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The
Sumerian Codebook Affair |
Summary - The guys track down and protect a linguist while he deciphers a new THRUSH code. But this "innocent" isn't, and he's hiding a secret he'll kill to protect.
Notes - This was written for the Channel_W Summer Writing Challenge.
For the Highlander Challenged (skip this if you understand HL): Immortals are a race of humans who cannot be permanently killed unless beheaded, though they can suffer pain and injury, and even "die", although the death is temporary. They posess remarkable powers of healing due to energies called a "Quickening". When an Immortal is beheaded his or her Quickening is passed to and absorbed by the nearest Immortal, usually the one who performed the beheading. Immortals are born (nobody knows where or how) and grow up as normal humans until their first "deaths", at which time their Quickening fully manifests and heals them. From that time on they no longer age, and are subject to "The Game", a ritual combat fought with swords and ending with the beheading of the loser. New Immortals either die at the hands of a more experienced opponent or find Immortals willing to teach them to fight, and the rules for The Game, the first of which is: "There can be only one."
Loke
Act III: "All I ever wanted was to be somebody famous . . ."
Fortunately, Illya saw and remembered the license number of the taxi Peterson escaped in, and every UNCLE agent in the New York area was told to watch for the cab and report its location and direction of travel. It didn't take many reports to determine he was headed to the airport. Solo and Kuryakin were picked up by a helicopter on campus and whisked into pursuit of the fleeing man, receiving relays of his position from agents on the ground. They were in no position, however, to keep THRUSH from stopping the taxi with a fake accident.
Peterson/Methos dived out of the taxi when he saw the men with the bulging left armpits approaching. He passed through a nearby store, remembering it had entrances on two streets, and mingling with the throng of pedestrians to throw off pursuit. He repeated his actions twice, and was just considering himself safe when he felt it.
The spine-shivering buzz of Immortal presence.
He glanced around to see if he could spot the source, hoping it was simply one of the local Immortals on an innocent errand. It had happened a few times before; they'd simply nod to each other and go their seperate ways.
Not today though -- when he looked around, he spotted someone he'd rather not have seen.
And suddenly realized where THRUSH had gotten their new code.
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IRAQ, 1878
It had been nearly two millenia since Methos had been in this part of the world, and he had no fond recollections of that time. He had put his past behind him, however, and joined the expedition as physician, and interpreter. Dr. Jacob Pearson had learned the local dialects, he'd explained to his employers, during the days he'd practiced medicine here. He just hadn't mentioned how long ago it had been, or that he'd used a different name then.
Sir Colin Wilcox, who was both funding and in charge of the expedition, already had a translator -- the adopted son of his younger sister. The lad had been discovered by the newly-widowed woman some twenty years before, digging through the trash behind the hotel where she was staying. She'd insisted on taking the boy in and bringing him back to England with her, and had lavished him with all her affection and everything money could buy. This was the first time the young man, who went by the name of Edward Danvers, or Neddy to his friends, had been away from England -- and his mother -- since his adoption.
Danvers was quite anxious to be away from his mother, and even moreso to make his mark on the world. He hoped to make a great discovery and return to England covered in glory. He was just over middle height, somewhat stocky, with golden brown hair, dancing moss green eyes and features which had made many a young -- and not-so-young -- woman sigh and hope.
The expedition had left Bagdad a few days earlier, their caravan of camels and horses headed southeast to where the locals has reported some interesting ruins and mounds. Sir Colin had taken a position near the front, and his nephew and the doctor had joined him. All three were mounted on desert mares. The expedition leader was a vigorous man despite his nearly 60 years, lean and wiry, with a full head of snowy hair, peircing blue eyes and a hawklike face.
"Did our guide say how soon we'd be reaching the ruins, doctor?" he asked Pearson.
"Just before dawn," the other man replied, "so we'll be able to do a little surveying before the sun gets too hot." They'd been travelling at night, to save themselves and their beasts from the worst of the heat.
They arrived just as the sky was starting to lighten. There were a few lines of rubble which might, at one time, have been walls, and several mounds which looked worth investigating further. While Dr. Pearson directed the set-up of the camp, Sir Colin and his nephew did a preliminary survey to examine the mounds with an eye to deciding where to begin.
They worked until the sun became too much to tolerate, then retired to tents which had their sides raised to allow breezes to pass through. During the break they would have lunch and nap, play cards or find other ways to pass the worst of the days heat. Later they would return to their dig until it became too dark to see.
Days passed to weeks, and weeks to months as the work progressed. They made several good finds, but nothing extraordinary, and as the holy month of Ramadan approached, Danvers became more and more desperate to find something which would make his name in academic and social circles.
"I'm beginning to think we came to the wrong place," he said to Pearson one day.
"It's only your first season," the doctor replied. "The most famous of the archaeologists -- Botta, Layard, Thomsen, and Worsaae -- took years to make their names. Schliemann spent four years recently digging through 9 levels of occupation at Hissarlik to find Troy."
"What good is a reputation if you're too old and whithered to take advantage of it?"
"You'll have more time than you think." Pearson wondered if he should tell the other man he was pre-Immortal, and with a bit of luck he'd have centuries to build a fortune, if not an academic reputation.
The matter was rendered moot a few nights later when bandits hit the camp and killed everyone in it, taking everything of value.
Including all the food and water.
It had taken weeks for the two Immortals to stagger out of the desert, and years to return to England.
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NEW YORK, NY, 1966
Methos tried to duck away from his nemesis, but a gun jammed into his ribs changed his mind. He was forced down a nearby alley and into a deserted building, with Danvers -- or whatever he called himself these days -- following a few minutes later.
"Wait outside," the THRUSH code expert told his lackeys.
He didn't draw his sword until he heard the door shut. "I knew when I developed a code based on cuneiform and leaked its existence to UNCLE, they'd get you to help translate it.
I'd tracked you down but could never find an opportunity to challenge you."
"I don't suppose we could discuss this like gentlemen?" asked Methos.
His opponent snorted. "Gentlemen? I lost any chance of being a 'gentleman' in the desert of Iraq."
"You can't blame me for an attack by bandits. We'd been warned, and your uncle discounted the tales."
"Oh, I don't blame you for the attack. What I blame you for was talking me out of returning to England and claiming my inheritance -- both of them, since my uncle had no heirs and Mother died from the shock of losing us both."
"I compensated you for that as best I could."
"Bah! All you gave me was money! Even when I married into a title, I eventually had to give it up because people noticed I wasn't aging properly! What good is living forever if you have to change identies every quarter century? All I ever wanted was to be somebody famous -- and you and those damn bandits took it all away from me!"
"I'm not responsible for what you are. None of us know where we came from or why we're Immortal."
Danvers' response to this was to declare, "There can be only one!" and attack.
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