Alan Ch. 17

He had met Jean-Pierre Massimo at Oxford; he was a young student and Massimo was a fortyish lecturer. His mother, recently widowed had visited him from London the same time that his professor's father had been staying in England, and the two had hit it off. At first he had liked the his new step-brother, but there was always something about him, an easiness with which Massimo navigated life's oceans, that was troublesome.

He had taken his course in archeology and became fluent in Arabic because of it; it was no great surprise that the intelligence services came calling after him after he had received his degree. Massimo was disappointed in his choice, hoping his new stepbrother would follow in his footsteps and lead a major dig or two, but it was not enough to rupture their relationship seriously.

Twenty years he spent in MI6, though very little of it in the field, and when he was in the field it was as a "legal" agent, attached to an embassy or a consulate, covered as a cultural attaché or some such, running agents and informants. It was in the mid-1970s that his background in antiquities first came to play in his career. He was well aware of the legend of Paishiya'uvada, having read some texts on it in university. Most of them were vague in details.

A few months after he was posted he was in the shopping district, browsing in his favorite antiquities shop he came upon a scroll. Mustafa, the proprietor, seeing what he was examining told him that it was probably worthless, but nonetheless a fine example of a pre-Mohammedan Arabic legend scroll. His Muslim clientele was mostly uninterested in such things, and he offered the diplomat a fair price. Thornbow examined it more closely, and studied the title, "The Scroll of Hyrcanus," and that name rang a bell. He bought, paying Mustafa two hundered pounds; it was money well spent, as it turned out.

* * *

Alan played the innocent. No, he told Dr. Swindon-Smythe ("Call me Neil"), he had never heard of Hyrcanus. Jean-Pierre Massimo. Who's he? Powers? Mind control? Telepathy? Telekinesis? Fairy tales and fantasy. His inquisitor wasn't buying it.

"Tell me, Alan, where did you get those rings?"

"What rings?" the captive teen asked groggily. No one had ever noticed them before, except of course Jack Massimo, but he had been a fellow Vessel.

"The rings on your middle fingers. One on the right, one on the left. Come now, son, it's me you're talking to. I remember when you stole one of them from the Met. What interests me now is the other. Where did you get that one?" Swindon-Smythe gestured to Alan's right hand, indicating the Ring of Hyrcanus, though he was asking about the ring on the other hand, the Ring of Cyaxares, the ring Jack had sent him.

"Stole? I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about."

Swindon-Smythe sighed and walked to the door of the cell. He stuck his head through it, said something Alan couldn't hear, and the doctor entered shortly. Sodium pentathol was injected into the port on the IV, and the doctor placed an EEG monitor on the table next to the gurney and then began applying the contacts to Alan's head; he punched some buttons on the IV pump and the morphine drip was halted.

The doctor and Swindon-Smythe stepped out into the anteroom and waited for the pentathol to take effect. The debilitating effects of the new agent was different; he was no longer so weary, though his head became more fuzzy. As his fatigue lessened he began to be able to make out the waves coming off of the orb hanging over him. They looked like a disturbance radiating in a pond when a pebble was thrown into it, the orb being the pebble. The waves were pale yellow in color, and their frequency was lazy.

He tried to move, and found that he could angle his neck to the side enough to see his hands. The rings were glowing too, one blue, the other red, each emitting colored fields which covered their respective hands like mittens of tinted radiances. The ring which was Massimo's was glowing brighter, its color field larger and stronger. Alan again tried to use his powers to release him from his bonds, and he concentrated on the leather restraint holding his right wrist. He was unsuccessful; he couldn't tell if it was because of the yellow waves or the drugs. He couldn't concentrate hard enough to make the buckles release. They twitched a little, and Alan saw that whenever they did his rings glowed more strongly, but it wasn't nearly enough to loosen them. After just a few minutes he was out of breath with effort and his head hit the pillow with moderate force. His breathing was improving, thanks to the oxygen and cessation of the morphine, and he took in great draughts of air, building up stamina for his next attempt.

Swindon-Smythe and the doctor reentered and approached him, the doctor taking up station at the EEG and Swindon-Smythe on the other side of the bed.

"Anything?" Swindon-Smythe asked the physician as his colleague considered the tracings.

"Nothing interesting. Looks like a normal set of brainwaves. If he is altered in some way, I can't tell."

"Oh well, it was a long shot." Swindon-Smythe gently patted Alan on his cheek to get his attention. "The rings. We were talking about the rings."

"Water," Alan croaked. "Please."

Swindon-Smythe held a cup up to Alan's mouth and allowed him a couple of sips.

"Tell me about the rings."

"Rings?" Alan said numbly, not trying to dissemble. His mind was fogged by the various drugs coursing through his system.

Swindon-Smythe placed his hand on the top of Alan's head and turned him so his right hand was straight in his view, paused for a few seconds and then rotated his head to the other direction so Alan could view his other hand. Alan saw the rings, but was more attentive to the glowing aura each one was emitting. Massimo's ring was glowing even brighter now, the luminescent field edging closer to the surface of the shimmering surface of the silver orb suspended above the gurney.

"You stole one of them from the Museum. I was there. I opened the case for you. Do you remember?"

"Yessss," Alan answered, sounding a bit drunk. "Museum," he mumbled. "Case." The drugs were working now.

"Now we're finally getting somewhere," Swindon-Smythe thought to himself. He looked up at the camera in the corner of the cell and nodded.

"Tell me about Paishiya'uvada," he put to Alan.

"Seeds," Alan mumbled. "Seeds of Paishiya'uvada. There used to be seven. Five now. No, four." The aura of Massimo's ring was millimeters from reaching the orb.

"What is the Seed?"

"Power. Hyrcanus was the son of Devaryesh. Used power of Seed to defeat his Uncle Smerdis who had taken throne from, from Devaryesh. Devaryesh had Hyrcanus killed because he had the power. Used orb," Alan explained languidly, his eyes shifting to take in the sight of the orb suspended above him, and saw Swindon-Smythe follow his gaze. "Used orb and chalice of Ahurmazada--"

"You mean 'Ahuramazda,' don't you?"

"Whatever." The aura from Jack's ring was slowly enveloping the silver sphere and the waves radiating off of it were losing strength and frequency. Alan could feel himself recuperating, though he knew somehow the process would be a slow one. "Hyrcanus had a servant. As he died he gave Seed to him. Ko'un-Zir. Kanteer. Ko'un-Zir had Orbis Tertius destroyed. Made rings for Vessels from metal."

"What is a Vessel?"

"Person who has Seed called Vessel. Vessel of the Seed of Paishiya'uvada. Please, water."

"And you are a Vessel," Swindon-Smythe said as he held the cup against the prisoner's lips; it wasn't a question. Alan said nothing, knowing that by denying his status he would be tortured, and by confirming it he would be killed. It startled him to realize that he knew this because he was reading Swindon-Smythe's thoughts. He was getting better.

They talked for another hour at least, though Alan couldn't be sure how long, his sense of time adversely affected by the medications. As his bearings returned slowly he became much less forthcoming with his answers. At one point the doctor stepped up and injected more pentathol into his IV port, but Alan was able to counteract it.

Frustrated, Swindon-Smythe picked himself up from his chair and left. The waves coming from the orb had ceased, choked off by the aura streaming from Massimo's ring. After he was alone for a few minutes he heard Jack's voice again.

"Jack?" he said aloud, his voice raspy.

"Don't say anything. There are listening devices in the room. Just listen."

"OK," Alan whispered.

"I know you're feeling better. I can sense it."

Alan nodded slightly.

"When they give you more drugs you will be able to neutralize the effect, but you must act to all outward appearances that you are still dopey. In a few hours," the voice of Jack Massimo said, though it went silent as the doctor reentered. The doctor looked Alan over, and check to see that the stitches were holding and the wound showed no sign of infection. He left.

"In a few hours," the voice went on, picking up from where they had been interrupted, "You will escape. They are going to cut the rings off your fingers, and failing that they will amputate them to get the rings. We cannot let that happen. You wearing my ring is the only thing keeping both of us alive. Understand?"

"Yes," he mumbled quietly.

"Get some rest. I will help you."

Alan fell asleep. The guard outside his room watched him slumber on the closed circuit system, reporting to Lord Thornbow every fifteen minutes that the prisoner was secure.

* * *

"It seems to me the matter is simple. The power of the Seed is passed from one person--Vessel, if you will--to the next at the time of death. Why don't we just kill him?"

"Neil," Lord Thornbow replied thoughtfully, "What if it's not as simple as that? What if the Vessel has to pass this on willingly? I understand the risks are greater by keeping him alive, but if you keep at it he will, eventually, give us the information we need. Once I know what I need to do to get his power, the Seed of Paishiya'uvada, we will kill him, and wash our hands of it."

"Yes, your Lordship," the younger man replied, though not entirely convinced.

"He's fighting it."

"Yes, I noticed that. I'll talk to the doctor about upping his drugs. Perhaps we'll try the hallucinogenic therapies if he continues to stonewall."

"If the doctor agrees. He's the expert with this." Lord Thornbow took on a pensive cast. "How do you think he's doing it? He can't be using his abilities, assuming he does indeed have them. If he is a Vessel the orb should be absorbing his power, right? We do know that much."

Swindon-Smythe, who had fashioned the Fourth Orb himself, and was justifiably proud of his work, thought it unlikely that Alan Marshall could be using his powers in such close proximity to it. "I followed the instructions in the scroll precisely. I used only the silver you provided, and we double-tested it. It is chemically identical to the small spheres in the necklaces. I don't see how it could not be functioning."

"Yes, I agree," Lord Thornbow said moodily. "It's been a long day for me, travel and all. I will see you in the morning, and will expect a report.

"Goodnight," he said, leaving the study and going upstairs to the bedroom.

Swindon-Smythe hastily beat his way back to the dungeon.

* * *

Alan was feeling better. The doctor was stending next to the bed, checking the readout on the EEG monitor, and then took his pulse and blood pressure. He made some notations on the chart and began to leave the room. He paused at the door, and stood stock still for more than a minute.

Alan was reaching out with his mind, struggling against fatigue and the aftereffects of his exposure to the orb's radiation. "Stay," he thought, trying to keep the doctor in control.

"What are you doing," Neil Swindon-Smythe asked the doctor, his voice testy. "Close that bloody door," he ordered as he approached the entrance to the cell. Alan's spell was broken.

"Ah, sorry. Just lost in thought," the doctor said as he stepped aside to allow Neil to enter.

"Go get some coffee, it's been a long night, and we need to stay focused." The doctor left.

"You're looking better. I see the water has helped. Are you ready to answer more questions?"

Alan nodded, closing his eyes in concentration. He reached out with a tendril of thought to probe Neil's mind, asserting the start of some semblance of control.

"How did you get the Seed you have? How did you become a Vessel?"

"I think you've made a mistake. I only read about this Seed stuff, you know, in books and stuff. It's a story. A fairy tale. You can't possibly believe it," Alan said wearily.

"It's a story. A fairy tale. Yes, I don't believe it," Swindon-Smythe said back, his voice rote.

"Your awfully sorry for bringing me here," Alan Obi-Wan'ed.

"Yes," Swindon-Smythe agreed. "Awfully sorry," he said, nodding, as he began undoing the restraints. Alan sat up in bed.

"Where did you put my clothes, Neil?"

"Don't know," Neil replied distractedly and truthfully.

"Go find me some."

Swindon-Smythe left the room and made his way upstairs, to his own room and pulled his suitcase from the closet. While he was gone Alan got out of bed and removed the surgical tape holding the IV cathter to the crook of his elbow, and then removed the EEG contacts. Just as he finished he heard the cell door click open, and he turned, expecting Neil had come back with some things for him to wear.

"What the FUCK are you doing?" the guard bellowed. He had watched Alan on the monitor, and wasn't sure something was really wrong until he had begun to remove the IV and the contact pads. He was standing in the doorway, his handgun held in a two-handed grip.

Sindon-Smythe stepped between Alan and the guard. "It's all right," he said calmly. The guard shrugged and put his gun back in his holster. Alan had the guard get into the bed and Swindon-Smythe attached the restraints and covered him with the blanket. Alan looked around the room, and saw noting that would hold the orb, so he stepped out into the anteroom and poked around until he found a gym bag. It belonged to the guard, and he brought it back into the cell and emptied the its contets onto the floor of a closet. The guard was struggling in his bonds, so Alan sent out a command for him to fall into a deep sleep, and instantly he was still.

The orb was heavy, and it was a bit of a struggle for him to manuver it into the bag, but Neil helped, and soon it was zipped closed.

"We're going," Alan said tersely to Dr. Swindon-Smythe, and they made their way up the stairs into the main house. There were two more guards upstairs, but soon they too were sleeping.

"Where are we?" Alan asked as he started the car. Neil was in the passenger seat, the bag with the orb in the trunk. It was snowing hard and windy, the wind making the flakes swirl violently in front of them, and visibility was low.

"New Jersey. Hunterdon County."

Alan wasn't familiar with the area. Neil told them they were about an hour and a half from New York, though that was in regular conditions. He thought it would take longer in the snow, and he was right; I-78 was a mess. Alan watched the sun come up over the Manhattan skyline as he drove It took more that two and a half hours before they reached the Holland Tunnel. Alan drove to Wilkin's office and let himself in, Neil following closely behind. He locked the archeologist in his office with the steel door and told him not to touch anything, an order reenforced with the power of the Seed. Neil laid down on the floor and dozed off. The sun was just starting to come over the horizon on this Monday morning, and it had been a long day for him; he was exhausted. Truth be told, the last few weeks had been just as exhausting, and he was grateful for the chance to rest.

Wilkins showed up a few hours later. Alan explained that he had a friend staying in his office for the time being, and the lawyer lent Alan some cash, since his wallet was now burnt up in a Bronx warehouse. Wilkins agreed to arrange for Alan to get all of the papers and credit cards lost in the incident replaced, and he and Alan arranged for a more permanent place to stash Neil Swindon-Smythe. The corporation Alan owned, Cyaxares LLC., had a number of properties, so that would take care of that.

Alan was still worried, and he still knew next to nothing about the abductors beyond Neil. When school broke for Christmas they would sit down for a long together and hopefully Alan would get some information out him. Also added to his checklist was polwing through Massimo's research notes, and spending a fixed time each day honing his abilities.

As he hailed a taxi to take him back to campus he saw a slightly familiar face looking his way from across the street, and it wasn't until he was paying the cabby that he figured out who it was. The foreign guy who had asked for directions last night. A shiver crawled up his spine. He was still being watched.

Karick did not pursue him from the office, figuring that he was headed back to his college. He would approch him later, and confess all. He had a strange premonition that Alan Marshall was the only person on the planet who could keep him alive.

Next Chapter: Training