For a moment he looked as though he'd sail over the
arm of the couch and leap into the cushions, but pulled up short
with an air of purposefulness and sank gracefully into an
overstuffed leather chair. His feet dangled childishly above the
floor for an instant then he tucked them up resting with his chin
on the back of one badly scarred hand to stare thoughtfully at
Jack.
O'Neill stared back, not the least bit flustered by Philipson's
evaluating look. The colonel was far more interested in what he
could now see of the other man's physique. Alex had obviously
taken a few moments to change out of his Ranger uniform and into
a pair of raggedy bleached cutoffs and a worn tee shirt.
Comfortable warm weather clothes. The scars on the backs of both
hands where it looked as though he'd smashed the knuckles in hand
to hand fighting were matched by other even more telling scars.
They were everywhere. Cuts and puncture wounds on his legs, on
his arms, even along his collarbone. This man had fought long and
hard before his first death, O'Neill thought with silent
admiration -- of that he was certain.
"So," he began. "Where you from originally, Mr. Philipson? Or is
it Dr. Philipson?"
"Alex is fine," the Immortal smiled. "And I'm originally from
what is now called Albania."
"Been there," O'Neill nodded. "Too many goats."
"Too many guns now," Philipson smiled a little wistfully.
"Although there have been times, lean times, when I would have
given my eye teeth just to see one goat -- even three days dead
on the side of the road."
"I thought you said we were having fish?"
"Patience, Mr. O'Neill," the Immortal grinned. "Or is it General
O'Neill?"
Jack raised an eyebrow, deciding in favor of honesty. "Publicly?
It's still Colonel. On paper, well that's another story."
Methos looked up from the book on native flora he was glancing
through with an expression of sudden understanding. "Of course
you were promoted when Carter got new rank," he murmured. "You
would've had to be."
O'Neill said nothing. Protocol had demanded it and anything less
would have been seen as a vote of no confidence in his abilities.
But making General would have taken him out of the field
permanently. Even Colonel was pushing it. But on paper... Well,
paper generals got the perks without the brass and that was just
fine with Jack. It had been fine with his friends at the DOD as
well, and for the same reason. In the field was where he belonged
and they knew it as well as he did.
A timer bell sounded from the floor below and Philipson rose to
see about lunch.
"You want to get the table, Adam?" he asked as he paused by the
stairs. "There's dishes and stuff in cupboard by the desk."
Methos nodded as Jack followed Philipson.
"I'll give you a hand," O'Neill said and the Immortal shrugged,
ignoring his shadow.
Back on the lower level O'Neill realized he was only in the way
and wandered off to look more closely at the wall display on the
far side of the room which he'd missed on his way up. Lots of
arms and armor in racks along the back wall. Several swords, a
few shields, and--
Jack stood stock still as he stared at the centerpiece of the
exhibit. A magnificent gold chased helmet, greaves and a
breastplate with a jeweled gorget which had to be worth a small
fortune in and of itself. Beside it hung a small round shield
also overlaid with gold and a sword of such astonishing quality
for the period it represented it could only have been
commissioned by a king.
"Albania?" O'Neill whispered, clearing his throat as bits and
pieces started clicking into place. A part of him must have
known, he decided. Couldn't help but have known given the face
and the clues he'd had all but dropped in his lap. Hell and damn,
he had a Masters Degree in Military History and he'd still missed
it! And yet, it was that part of himself which still did not want
to believe. "Albania was -- is -- Macedonia."
He turned to look at the tiny little powerhouse of a man calmly
standing by the stairs with an over laden tray of steaming fish
and vegetables in his arms. "Alex Philipson," he muttered as the
Immortal cocked his head and waited patiently. "Alex. Philip's
son," Jack intoned, cautiously sounding out the words. "Alex for
Alexander?" A little nod and a wry smile topped by laughing blue
eyes. "Alexander, son of Philip. The Macedonian Alexander.
Alexander the..."
"Great. Yes," he hefted the tray. "Lunch is getting cold, by the
way. Or would you prefer to eat crow?"