Changing of the Guard 3: Be All That You Can Be 14/22 [PG13] xover
Ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Tue, 25 Sep 2001 19:56:42 GMT
Chapter 16
"That went well," Daniel said to no one in particular as SG-1 was
left to themselves in a waiting room after the interrogation.
"Up until the point we found out we need to bring the snakehead
with us," Jack muttered, visibly repelled by the notion. Still,
he turned to Cassandra and offered his thanks. "You did a great
job, ma'am. We really appreciate it."
Daniel frowned. "He never thanks me like that," he whispered to
Methos, taking a seat beside the Immortal, who shrugged.
"She's a lot prettier than you are, Danny. A man's got to have
his priorities in order."
Jackson only stared at him then shook his head as if divesting
himself of a particularly irritating thought. "You weren't
serious, were you?" he suddenly asked.
"About what?" Methos queried, leaning back against the
comfortable warmth of the stone wall.
Daniel grimaced. "About taking only Kabra'kan's head with us."
Methos gave him an amused glance as Samantha joined them. "I was
only offering our fearless leader another option. We need
Kabra'kan's brainwave pattern to get past Zipak'na's security,
not the rest of his body. And it is medically possible to remove
the head and keep it alive just long enough to suit our purposes.
Safer too. I'm not looking forward to traveling anywhere with a
dangerous enemy for company."
"None of us are," the major commented. "But we might need him
alive at some point."
"True," Methos agreed with a heartfelt sigh. "Too bad an
interrogation is only as good as the interrogator."
"And we can't be certain we asked all the right questions,"
Carter nodded.
They were interrupted when Jacob entered looking fairly annoyed
as he delivered the news. "We have a go," he told them.
"Unfortunately, Zipak'na's gate is too heavily guarded to just
walk through. And the closest gate with a Tok'ra ship in the
vicinity is three days out from our destination."
"If that's the best you can do," Jack sighed resignedly.
"One more thing," Jacob said as Selmak came to the fore. "The
Tok'ra only agree to this mission on condition that we share any
technical advantages gained. Any weapons retrieved will be
considered common property."
"That was the deal," the colonel easily agreed.
"Excellent," Selmak nodded. "We leave immediately."
O'Neill turned to the others as he grabbed his pack. "Come on
boys and girls, the school bus is waiting."
They headed for the gate, Methos giving Jack a small knowing
smile. The colonel nodded shortly in response. It was well they
understood each other, the Immortal thought. The Tok'ra wouldn't
be pleased, but he was.
***
"What the hell is that?" O'Neill asked, staring at the narrow
metallic coffin shaped thing sitting on the ground when they
reached the other side of the gate.
"It is a stasis canister," Teal'c explained. "Many dangerous
prisoners are transported inside such devices, O'Neill. A most
useful method, do you not think?"
"Well, yeah," he nodded. "Just... Keep an eye on it, Teal'c. Damn
thing gives me the creeps."
"As you wish," the Jaffa nodded, moving to stand guard.
Jacob gave him an easygoing grin. "Relax, Jack. It's perfectly
safe. And it'll keep Kabra'kan out of our hair until we arrive."
"Whatever," O'Neill muttered, looking around to get his bearings.
The place was eerily silent but for the wind whistling through
the monumental ruins of the ancient city surrounding them. "So
when does the train get in?"
"It'll be a while yet," Jacob responded. "You folks might as well
get comfortable. Our connecting flight is a refitted cargo ship
engaged in passive intercept of Goa'uld communications. Not one
of the fastest ships we have, but it'll do the trick."
"What is this place anyway?" O'Neill asked, frowning as he held
his weapon ready. "Is it safe?"
"Safe enough," Jacob nodded, moving to sit on one the dozen or so
shattered stone blocks which littered the area. "The Tok'ra
excavated this site a few centuries ago," he went on as Samantha
and Cassandra joined him. "The planet's pretty much dead, except
for some lower life forms. Animals and insects mostly."
"Goa'uld?" O'Neill asked.
"Nah," Jacob shook his head. "According to our experts this place
is nearly a quarter of a million years old."
"Pretty well preserved," Methos said, impressed.
"Who were they?" Daniel asked as he found some carvings not yet
erased by time on a nearby wall.
"We think it was a colony founded by the Ancients," Jacob
shrugged. "We're not sure, but the Tok'ra have come across
similar ruins before. Same age, same kind of destruction. Near as
we can figure it was probably some kind of intra-galactic war."
"It was," Methos said, squinting into the distance wearing a
distracted look. "I seem to remember reading...something," he
shook his head. "It's gone now."
Jacob gave him an assessing stare. "If you don't mind my asking,
Methos, just how much of your time with Tok'ra do you remember?"
"Not much," he admitted. "Bits and pieces, this and that. It was
all so long ago," he sighed and found a seat on one of the stones
across from where Jacob sat. "I remember the nursery mostly."
"The nursery?" Samantha asked surprised.
"I spent a lot of years there," he grinned, amused by her shock.
"Why shouldn't I remember it?"
"No reason," she gave a half shrug. "It just seems...odd."
"To you," Methos agreed. "But not to someone born say, even a
hundred years ago in a fairly wealthy household. Children stayed
in the nursery until they were young adults. Often until they
were sixteen or seventeen before they were sent away to school."
"So what do you remember about it?" she asked with a smile.
Methos narrowed his eyes trying to picture the place. "I remember
a garden. A rock garden, actually. At least, that's how I thought
of it. But I think it was more of a playground." He absently held
out his arms as if to encompass something. "There were these huge
stone carvings. Representations of animals and such. And they
rocked. That's what I remember most -- the swaying motion as I
rode them and how they never fell down no matter how far I tipped
them over."
"Weebles," Jack stated succinctly, startling Methos from his
reverie.
"Weevils?" Methos gave him an odd look. "What do they have to do
with anything?"
"Not weevils. Weebles. 'Weebles wobble, but they don't fall
down.'"
Samantha's eyes lit up. "I remember Weebles. I had a whole set."
"Everyone had a set," Daniel interjected before turning back to
his exploring.
"They were pervasive," O'Neill added with a grimace. "If they'd
been aliens they'd have conquered the planet."
Methos looked from one to the other. "What the hell are
Weebles?!"
"Weren't they a popular children's toy?" Cassandra suddenly asked
Jacob, drawing a look of surprise from Methos.
"Very popular," Jacob nodded. "Although Sam preferred Punchy the
Clown. He didn't fall over either. She was an aggressive little
thing," he added proudly.
"Dad!"
Methos laughed. "Thanks, Jacob! Humiliation shared is humiliation
halved!"
The other man chuckled oddly and nodded to himself. "Selmak
insists I apologize immediately, Methos. Humiliating the son of
Tok'ra is unacceptable behavior even for me."
"Someone should have told that to Tok'ra," Methos grinned
ruefully. "Might have saved me a lot of grief."
"You looked most distinguished," Teal'c insisted. "As I said at
the time, baldness denotes a noble visage. I was most impressed."
Cassandra's eyes widened and she suddenly turned her face away
though her shoulders shook helplessly.
"Well I'm glad you all find me so entertaining," Methos said
petulantly, glaring at her back.
"Pierson," Jack said quietly, the warning in his tone obvious.
Methos scowled then rolled his eyes in disgust, getting up to
join Daniel for another look at the ruins and ignoring the rest
of the conversation.
Surprised by his easy acquiescence Cassandra watched him go.
Twice now she'd seen O'Neill reprimand Methos -- and in such a
way that it established the colonel's absolute right to offer
such correction. And by his actions, or inaction in this case,
Methos had openly acknowledged that O'Neill had the right to do
so. This was not what she had ever expected. Not even Kronos had
dared to openly chastise this particular Horseman.
She stared thoughtfully at O'Neill, considering the colonel
carefully. He did not strike her as the least bit foolish and
bore himself as though he carried wisdom gained of hard won
knowledge both tested and tempered like fine steel. He appeared
to be honest, affable and generally courteous to those under his
protection. Strong-willed and focused on his goals such a man
would allow nothing to interfere with his ultimate objectives.
Good qualities for a man given command over the fate of many
nations, Cassandra decided. Certainly not a man to be taken in,
even by the likes of Methos. Unless, of course, Methos had
changed.
Again the idea startled her, just as it had the first time she'd
discussed the subject with Cierdwyn. Then again, perhaps what
Ramirez had said was true. That Methos had not so much changed
into his current persona as changed back. Had the Horseman in all
his terrible splendor been the aberration and not the sum total
of this man's many lives?
Cassandra shied away from the idea, too fearful of what this
might do to her perceptions. Of herself. Of Methos. Of a three
thousand year old system of belief. Confronting her anger, guilt
and shame was one thing. Confronting Methos was quite another.
With a silent shake of her head she put the matter aside, hearing
the voice of reason gently chide her. It would have to be done
sometime, she heard Cierdwyn's soft admonition in her head.
Perhaps, she responded, trying to quell her fear at the notion.
But not now. Now I am alone with my most feared enemy, dependent
upon mortal soldiers who know what I am, waiting on a strange
planet for an alien space ship to take me to another world. I
think that is enough for one day.
Part Three
Chapter 17
The days passed slowly as the interminable flight towards
Zipak'na's stronghold took its toll on Cassandra though none of
the others seemed to be overly affected by the journey. To be
sure they were sometimes bored, but once they'd all gotten
settled in, packs had been opened and pastimes brought out for
the amusement of everybody. She'd come back from making her final
ablutions for the night to find a pile of books, tapes, CDs, bits
of wood and tools for whittling, some quick dry casting clay and
a small chess set neatly stacked on one of the extra sleeping
shelves. There was even a small mound of candy and snacks --
enough to give six children bellyaches if eaten at once. And
everyone was expected to simply avail themselves of what they
wanted when they wanted it. The sight had made Cassandra smile as
she recalled the shared generosity of village life in places that
were often no more than rather large extended families. That is
until she realized Methos was a part of it.
Now, toward the end of their journey Cassandra was feeling more
lost and confused than she had since the deaths of the other
Horsemen. It was...unnerving to see Methos interact so easily and
with such obvious pleasure with the members of SG-1. With an
internal sigh of revulsion at her own inability to make a
decision regarding her nemesis and his possible motives she went
to the pile and snatched up a new book, tossing the old one down.
She'd been eager at first to read one of Dr. Jackson's tomes on
Maya social structure, now it was simply annoying.
She glanced at the title, discovering it was an obscure
collection of philosophical essays as she found a place to read
not far from where O'Neill was hand molding little clay
figurines. More Weebles, Cassandra thought with a tiny shake of
her head. Nearby, Teal'c was doing them in wood. The previous
night they'd each presented a set to Methos, who'd seemed
delighted though he'd tossed off a few snide remarks about
finding them more adult games to play. To which they'd responded
with equal vigor and in mockingly parental tones. Most unnerving,
she thought again as O'Neill suddenly reached into a pocket,
pulled out a lollipop and offered it to her.
With a murmur of thanks Cassandra took it wondering why she felt
surprised a moment later when the usually acerbic colonel
silently tossed one to each member of his command. His aim was
excellent and he caught Methos, sprawled on the floor playing
chess with Samantha, square in the face. Hiding a smile,
Cassandra was again surprised by the old one's look of mild
irritation mixed with genuine fondness as he retrieved the candy
and popped it in his mouth.
Stranger and stranger, she thought, returning to her book after
unwrapping her own lollipop and putting it in her mouth. Could it
be possible that Methos truly enjoyed the company of O'Neill and
the others? Were they indeed as friendly as they appeared to be?
It seemed so, but Cassandra had long ago learned to distrust
outward appearances. Especially when it came to Methos.
With an inward sigh, she put such thoughts aside as unproductive.
The wisest course of action would be to wait until she had time
for another session with Cierdwyn. But she had often been more
passionate than wise, she admitted ruefully. Why should now be
any different?
She turned to the first essay and settled back to enjoy the
mental stimulus. Then, about halfway through the first dialectic,
Cassandra turned the page and nearly gasped aloud in shock. Near
the top, someone had jotted a comment in the neat hand of a court
scribe -- a hand she instantly recognized.
Cassandra glanced up hurriedly casting her eyes downward as
Methos shifted positions and gazed her way. She took a deep
breath, returning to the book and silently refused to be afraid.
So what if it was one of his things? He was not her master to
complain, especially since he'd put it out with the rest. And she
was curious about what he might have to say when he thought no
one else could read his ramblings. Of course she might miss a
word here or there given the gap in their ages, since Methos
seemed to be in the same habit as she oftentimes was, using words
and phrases from dozens of different languages to express himself
with exacting clarity.
'An interesting idea,' the first note said. 'Though not terribly
sound in practice.'
Cassandra read the passage to which it referred and oddly enough
was forced to agree with Methos' assessment. She went on,
skimming through the text itself and pausing to read the notes as
they appeared. Comments like 'Exactly so!' or 'Ramirez would have
agreed,' were interspersed with observations such as, 'Too
simplistic. More worldly experience required,' and 'Easy to
pontificate when you have a choice. Try it sometime when Damocles
stands above your neck!'
She raised an eyebrow at that last notation and reread the
section on which it was based. It was an argument on why the
morally lazy man chose to do evil when the choice for good
offered no greater hardship than a little effort. Was Methos
saying he'd been without choice? Or was he simply justifying past
moral failings?
Cassandra mentally reviewed what she'd learned of his past in
recent days. Not only what she'd been told by Ramirez, but her
several conversations with Daniel, who of the group had spent
more time with the cagey ancient in recent years than anyone
here. It had shocked her to discover that Methos' past with the
Horsemen was not only known, but accepted by his teammates. Not,
she'd been grateful to learn as something in which they could all
take pride, but as a deviation caused by terrible circumstances
and emotional trauma. A time of anger and desperation by a man
without the will to run and no belief in any sanctuary he might
find when he got there. It sounded all too familiar to Cassandra.
Her own life since escaping the Horsemen had been fraught with
danger and despair almost as often as it had been filled with
joy. But what life wasn't when you were Immortal?
She looked back at the page thinking on something Cierdwyn had
once said. That the Horsemen had been no different in their
warring than the Romans, the Vikings, or any other group which
might have fancied themselves conquerors. The only difference
being that while the mortals had raided and died leaving their
offspring to continue the process, the Horsemen had been
individuals moving across the generations. And if Cassandra could
find it in her heart to forgive the descendants of these nations,
who were as different from their ancestors as night and day, then
it behooved her to examine the possibility that an Immortal might
also change given enough time.
Having accepted that premise Cassandra now had to wonder just how
it applied to Methos. Again she had Cierdwyn's experience and
wisdom to draw on. Methos had treated her no differently than any
man of that age would treat a woman taken in battle, and a damn
sight better than many Immortals would have. She did still have
her head after all. True, he had repeatedly killed her to make
her obedient, but she had very swiftly learned to obey. And if
Ramirez was correct about Methos' first teacher then he'd done no
more than train her in the same way he'd been trained. She did
not have to like it. She merely had to accept the fact that it
had happened and that Methos had done it -- he being a man of his
times.
Which brought to mind another question Cassandra had not wanted
to consider. That while he, and she for that matter, had both
been of those times what right had she to judge him using the
morality of this age? Was Methos to have come up with the novel
idea that slavery was evil when no one else at that time had ever
thought it anything more than a simple fact of life? No doubt he
had ascribed to the very same tenet everyone else had. That it
was always better to be the master than the slave. And having had
slaves of her own at various points in her life she really had no
cause to despise him for that.
What bothered Cassandra and she knew it were her own perceptions
of the man. Yes, he had been hard on her at first. And yes, he
had taken her against her will and taught her to enjoy it. But,
damn it! he should have been better than that. His acts of
cruelty in battle had not carried over into his tent once she had
stopped fighting him. In fact, he had sometimes been inordinately
kind.
She suddenly recalled a time when she had tripped over one of the
more friendly camp cats that had wandered into Methos' tent.
Unable to catch her balance, she'd struck the table which had
made the dinner tray fly up, the contents of which had landed all
over both of them. And Methos had laughed. Laughed until he
couldn't breath and tears ran from his eyes. At the time she'd
thought him mad. But he hadn't beaten her, hadn't even chastised
her for not looking where she was going. Instead, he'd laughed
even more when the rest of the camp cats had suddenly appeared by
the dozens to lick the food off everything in sight. Cassandra
pressed her lips together trying not to smile as she pushed away
the image of Methos in near feline repose content to be bathed
within an inch of his life by the scruffy, flea bitten things.
So, it was clearly the dichotomy of the man which disturbed her
thoughts -- what Methos should have been as opposed to what he
was.
All right, she thought sighing softly as she closed the book and
laid it aside. So there had been something there for him to work
with. Some core of the man which she had seen beneath the
barbaric exterior that had once been decent and kind. But did
Methos recognize what he had done to her? To his victims and
their families over the centuries? Did he feel sorrow or regret?
Or had he simply moved on, supposing that as long as he kept to
his books and his studies harming no one else, that done was done
and he really ought to forgive and forget even if they could not?
Cassandra couldn't answer these questions. Only Methos could. And
she knew she wasn't yet ready for that. She needed to talk with
Cierdwyn first. To perhaps arrange a meeting at some future time.
Not to rail at the man over past injustices -- she had no desire
left to do that. She could see now that such pursuits would be
pointless and counterproductive to her own recovery. But to find
closure at last. To seek out that last bit of knowledge that
would allow her to sleep without the nightmare that he might come
back. Or that some other woman was suffering at Methos' hands and
she was powerless to stop her anguish. If she could feel safe in
the knowledge that the last of the Horsemen no longer walked the
earth stalking his prey then perhaps she could find rest at last.
But that would have to wait, Cassandra thought as Jacob entered
the crew quarters to announce they were within sight of their
goal. Now was not the time to worry about personal growth.