Chapter Twenty-Three

Methos stuffed his hands in his pockets, scowling dubiously up at the peeling letters on the research vessel's prow. "Retribution?" he asked Ghean, as they waited for the gangplank to be lowered. "You couldn't possibly have named it that deliberately."

Ghean glanced up at the ship, and laughed. "It was donated by an oceanographer about fifteen years ago," she explained. "He was going through an ugly divorce and got rid of the ship as a tax writeoff. His only stipluation was that it be renamed Retribution."

Methos glanced back at the ship with a little more approval. "I like his sense of humour."

"The University liked his donation. He didn't even go to school there, just grew up in the city. We rebuilt it from the inside out, for this project. The equipment's not quite as modern as I'd like, but funding doesn't keep up with technology."

"I'd ask if there have been funding problems, but I spent the last decade in research."

Ghean shot him an amused look. "Have they gotten stingy?" she asked, deliberately not naming the Watchers aloud. "When I worked with them, they were remarkably generous."

"You probably fluttered your eyelashes at the bureaucrats. I didn't even recognize my own boss. Funding wasn't a particular concern of his, not for somebody who insisted on chasing wild goose tales. Especially wild goose stories that had no verification over centuries at a time. Really, I don't know how skeptics like that get into the organization."

Michael Powers joined the pair as Methos finished speaking. "Dr. Pierson?" he asked uncertainly, looking up at Methos.

"The same," Methos agreed, and offered his hand to the smaller man. "Dr. Powers, I presume."

Powers looked slightly uncomfortable in the heat, his round face pink with exertion and sunburn. He also looked very slightly dismayed as Methos confirmed his identity. "You're younger than I expected," he said as he shook Methos' hand.

Actually, I'm much, much older than you expect. "It's a curse," Methos said genially. "No one wants to take me seriously because my face doesn't seem to want to age. I expect I'll be grateful for that in a few decades. In the meantime -- well, Mary told you I'm something of a recluse. An inability to look properly old and stuffy is part of why I am." Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Ghean lift a hand to cover a broad smile.

Powers smiled. "It's a trait you share with Mary, then. I've known her six years and I swear she hasn't aged a day."

"Flatterer," Ghean said, letting the smile come through now. "I'm just short, and exceptionally good at applying makeup. And you're charmingly deluded."

Michael shook his head, smiling again as he looked at Methos. "Mary said you two were old friends. Was she always this modest?"

"Oh no," Methos said, grinning and deliberately taking a step back as Ghean lifted a hand threateningly. "It wasn't that she thought the sun rose and set on her, mind you." He warded off Ghean's pretense of a blow with mock alarm, cringing back with a smile before straightening. She folded her arms, deliberately pouting, and Methos couldn't help another smile. "The sun did rise and set on her," he said, watching the tiny woman. "She just never knew how much light she brought with her."

Ghean's expression softened a little, and Methos looked away to catch Michael's expression of amused delight. You're getting sentimental, he told himself dryly. At least there's anaudience to enjoy it. The tense exchange at the bed and breakfast seemed to have blown over. Methos was relieved; he'd handled it inelegantly, and had no desire to spend the next several days cooped up with an edgy Immortal.

Michael got his grin back under control, clearing his throat. "I'm sorry you weren't able to join us at Saturday's dinner party. Granted, it was a fundraiser, but there were a number of ancient-world scholars there. I'm sure your input would have been fascinating. Mary said you weren't feeling well after the long plane flight."

Methos' eyebrows went up a little. "A little of that, and a little terminal shyness, I think it was. I've never thought my social skills were my strongest point." He looked at Ghean, one eyebrow lifting higher. Ghean shrugged, failing to look even slightly apologetic. Methos shook his head, half smiling. The conversation hadn't blown over. Ghean'd deliberately failed to mention dinner in retaliation for his honesty. It made him something of a boor in the eyes of his new colleagues, and that, evidently, leveled the playing field. "Touche," he mouthed at Ghean. The corner of her mouth twitched in acknowledgement.

". . . specialize in ancient languages? Is that correct, Dr. Pierson?"

Methos blinked, turning his focus onto Powers again. "Adam," he said. "We're going to be working together, after all. No need for such formality. Myths and languages, yes. They tend to go hand in hand. It's difficult to decipher old texts if you know nothing of the languages. I like to think of myself as a purist, translating as accurately as possible."

"It's a pity we'll never know how accurate any of our translations are," Michael said rather mournfully. "There are moments when I reel with the arrogance of trying to choose the best words for languages dead thousands of years."

"Oh? Are you a translator, Dr. Powers?"

"Michael," Powers corrected, "if I'm supposed to call you Adam. No," he clarified hastily. "Not me. Man in general, I meant."

Methos twisted a smile. "From the myths and legends we do have, Michael, I think it's safe to say that arrogance is a failing mankind has had since long before history recorded it."

Ghean turned to face Methos as he finished speaking, her dark eyes unreadable. "Indeed," she said dryly. "You would know." Barely a beat passed before she added, "From your work, I mean. The gangplank's down. Shall we board?"

The ship managed to seem larger inside than it was on the outside, though it wasn't small from the outside. Conspicuously abandoned by Michael on deck, Ghean showed Methos down to the tiny cabin that would be his for the duration of the explorations. "It's a little isolated," she said, navigating narrow passageways, "but I thought you might prefer that. Michael's cabin is down at the other end, next to mine. He tried very hard to exchange yours for his."

Methos shook his head, grinning a bit. "He and Duncan should talk," he murmured, stepping into the cabin. He had no more than two inches of clearance above his head. The decor was compact, unattractive, and utterly functional. A hard-looking bed with a blanket turned at military corners filled one wall; a shelf above it with webbing across the opening allowed storage. Methos dropped his suitcase on the bed for the moment, turning to survey the rest of the room. A desk and a closet took up the other long wall; if he stood in the middle and stretched his arms, he could touch both walls.

"Small," Ghean observed dryly, "but you weren't expected."

"Why do I have the feeling you insisted I would be content with standard quarters, despite having handed over an obscene amount of money to your excavation fund?"

Ghean flashed a smile. "Because it wouldn't make sense to donate all that money and then use it to fix up a room so you could live in indulgent comfort while joining us on the explorations."

Methos looked down at her. "Of course," he agreed. "I've certainly lived in worse."

"Besides." Ghean's smile was abruptly underscored by a veneer of steel. "It's my party, and I don't want anyone to forget that. Including you."

For a moment Methos was captivated by the zeal in her eyes. Memory confused the bright determination with the centuries- gone excitement of a young woman returning home, of a wedding day, of a lifetime with her beloved. He smiled, ducking his head a little and lifting a hand towards her cheek, intending to kiss her. Only after the motion was started did he check the impulse, flicking an ironic salute rather than touch her face. "Aye, aye, ma'am," he said solemnly.

Ghean dismissed the salute entirely. "There are reports in the conference room, or what we call the conference room, anyway. It's actually the mess hall. You might want to look at them. They detail what we've found so far. You'll need the information so you don't overstep the limits of our current knowledge."

Methos nodded. Leaving his coat behind, he followed Ghean through the narrow halls to the mess hall. As she opened the door, he laughed. "Where do you actually eat?"

There wasn't a flat surface in the room, including the floor, that wasn't stacked with papers, files, or maps. Some piles were more precariously balanced than others, usually on chairs, suggesting the material had been moved hurriedly for ease in sitting or studying another piece of data. Florsecent light glared down on the papers, reflecting brilliantly off grey walls. Without the mass of paperwork, the room would be painfully dull. With it, Methos had to squint briefly while his eyes adjusted to the peculiar light level.

"Usually frantically running down hallways. Mealtime seems to signal either disaster or discovery, around here." Ghean pushed aside half a dozen reports, digging through a pile to find what she wanted. "This," she said, laying out an inch- thick pamphlet on the table, "and this, and this." She planted two more texts, of increasing thickness, on top of the first.

"Geologic history of the Mediterranean," she said, tapping the top one, then bumping it aside half an inch to prod the second. "A history of the project, and," she knocked the third file into view, "a location record and theories on use of some of the artifacts we've found. Some of them are painfully wrong. Worse than watching floodlights ghosting over buildings I used to visit is hearing the wildly inaccurate hypotheses the other archaeologists are coming up with. Don't you want to shake them and yell until they listen, sometimes?"

"I tend to bury that impulse in my own best self-interest," Methos said, "but there are moments, yes. These days, I go rant at MacLeod when a particularly disasterous interpretation makes the news." He frowned at the stack Ghean had set aside for him. "Actually, that's how I ended up here. I was going to poke fun at the poor fool who thought he'd found Atlantis." He looked up at Ghean, expression wry. "Goodness, wasn't I surprised."

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.

---

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.

---

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 doorknob, 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?"

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