Night 37: East Wing, Hall 2-A

[yin_yang_fox]

[from here]

This hall was as familiar as the room halls by now. She quickly walked up to the door she needed, and without prelude, slamming her heel down on the knob. It broke off nicely, again. It was somewhat of an annoyance to have to do this every night.

[to here]

Comments

[its_the_mileage]

Indy's suspicions had been growing ever since he got here. As a scientist, he tried to avoid jumping to conclusions, but now the sense that something was off around here was more than just a hunch.

Cameras and intercoms weren't his field, but he liked to think he was pretty well up on new gadgets (he got the Sears, Roebuck catalog, after all--made for good plane reading). All right, Landel's had some shady technology that was more advanced than anything he'd ever seen--fine, he could buy that. Governments all over the world were trying to get the jump on each other, especially in terms of communications systems. If this place was government-sponsored (and whose government?), he could accept that, say, their radios were a helluva lot smaller than the ones being sold to the public. Fine.

But why the hell did Pierson seem so damn comfortable with it?

"Stop right there," Indy snapped. "What do you mean, 'electronic encryption'? 'The information age'? If you want to talk about jargon, you're even fuller of it than Landel's. And we're not going anywhere until I get some answers as to why."

He got his right arm ready to swing with the flashlight if necessary--wouldn't be the first time a turncoat partner had come at him when cornered. If his roommate was working for the bad guys, he'd better find out sooner rather than later.

[oldest_man]

"Perfect," Methos muttered. "Stuck with a bloody paranoid Luddite." He turned a singularly unimpressed look on Jones. His own posture was deceptively relaxed and remote, the picture of irritated academic boredom. "Electronic encryption is exactly what it sounds like. The encoding of electronically stored or transmitted data to disguise its contents."

He eyed Jones warily, picking over the small but distinct litany of oddities which had become apparent over the course of the night. The other man wasn't the first person he'd come across who was less than technologically adept, but this was a level above what he'd come to anticipate. Someone young, American, and clearly well-educated should have, if not already know the terms, been able to extrapolate reasonably well.

It was, he realized, a reaction he'd expect from someone half again Jones' age, at the very least. Either the man was playing ignorant for some as-yet indeterminable reason, or something very, very strange was going on. Considering the strange, armored apparition they'd viewed, he was willing to lay his money on the latter, mostly.

"This isn't getting us anywhere. If you want any real answers, we'd both be better served by finding what we came for instead of standing around squabbling like children."

[its_the_mileage]

Electronically stored or transmitted? Indy racked his brain for some kind of recognition, but nothing was doing. Physics just wasn't his field either.

But one of his fields was figuring out who he could trust and who he couldn't, and Pierson had just put himself definitively on the first list. And Indy didn't like his attitude.

They wanted to get him here, he thought. It sounded paranoid, even to him, but this was exactly the kind of trap he was perpetually falling into. The M.O. of every bad guy under the sun--let Jones stumble around in the labyrinth until he's done something convenient, and toss him right back behind bars. Maybe try to pull his heart out of his chest while you're at it. Have a grand old time.

It had been Pierson's idea to go after the files in the first place, and like a sucker, he'd gone along perfectly with the plan. But why string him along like that--he was already here, no weapons, no clue; why not just pick him up and put him down exactly where they wanted him? Because then I wouldn't feel like such a dupe.

And that "squabbling like children" line was exactly the one he'd use if he were trying to pull something like that.

"'Fraid that's not good enough, Pierson," he shot back, not budging an inch. "Doesn't anything about this place seem strange to you? These radios, these intercoms? The flashlights? That thing we saw back there? Electronically stored data? I don't know what kind of college you work for, but I've never seen anything like this level of technology. And I'm not exactly provincial.

"So unless you can give me a good explanation for why a translator would be so at home with all of this, we'll be standing here squabbling for a long time."

He'd worked with plenty of people who would've stabbed him in the back (or left him tied to a chair, or taken the idol and dropped the whip, etc.) at the first opportunity, but his spirit of fellowship didn't extend anywhere near as far as someone who might be working for the people who had kidnapped him. Even Indy's patience had limits.

[oldest_man]

The man was mad. That was the only possible explanation. There was no other way he could possibly think the damned radios were high technology. Unless...but no, Methos would have detected the characteristic buzz if Jones was another Immortal, and besides, after the first few decades he'd either have learned to adapt or he would have been killed by someone younger or smarter. It was a simple fact, like gravity.

Barring time travel, insanity was the only real possible answer.

He knew he should go along with it, play into Jones's delusion somehow. Claim a position in research and development, or an investigative commission, or something else that could explain away his familiarity with commonplace technology. But he was tired of playing along, of proving himself, of being distrusted by people he hadn't actually intended to betray.

'Referral,' jeered the tiny, still-objective voice in the back of his mind. One situation was not at all like the other, and if he were being honest with himself he'd have to admit the suspicion was sensible, even if its roots lay in absurdity. It wasn't as though he really trusted Jones either. But Methos had a long habit of not being terribly honest, with himself or anyone else, and he saw no reason to break that streak now of all times.

"Clearly you are," he snapped back, voice harsh even though he kept it low enough to prevent it carrying and attracting unwanted attention. "Or you've fallen through a bloody time warp, because the intercoms, the radios, computer systems? None of those things have been revolutionary concepts for years now. That thing back there is the only thing that stands out, and last I checked neither of us knew what the hell it was."

He drew a deep but silent breath, letting it out to the time of a slow, internal count. "We can keep going, or we can part ways. But I'm not going to stand here like a giant flashing target just to satisfy your urge to argue about technology."

[its_the_mileage]

The desire to punch Pierson in the jaw was almost a physical ache in Indy's right hand. Coming to blows over something like this, in a mental hospital of all places, with a guy in a pair of stylized smiling pajamas, while something out there apparently had a history of trying to kill people like them...fine, not the smartest move he'd ever made. But, man, was it tempting to wipe that smug certainty right off that face. This guy and Belloq would've gotten along just great.

He was also absurdly tempted to defend himself and his new 22-inch Zenith radio (bought during a long sojourn home last year--might as well listen to the ball game while you were dreaming of fortune and glory). But there was no point in getting into a pissing contest over radio size. It was obvious by now that Pierson was lying through his teeth. If he had been working for Landel's, he would've found some cover story. But nobody would act as though he were so familiar with all this, and get so defensive about it, unless he'd been caught stretching the truth and was now too ashamed to cop to his ignorance. Must've been throwing around big words at random, the poor dumb kid.

"Fine," Indy retorted. "Have it your way. Whatever crazy comic-book version of 1938 you come from, I can't wait to hear about the ray guns and the space travel. It'll keep me entertained while I figure out just what the hell is going on around here."

Comeback made, he tried to open the door, only to be stymied by the lock. He backed up and landed a couple of solid kicks near it. Indy gave the now-weakened door two forceful slams with his left shoulder and succeeded in breaking it down. He stepped inside, flashlight and pitcher at the ready.

Not exactly the subtle approach, but damn, had it felt good.

[its_the_mileage]

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