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xp_logs2007-03-12 05:21 pm
x-cypher.livejournal.com) wrote in xp_logs2007-03-12 05:21 pm
Tower of Babble: Arrival.
Amanda, Doug, Marie-Ange, Sofia and Wanda approach the dig site. Well before they arrive, they come into range of the mystery communication problem. Almost immediately, Doug realizes he's the only person who can be understood, and the implications of what that means he'll have to do.
The "map" that had been provided was barely that, and had already been written on several times over as their directions were updated with two detours due to sandstorms and undue weather and a "Avoid this place, it'd be bad," note the last time Doug had gotten his email connected. But even so, it was a military camp, and while the 'road' was bulldozed and packed dirt and sand, it was a road and they could follow it in the Jeep.
It was hot, and windy and sandy, and under her khaki colored and suitably anonymous ball-cap, Marie-Ange was mostly convinced someone had turned the sun up another 900 notches. "At risk of sounding four and a half..." she asked plaintively.. "Are we there quite yet?"
"I think four and a half would be generous," Doug quipped from behind the driver's wheel. He spared a glance at the rear-view mirror at Marie-Ange and Amanda. "I swear to god, if I hear 'she's on my side' or 'stop touching me' or any song in the vein of 'the wheels on the bus' or 'the song that never ends', I really -will- turn this Jeep around."
"Depends. Are we closer to there or to where we started? 'Cause I think I'm melting and all I want right now is somewhere in the shade," Amanda replied somewhat wanly from her seat. The Brit looked distinctly overheated, normally pale complexion blotchy, red and sweaty.
In the front passenger seat, Wanda was as sprawled out as she possibly could be, all things considered. Arms crossed over her chest, her head rested semi-uncomfortably against the window next to her. If she was bothered by the heat, and sweat showing up on her, she didn't say anything. Which was not exactly hard to get away with currently, though she'd been quieter than she had been earlier and despite the position, looked quite relaxed.
"I think that under the circumstances, I have been quite mature." Marie-Ange said. "It was only the once that I demanded ice cream, and that was because I had just woken up." She handed Amanda a bottle of water - they were already going through them like, well, like water for people in the desert, and leaned back in her seat. "Really, how far is it? Because this map makes no sense to me."
"Ta." Amanda took the water gratefully and drained off half of it before stopping to breathe. "Gah. How do people live in places like this?" She cast a look at Wanda, blissfully passed out. "And I can't believe she's asleep. I swear, the boss lady could sleep folded up like a pretzel in a luggage compartment."
Doug spared a look for the map that was confounding Marie-Ange, and did some calculating in his head. "I'd say about an hour, maybe less," he replied after some thought. "Depends on if we get any more detours." He turned back to intently watching the road, although it was fairly superfluous, since they were the only vehicle as far as the eye could see.
Wanda's eyes cracked open suddenly as if she hadn't been asleep in the first place. "The entire area is a sea of detours, Doug," she responded, cracking her neck as she shifted into a slightly more comfortable position. She glanced out the window and sighed. It looked exactly the same as it had when she'd fallen asleep.
Amanda paused in the act of drinking, and lowered the bottle, frowning. Whatever Wanda had just said, it made no sense at all. And not in the sense of "words not having a context" - it had been complete and utter gibberish and not any of the languages Amanda knew. "You all right, Boss Lady?"
Marie-Ange laughed and shook her head. "Less with the gypsy languages that none us can speak, please, and more with languages that mean I will not think you are making fun of me!" She wasn't serious, it sounded as if Wanda had woken up and managed to forget English. And French. And German. And everything else besides Rom.
Doug cocked his head in confusion. "What with the what now?" he asked. Everyone was still speaking English, as far as he could tell, and he hadn't mixed up languages hardly at all since discovering his power. Still, it was as though none of the women could understand each other. Doug slowed the vehicle as his forehead furrowed in concentration.
Straightening in the seat, Wanda stared at Doug and then looked behind her. "Doug," she said slowly, mulling it over, "I understood you perfectly. However, Amanda and Marie-Ange? Were not speaking a language I understood." Turning back, she stared out the front window. "Which is saying something since I think all three of us have several foreign languages in common."
"Well, someone's not gibbering at least..." Amanda looked puzzled. "Doug I'm getting just fine, but I'm just not getting anything else. Is this some sort of joke, like with those little music players? 'Cause I don't really think this is a good time."
"What is going on?" Marie-Ange said, very concerned. It was no longer even remotely funny, and Doug was making sense, but Amanda was not at all. "The report... said that they could not communicate... maybe this is what it meant?"
"Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the Lord did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the Lord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth," Doug quoted. He had read the story of the Tower of Babel when the announcement of the archaeological site had come out, but he'd never imagined that this might have happened.
"Obviously my power is canceling out whatever it is that's causing this," he mused after a moment of thought. "Because my power is so heavily based in communication, it means I can still understand and be understood."
"Well," Wanda said after a minute of silence, crossing her arms over her chest, "we have an advantage over everyone else, possibly. Which is good. If we focus on that, perhaps my feeling of irritation will not rise to throttling levels quite so fast. You understand us, we understand you and through you, those at the site will understand us." She shot Doug a tight grin. "No time like the present to continue working on our teamwork skills, yes? Let us just think of this as one of this God awful retreats businesses send everyone to, just with a lot of sand and none of those stupid falling exercises if we can help it."
Doug nodded thoughtfully at Wanda's comment, then belatedly caught the still-confused glances from the back seat. Repeating Wanda's comments for everyoneelse's benefit, he prepared himself mentally for several days of repeating peoples' words to other people in order to communicate, as, blissfully unaware, Sofia snored away in the back seat.
Meanwhile, Mark, Pete and Remy arrive in Syria to investigate. For Pete and Remy, the warnings about the local 'issues' are old hat, but for Mark, it's something new.
"You are the gentlemen from," The Pakistani officer checked on his clipboard. "Hadley Securities?"
"That's right." Remy nodded, without a hint of his normal Cajun accent. While the rest of the team had gone in under Wanda's request as an actual Snow Valley Center job, Remy and Wisdom both had no official ties to the Center, which had left them at loose ends. Fortunately, one of Pete's contacts ran a multi-national security company, and had allowed them to go into the UN site as potential consultants. It wasn't strictly allowed, which made it even better. Should anyone ask questions, none of the UN officers who had accepted the money to 'ease' the transition would say a word. "That's Quintin Cook," He pointed to Mark, "our assistant and John Lydon there."
"Very well, Mister Rebennack. Welcome to UN Camp 19190, affectionately known as Hell on Earth." The man tucked his clipboard under his arm. "I'm Major Sipra, adjunct to our commander, who is at our forward camp at the dig site. I need you to know that this site is technically on Syrian soil, and that the Syrian camp fifteen kilometres to the west conducts regular inspections here. Which means you need to keep your identity paperwork with you at all times, and that if you have anything valuable, keep it on your persons. Otherwise it will continue to be valuable, but just will not continue to be yours."
Mark's hand automatically went to his right pocket where he kept his iPod. Keep his valuables on him indeed. He tagged along behind Remy, Pete, and Sipra as they walked through the outpost, taking note of the peacekeepers and diplomats. "The Iraqi camp is close by, yes?" he asked, his tone airy. "Have there been any encounters or altercations?"
"The two countries have been tense since they first allowed the dig. Now with this... communications issue, well, they are suspicious of everything. The Syrians come through the camp at least twice a day." Sipra's tone made it clear how little the UN peacekeeping force liked that fact, but they couldn't stop it. Other than making their equipment and people off limits, there was little that could do for anyone else without risking being expelled. "The Syrians do not wish an international incident, but they do like to make a show that this is their land. I'd strongly suggest you make an effort not to protest too loudly if they decide to apply sharia law to your personal belongings or decide to question you."
"We've worked the Middle East before, Major." LeBeau said in a breezy New England accent. Sipra nodded and left them at the small tent that would serve as their temporary base. Remy held open the flap as they all ducked inside. "I'd forgotten how much I hate Syria. Remy always gets shot in Syria."
"Hey, Mister Taliban, tally me banana," Mark sang under his breath. "Can they really do that? Just up and look through our stuff because of sharia? Because I'm sure half of my music is banned in this part of the world."
Pete shrugged. "Important lesson, squire: most places you go in the world, you'll find that men with guns can do more or less anything they want, especially if they have a lot of friends all wearing the same sort of clothes as them. In the more enlightened bits of the world, they might get into trouble when their superiors find out, but by that time, you're already in a ditch."
That was heartening. "Cheers, then." Mark tipped his metaphorical hat at Pete, and then pulled out a notepad so he'd look like he was taking down notes for their consultation. "I suppose I'll have to buy their clothes to fit in. It's just like high school all over again, except replace wedgies with bullets to the face."
"Homme, you do not want to know de penalty for impersonating one of dere military." Remy said, a touch darkly. He barely unpacked, already planning to leave. "I've talked to some of our people in Israel. Dey going to meet me in Jerusalem tonight, help dug through de funding for dis dig and see where dat takes us. You going to try and calm down de local brass, Pete?"
"Yeah. I'll try and win 'em over with me good looks and charm. When that doesn't work, I'll try me chequebook. Mark, you get to hang around here with me."
"What about my good lucks and my charm, huh? I've gotta be good for something." Mark was grinning, but he nodded and said sincerely: "Just tell me what needs to get done and it's done."
"Bein. I'll be in touch as soon as I dig something up. Call me if de Iraqis take you hostage or something, Pete." Remy said, slinging the bag over his shoulder and ducking out of the tent. If he hurried, he could grab a lift to the airport on the medical helicopter getting ready to leave.
The "map" that had been provided was barely that, and had already been written on several times over as their directions were updated with two detours due to sandstorms and undue weather and a "Avoid this place, it'd be bad," note the last time Doug had gotten his email connected. But even so, it was a military camp, and while the 'road' was bulldozed and packed dirt and sand, it was a road and they could follow it in the Jeep.
It was hot, and windy and sandy, and under her khaki colored and suitably anonymous ball-cap, Marie-Ange was mostly convinced someone had turned the sun up another 900 notches. "At risk of sounding four and a half..." she asked plaintively.. "Are we there quite yet?"
"I think four and a half would be generous," Doug quipped from behind the driver's wheel. He spared a glance at the rear-view mirror at Marie-Ange and Amanda. "I swear to god, if I hear 'she's on my side' or 'stop touching me' or any song in the vein of 'the wheels on the bus' or 'the song that never ends', I really -will- turn this Jeep around."
"Depends. Are we closer to there or to where we started? 'Cause I think I'm melting and all I want right now is somewhere in the shade," Amanda replied somewhat wanly from her seat. The Brit looked distinctly overheated, normally pale complexion blotchy, red and sweaty.
In the front passenger seat, Wanda was as sprawled out as she possibly could be, all things considered. Arms crossed over her chest, her head rested semi-uncomfortably against the window next to her. If she was bothered by the heat, and sweat showing up on her, she didn't say anything. Which was not exactly hard to get away with currently, though she'd been quieter than she had been earlier and despite the position, looked quite relaxed.
"I think that under the circumstances, I have been quite mature." Marie-Ange said. "It was only the once that I demanded ice cream, and that was because I had just woken up." She handed Amanda a bottle of water - they were already going through them like, well, like water for people in the desert, and leaned back in her seat. "Really, how far is it? Because this map makes no sense to me."
"Ta." Amanda took the water gratefully and drained off half of it before stopping to breathe. "Gah. How do people live in places like this?" She cast a look at Wanda, blissfully passed out. "And I can't believe she's asleep. I swear, the boss lady could sleep folded up like a pretzel in a luggage compartment."
Doug spared a look for the map that was confounding Marie-Ange, and did some calculating in his head. "I'd say about an hour, maybe less," he replied after some thought. "Depends on if we get any more detours." He turned back to intently watching the road, although it was fairly superfluous, since they were the only vehicle as far as the eye could see.
Wanda's eyes cracked open suddenly as if she hadn't been asleep in the first place. "The entire area is a sea of detours, Doug," she responded, cracking her neck as she shifted into a slightly more comfortable position. She glanced out the window and sighed. It looked exactly the same as it had when she'd fallen asleep.
Amanda paused in the act of drinking, and lowered the bottle, frowning. Whatever Wanda had just said, it made no sense at all. And not in the sense of "words not having a context" - it had been complete and utter gibberish and not any of the languages Amanda knew. "You all right, Boss Lady?"
Marie-Ange laughed and shook her head. "Less with the gypsy languages that none us can speak, please, and more with languages that mean I will not think you are making fun of me!" She wasn't serious, it sounded as if Wanda had woken up and managed to forget English. And French. And German. And everything else besides Rom.
Doug cocked his head in confusion. "What with the what now?" he asked. Everyone was still speaking English, as far as he could tell, and he hadn't mixed up languages hardly at all since discovering his power. Still, it was as though none of the women could understand each other. Doug slowed the vehicle as his forehead furrowed in concentration.
Straightening in the seat, Wanda stared at Doug and then looked behind her. "Doug," she said slowly, mulling it over, "I understood you perfectly. However, Amanda and Marie-Ange? Were not speaking a language I understood." Turning back, she stared out the front window. "Which is saying something since I think all three of us have several foreign languages in common."
"Well, someone's not gibbering at least..." Amanda looked puzzled. "Doug I'm getting just fine, but I'm just not getting anything else. Is this some sort of joke, like with those little music players? 'Cause I don't really think this is a good time."
"What is going on?" Marie-Ange said, very concerned. It was no longer even remotely funny, and Doug was making sense, but Amanda was not at all. "The report... said that they could not communicate... maybe this is what it meant?"
"Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the Lord did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the Lord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth," Doug quoted. He had read the story of the Tower of Babel when the announcement of the archaeological site had come out, but he'd never imagined that this might have happened.
"Obviously my power is canceling out whatever it is that's causing this," he mused after a moment of thought. "Because my power is so heavily based in communication, it means I can still understand and be understood."
"Well," Wanda said after a minute of silence, crossing her arms over her chest, "we have an advantage over everyone else, possibly. Which is good. If we focus on that, perhaps my feeling of irritation will not rise to throttling levels quite so fast. You understand us, we understand you and through you, those at the site will understand us." She shot Doug a tight grin. "No time like the present to continue working on our teamwork skills, yes? Let us just think of this as one of this God awful retreats businesses send everyone to, just with a lot of sand and none of those stupid falling exercises if we can help it."
Doug nodded thoughtfully at Wanda's comment, then belatedly caught the still-confused glances from the back seat. Repeating Wanda's comments for everyoneelse's benefit, he prepared himself mentally for several days of repeating peoples' words to other people in order to communicate, as, blissfully unaware, Sofia snored away in the back seat.
Meanwhile, Mark, Pete and Remy arrive in Syria to investigate. For Pete and Remy, the warnings about the local 'issues' are old hat, but for Mark, it's something new.
"You are the gentlemen from," The Pakistani officer checked on his clipboard. "Hadley Securities?"
"That's right." Remy nodded, without a hint of his normal Cajun accent. While the rest of the team had gone in under Wanda's request as an actual Snow Valley Center job, Remy and Wisdom both had no official ties to the Center, which had left them at loose ends. Fortunately, one of Pete's contacts ran a multi-national security company, and had allowed them to go into the UN site as potential consultants. It wasn't strictly allowed, which made it even better. Should anyone ask questions, none of the UN officers who had accepted the money to 'ease' the transition would say a word. "That's Quintin Cook," He pointed to Mark, "our assistant and John Lydon there."
"Very well, Mister Rebennack. Welcome to UN Camp 19190, affectionately known as Hell on Earth." The man tucked his clipboard under his arm. "I'm Major Sipra, adjunct to our commander, who is at our forward camp at the dig site. I need you to know that this site is technically on Syrian soil, and that the Syrian camp fifteen kilometres to the west conducts regular inspections here. Which means you need to keep your identity paperwork with you at all times, and that if you have anything valuable, keep it on your persons. Otherwise it will continue to be valuable, but just will not continue to be yours."
Mark's hand automatically went to his right pocket where he kept his iPod. Keep his valuables on him indeed. He tagged along behind Remy, Pete, and Sipra as they walked through the outpost, taking note of the peacekeepers and diplomats. "The Iraqi camp is close by, yes?" he asked, his tone airy. "Have there been any encounters or altercations?"
"The two countries have been tense since they first allowed the dig. Now with this... communications issue, well, they are suspicious of everything. The Syrians come through the camp at least twice a day." Sipra's tone made it clear how little the UN peacekeeping force liked that fact, but they couldn't stop it. Other than making their equipment and people off limits, there was little that could do for anyone else without risking being expelled. "The Syrians do not wish an international incident, but they do like to make a show that this is their land. I'd strongly suggest you make an effort not to protest too loudly if they decide to apply sharia law to your personal belongings or decide to question you."
"We've worked the Middle East before, Major." LeBeau said in a breezy New England accent. Sipra nodded and left them at the small tent that would serve as their temporary base. Remy held open the flap as they all ducked inside. "I'd forgotten how much I hate Syria. Remy always gets shot in Syria."
"Hey, Mister Taliban, tally me banana," Mark sang under his breath. "Can they really do that? Just up and look through our stuff because of sharia? Because I'm sure half of my music is banned in this part of the world."
Pete shrugged. "Important lesson, squire: most places you go in the world, you'll find that men with guns can do more or less anything they want, especially if they have a lot of friends all wearing the same sort of clothes as them. In the more enlightened bits of the world, they might get into trouble when their superiors find out, but by that time, you're already in a ditch."
That was heartening. "Cheers, then." Mark tipped his metaphorical hat at Pete, and then pulled out a notepad so he'd look like he was taking down notes for their consultation. "I suppose I'll have to buy their clothes to fit in. It's just like high school all over again, except replace wedgies with bullets to the face."
"Homme, you do not want to know de penalty for impersonating one of dere military." Remy said, a touch darkly. He barely unpacked, already planning to leave. "I've talked to some of our people in Israel. Dey going to meet me in Jerusalem tonight, help dug through de funding for dis dig and see where dat takes us. You going to try and calm down de local brass, Pete?"
"Yeah. I'll try and win 'em over with me good looks and charm. When that doesn't work, I'll try me chequebook. Mark, you get to hang around here with me."
"What about my good lucks and my charm, huh? I've gotta be good for something." Mark was grinning, but he nodded and said sincerely: "Just tell me what needs to get done and it's done."
"Bein. I'll be in touch as soon as I dig something up. Call me if de Iraqis take you hostage or something, Pete." Remy said, slinging the bag over his shoulder and ducking out of the tent. If he hurried, he could grab a lift to the airport on the medical helicopter getting ready to leave.