by C. E. Murphy
Ghean laughed, moving an eighteen-inch pile of papers off a chair, depositing them neatly on the floor instead. “Sit,” she invited, “and read. I’ll make a concerted effort to not surprise you again for at least fifteen minutes. You’re much more pleasant when you think you’re in control.” She walked passed him, then stopped with her hand on the doorknow, looking at him curiously. After a moment she shook her head and stepped out, letting the door latch behind her.
Methos frowned after her. “Everybody’s more pleasant when they think they’re in control. It’s a very nice illusion.” He sat, turning the frown on the pile Ghean had left him. Reluctantly, he pulled the first report towards himself, and began to read.
-o-O-o-
Ghean tapped a forefinger on her thigh as she walked back down the hall from the ship’s mess. It’s obvious, now that we’ve hit on it, the patient one murmured. Methos’ security blanket is control.
“I see that,” she mumbled. “He was in control all the time in Atlantis, wasn’t he?”
He had the time to anticipate his options, the patient one agreed. The circumstances may have changed from moment to moment, but never too drastically. There was always time to think and choose.
Never enough time, the frightened one muttered. Can’t choose that fast.
For once the patient one listened to the frightened one, considering. Perhaps it’s more likely he played out potential confrontations and events well ahead of time, it suggested. Factoring in what he knew of human behavior to determine the most likely course of events and how to deal with them.
“Gods, that would be exhausting,” Ghean protested.
We do not know him at all, the patient one said severely. We had no appreciation of how little we could understand him, in Atlantis. Our childhood experiences with him were less than a single facet of the man.
“He tried,” Ghean said. “He tried to show us more when he told us about his Immortality.”
We lacked in sophistication. The patient one brushed aside Ghean’s words. That lack thwarted his ability to expose himself to us, as much as his own habits of privacy did. In time, with maturity, we would have understood him better.
But we had no time, the frightened one hissed. We only had darkness and the sea, forever and ever. When will we go home?
They should have been ours, the patient one said soothingly. We’ll regain them when we we take his head. It won’t be quite the same, but it will be deeply satisfying. The centuries we missed will be ours, and we will rebuild Atlantis. Patience. All we need is patience.
Ghean rubbed her fingertip against the gold of her ring, feeling the smooth surface bump slightly over the scars. “He was in control until the earthquake,” she suggested. “That’s when he panicked, that’s when he ran. Even some Atlanteans kept their fear of earthquakes all their lives.” A smile flitted across her face. “I might be able to forgive him for panicking.”
‘You’re asking me to be sorry for putting my survival first, and I won’t do that,’ the patient one reminded her with a snap. His words. It wasn’t panic. He chose to run, deliberately and calculatedly. He knew we would be resurrected from the blow that felled us, and still he ran. He was so certain that choice was right that he would offer neither apology for it nor lie to spare us. He was in control. We shouldn’t doubt that. We shouldn’t forgive him for that choice.
Ghean made her way up to deck, leaning on the railing. Wind pushed hair back from her face, and she smiled into it. You’re right, she acknowledged the patient one silently.
There won’t be any more surprises, then, the patient one said assuredly. We’ll allow him apparent control over our relationship with him, tenuous as it is. It will make betraying him in the end that much more satisfying, watching him grasp at threads he thought he’d woven as they come unraveled around him.
Betrayal, the frightened one whispered hungrily.
-o-O-o-
In the mess hall, Methos leaned back, rubbing his eyes with one hand. It was no wonder new archaeological treasures kept being discovered on the Mediterranean floor, despite it being well-explored. A history of seabed activity detailed earthquakes of a 4.0 magnitude or higher occuring at least yearly for the last half century, and sometimes there were many in a year. While not enough to do much more than rumble on land, knocking a few jars off their shelves, every quake did resettle the sea floor a little. Eventually it made a difference, exposing new land and what it carried for explorers to find. It seemed almost inevitable that Atlantis would eventually have been found. Ghean’s knowledge of her ancient home’s original location merely made it a little easier.
The report actually traced the seabed’s history back several thousand years, citing quakes that had rocked the Mediterranean area more than three thousand years ago. One or two had been significant enough that Methos actually remembered them. His own journals noted the volcanic eruptions and earthquakes in 79 AD, when Pompeii was buried and preserved forever in a fall of ash. Much earlier, while Methos rode with the Horsemen, had been the destruction of Minoan Crete. Both disasters had made Methos curious as to whether or not they’d been triggered by Immortals fighting on holy ground. It had only been a few years since Joe Dawson had confirmed that the eruption at Pompeii, at least, had been preceded by a battle on holy ground.
So I was right, Methos thought, deliberately shaping the words as a rememberance to Minyah. That is always satisfying.
He picked up the earthquake report again, flipping through it to the early twentieth century. Ghean had broken free of her prison in the early months of World War I, she’d said. From the report, Methos guessed an earthquake in early October of 1914 was the one that had finally twisted the temple stone enough to give way a little. Its epicenter had been considerably north of Atlantis’ location, but it had measured a 7.7, enough to do damage over a widespread area.
Methos looked through the other reports perfunctorily. Had he not known the truth, the history of the Atlantis Project’s development would have been fascinating. As it was, Methos had a difficult time reading it as anything other than a cover story. It was a good one: young Mary Kostani’s remarkable education about and passion for a lost civiliation could and had inspired research and funding on a cause most scholars would prefer to leave alone, for fear of ridicule. The report was liberally scattered with instances of ‘genuis’ and ‘prodigy’ when Ghean’s colleagues wrote about her.
Methos grinned every time he came across them. ‘Astonishing leaps of intuition leading to daring preceptions about the day to day lives of ancient citizens.’ Ghean must love this. I certainly would. I’m surprised she doesn’t have to go through a door sideways to accomodate the ego this must have given her. Of course, he thought as he picked up the final report, she’s short.
Halfway though a minutely detailed description of a mug inscribed with Taurus’ bull, Methos let the papers fall to his lap. Someone’s going to find House Aries artifacts sooner or later. Michael Powers, at the very least, is going to recognize the symbol from Ghean’s necklace. Anyone else who’s worked with her for any period of time at all probably will, too. He read the description again, glancing over the accounting of the circle and the points within it that circled the bull’s head. From the House itself, he noted absently, and turned his wrist over, studying the fading tattoo. Why hasn’t anyone noticed Ghean’s necklace is the same layout? Does Powers know the truth?
Methos rejected the idea out of hand. Powers wouldn’t have made a joke about Ghean’s apparent failure to age if he’d known she was Immortal. She must have an explanation prepared, Methos decided. She couldn’t be that clumsy. Or could she? She’s very young, he reminded himself.
A warning rush of nausea swept through him, and Methos shifted his sleeve back down over the tattoo, standing to reach for his sword. The motion was aborted as it began; Ghean might not be alone. Still, he stepped around the table, putting it between him and the door when it opened a moment later.
Ghean leaned on the doork
nob, brown eyes dancing. After a quick look over her shoulder to be certain no one had followed her, she smiled up at Methos. “We’re almost there. The ship will be anchoring in a few minutes, and we’ll drop down for a preliminary drive this afternoon to decide what area we want to begin in. Well, Methos. Are you ready to go back to Atlantis?”
Chapter 24
The little submarine held six, seven if everyone was on good terms and one was as tiny as Ghean. Methos had no idea how the University had been able to afford it. His best guess was that Ghean, via a sponsor, had fronted the money. Even in as little as sixty or seventy years, it was easy to build up a mass of cash, if you knew you would outlive any fluctuations in the stock market. There’d also been the account he’d opened in the eighteenth century, so he could get a safe deposit box. Ghean must have used that money as a nest egg. Methos wondered how much had accumulated in the two hundred years before she found it.
Unlike the Retribution, the sub’s equipment was state of the art. Uncompartmentalized, it didn’t seem to be more than fifteen feet from end to end. A significant portion of the walls were filled with computer screens. The pilot’s seat and array covered most of the front end, tiny windows of information beeping quietly as they displayed and redisplayed data, updating it every few seconds. Immediately behind and to the left of the cockpit, an alarming-looking armed waldo was set up in front of the largest screen, which flickered grey. Opposite it was a camera, set at an angle to look out a porthole, and next to that, a seat. The back side of another terminal setup made a back for the seat, ending at exactly the wrong height to be able to lean against it comfortably or ignore it successfully.
The rest of the submarine’s layout reflected the layout of the camera and seat, with two extraneous portholes at the tail end. In front of each of those, sturdy black metal boxes, one with ‘electrical equipment’ stenciled on the outside, had been stacked up to make haphazard chairs. There were also boxes shoved under the seats, protruding dangerously and making the floor difficult to nagivate. Considerably more room was dedicated to equipment than the ability to move.
Methos, too tall to stand comfortably in the compact tube, laughed as he climbed in. “I feel like I’m watching Titanic again,” he said to Ghean.
She grinned. “Only ours isn’t a set. Since you’re here, let’s put you to good use. Know anything about mapping software?” She lead him through the tangle of seats and terminals, stepping over boxes on the floor.
“I forgot to brush up,” Methos said. “Too bad I missed the dinner on Saturday. Someone could have reminded me.” He sat where instructed. It wasn’t too uncomfortable. There was a porthole just behind his left shoulder that he could see thorugh if he twisted at the proper angle, and he had head room. To make up for it, there was no leg room. Methos decided wisdom was the better part of valor, and didn’t complain.
Ghean shrugged deprecatingly. “I could always hope. Luckily for you, the computer does all the work. If this goes off,” and she flicked a finger at an unlit light, “call him.” Ghean pointed over her shoulder with her thumb as a long-haired young man, taller than Methos, crawled into the sub.
“What about me?” he asked, ducking towards the duo.
“Adam, this is Jerry. Jerry, Dr. Pierson, one of our sponsors and an old friend of mine. Jerry keeps the computer systems running.”
“I’m the resident geek,” Jerry agreed, sticking his hand out. “Mike mentioned you at the party Saturday, but said you couldn’t make it. Too bad. Mary actually put on a party dress. It was worth seeing.”
Methos grinned. “Hi, Jerry. I’m sorry I missed it. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her dressed up.”
Ghean leveled an icy stare at Methos. He widened his eyes innocently, saved from having to defend himself by Michael’s arrival with two others. “Mary Jerry Adam,” Michael said absently, without looking at any of the three as he addressed them. He had a video camera in one hand and a battery case in the other, and went to prod at the camera behind the pilot’s seat.
Behind him came a man in his mid forties, with a stiff military haircut. “Afternoon,” he said pleasantly, offering his hand to Methos. “Dan Frank. I’m the pilot. Presumably you’re the honored guest. This is my wife, Anne.” He stepped aside to present a blonde woman in her late thirties.
“Hi,” she said, “no relation.”
Methos’ eyebrows shot up in startlement, and he laughed. “No, I don’t imagine you are. You get that a lot? Adam Pierson. It’s a pleasure.” He shook hands as they were presented and watched curiously as Anne seated herself in front of the waldo. “I gather you drive the robot?”
Anne glanced over and nodded. “Yeah. His name’s Handy. I volunteered for this job because I get to stare dreamily out the window and imagine life in Atlantis when I’m not working.” She grinned. “It’s quite the sight, Dr. Pierson. You’re in for the experience of a lifetime.”
Methos looked up momentarily to meet Ghean’s eyes. “I’m sure I am.”
Ghean smiled, more an expression of acknowledgement than humour. She dropped into her seat, just in front of Methos, and turned to look at the pale water outside.
“Finished the systems check fifteen minutes ago,” Dan announced. “Unless anybody forgot to stop by the bathroom, we’re ready to go.” He waited ten seconds, then nodded with satisfaction. “Seal up the hatch, would you, Pierson? Anne, check it?”
Methos stood, ducking and grinning at his feet as he did as he was told. He and Anne did an awkward little dance around each other, as he tried to regain his seat while she went to check the seal. They ended up grinning broadly at each other, stuck in the middle of the sub. Methos backed up with exaggerated steps to get out of Anne’s way. Fortune, more than skill, prevented him from setting his foot down on a box, and he wavered briefly, regaining his balance more solidly after Anne stepped back again. “Nice and tight,” she reported. “You okay there, Adam?”
“Fine,” he answered, finally managing to get back to his seat. “Just working through a life-long desire to be Charlie Chaplin. I just don’t have his knack for physical schtick.”
“Charlie Chaplin never had to work under these conditions,” Jerry observed with a quick smile.
The sub broke loose from the Retribution, sinking into the Mediterranean waters. Methos looked out a porthole, watching bubbles rise rapidly by. “You’re certainly right about that.”
The light change was gradual as the submarine sank into the sea. Fifty feet down, the sub’s internal lights became noticeable; by fifty meters the light from the water outside was of a peculiar, ethereal quality. Aside from the occasional school of startled fish, the outside scenery wasn’t particularly captivating. The others bantered back and forth lightly, and Methos listened with half an ear for a few moments, watching as the submarine descended into darkness. Within minutes it was too dark to make out more than vague shapes in the water. Methos took his gaze from the porthole, glancing instead at Ghean, wondering suddenly how well she handled the submersions, considering her history.
She sat staring fixedly out a porthole. Methos could see tiny tense muscles along her jaw, though her shoulders appeared relaxed. Her breathing was deliberately even, long slow breaths through her nostrils. But for her shoulders, her posture was rigid; Methos imagined the stiff muscles along her spine. He reached out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. This is probably not a good idea.
Ghean didn’t quite flinch, turning her head to look at Methos. Her eyes were black, expressionless in the off-colored lighting of the submarine. She watched him for several seconds, silent and stony-faced, before returning her attention to the darkness outside the porthole.
Michael finally succeeded in the arcane adjustments he was making to his cameras, and sat back, satisfied, just in time to see Methos’ hand fall from Ghean’s shoulder. The round archaeologist grinned broadly, gesturing at the pair with a tilt of his head and murmuring to Anne. The blonde woman looked over her shoulder to smile as well, and Methos
lifted his eyebrows quizzically at the two. Anne pulled an innocent moue, and Michael averted his eyes, chuckling.
I’m surrounded by matchmakers. Methos grinned, despite knowing it would only add fuel to the fire. Leaning forward, he interrupted Ghean’s reverie to ask quietly, “Didn’t you tell them we were just friends?”
Ghean’s gaze snapped back to him. “Yes,” she replied. “I said we were very good fr … ” Her voice faded away entirely, color draining from her face. “Very good friends,” she repeated, barely more than a breath. Her chin moved fractionally, as if a blow had been taken and almost entirely absorbed. “Just like you said you and my mother were.”
Oh, shit, Methos thought with perfect clarity.
“You utter bastard,” Ghean said precisely, out loud, in a tongue dead for forty-six hundred years. Every head in the submarine jerked around to stare in open interest at the petite woman.
What happens if there’s a Quickening underwater? A small portion of Methos’ mind darted off on the tangent. We can’t fight here. There’s not enough room. And I don’t know what else would happen, but it would be extremely unpleasant for the mortals on board. “Ghean,” he said in the most reasonable tone he could muster, using the same language she’d spoken in, “you’d been dead a thousand years. I thought she’d been dead that long, for gods’ sake.”
“She was my mother!”
“By adoption,” Methos hedged, and winced at the argument. “Ghean, after that long, what difference does that sort of relationship make? I was at a difficult place in my life and found an old friend when I needed one. It’s not unusual for Immortals to become lovers — ”
