Disclaimer: LucasArts owns Indy, Rob MacGregor owns Jack Shannon, and I own a pretty nice computer and an urge to write about everyone's favorite archaeology professor.

Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon

By Clansman Sam (formerly Carabiner Boy)

Chapter 3: Dits and Dahs

The crowd at the dock was huge, clamorous, but it took only a moment for Indy to spot Vivian Monroe. She was still undeniably beautiful, but Indy sensed a change in her overall demeanor. No longer coolly confident, she looked troubled, even distraught, and the smile he was greeted with as she found her way to him was quick and forced. He almost asked about it, but he quickly decided that any more information would only be a hindrance. He was still running over his conversation with Marcus in his mind, and that was puzzling enough. Puzzling and disturbing, for it seemed that Edmund Black wasn't only a pompous bastard, but a danger to boot...

The curator arrived as if on cue, exiting his signature Bentley with a man who looked decidedly unlike a worker in the field of antiquities. And why, Indy asked himself, would an artifact aficionado require a bodyguard? It was even more obvious to him now that this was a job he shouldn't have taken, but backing out at this time wasn't an option. He would lose work with the museum, and, as much as he refused to admit it, there was a part of him that knew there was magic in the mythical scabbard. It was the same part that had made him close his eyes when the Ark had been opened, the same part that had let him give his father a sip from the Grail. He wanted to find that artifact, even if it did mean risking his life.

Boarding had commenced. Indy pulled his eyes away from the curator and glanced at the steamer. It was a giant ship, twenty stories of white and green, with "HATHEWAY STEAMER LINES" painted on the side. The crowd, mostly made up of aristocratic Americans off for a weekend foray in London, was filing up the ramp, luggage in hand. Indy had just gotten his bags when Black strode up to him.

"Doctor Jones!" he bellowed, looking considerably more jovial than his colleague. He smiled horribly, extending a hand. Indy gave it a quick, rough shake, disgusted at the layer of sweat on the man's palm. "Ah, how exciting!" the curator said. "A new project, a new piece of history for us to uncover." For me, you mean, Indy thought to himself as Black continued: "This is truly exciting." He strolled through the mass of people like a king, surveying all of his domain. Seconds later, though, the whistle blew and smoke poured from the smokestack, causing the curator to jump in fright. One thing was for sure. When it came down to it, Edmund Black was nothing more than an insect.

Indy adjusted his fedora and made for the gangplank, Professor Monroe close behind. Black, quickly regaining himself, walked in step with Indy as he and Vivian boarded the steamer. "Have a wonderful time, Dr. Jones. And come back with my artifact!" A clipped laugh, and the pathetic man turned back to his Bentley.

The situation on the boat was somewhat chaotic. Between the yells of confused passengers and those of the crew, it was almost impossible to tell where to go. Professor Monroe seemed to know what she was doing, however. She touched his shoulder and said, "I am going to my room, Dr. Jones. I will see you tonight." She went down an adjacent staircase, and Indy couldn't help but feel an adolescent twinge in his groin as he glanced at her. Though something about her demeanor wasn't quite right, he couldn't help but be attracted to the woman, in both a physical and intellectual sense.

But that was out of the question. She was a museum worker, and nothing more. Besides, too many failed romances in a short amount of time weren't healthy. Willie, Elsa- though Indy reminded himself that she had only been using him to meet her own ends- and Marion. Marion... She had come and gone, leaving him with only a quick note and a sadness that would never be fully extinguished. Back to her bar in Nepal, and even though he sometimes thought of reconciliation, he knew it would never happen. So no, Edmund Black could have Professor Monroe. He glanced at his ticket: Section C, Cabin 5. Indy sighed and started down another staircase.

X

Two hours later, the moon was out and the steamer was at sea, slicing through the water like the awe-inspiring giant that it was. Rain pelted against the deserted deck; most of the passengers were in Le Café de Soleil, the ship's restaurant and ballroom, located one floor below Indy's cabin. Presently, the archaeologist was shaving, the blade of the razor grating over his brittle whiskers. He never used shaving cream. Too many years of fieldwork, where vanities like that were unneeded. He didn't plan to go out in his leather jacket and fedora, however, though that would have been preferable over the white tuxedo that he had found in his dresser.

Indy set the razor down and tied his bowtie. It was something he'd never been proficient at, and probably never would be. But he finally got the damn thing, and after shrugging on the white tux jacket, he was prepared to meet Vivian at the restaurant. But something stopped him. A noise in the next cabin over. It consisted of a grouping of "dits" and "dahs," and Indy knew immediately what he was listening to: a Morse code transmission. The lack of radio static told him that it was being transmitted from the cabin to another source. But what did it mean? Morse code was one language he didn't understand. That didn't mean he couldn't translate it later, though. So he swept a pad of paper from his coat pocket, grabbed a pen, and began to record the transmission. He caught it just after a ".-.-.-," which was a full stop, one of the few things he understood. Then on to the next sentence. "…. . .. … …. . .-. ." This was followed by another full stop, and a click. End of radio transmission. He analyzed it fruitlessly for a moment, shoved it into his pocket, and ducked into the night.

The sky had opened up now. Rain came down in sheets, and he pulled the tuxedo up over his head as water sloshed over the side. The sea was angry, but not as angry as it had been during the recovery of the Cross of Coronado, in a steamship off the Portuguese coast. That'd been a challenge. But at least the man he knew only as Panama Hat was dead now, courtesy of a few fuel drums and a lot of pent-up anger. That jackass had been a lot like Belloq, in a way. Driven to the point of insanity when it came to antiquities. Or the money that they could get for them. Either way, both of those men were no longer around. He only hoped that he wouldn't find anyone new to hate during the search for the scabbard.

He found the staircase and went down another floor. This was Section D, the floor that held the gaming areas, the bar, and, most popular, La Café de Soleil. He nodded at the doorman and stepped inside.

It was a nice place, that was for sure. A lot nicer than his apartment back in Manhattan, but then that wasn't saying much. Indy made his way onto a landing and was just about to go down the sweeping staircase when Professor Monroe's voice came from behind him. "Indiana!" she said, calling him by his first name. She still looked rather distressed, but that didn't hide her beauty. She wore a blue sequined gown that had a split up to the thigh, and her red hair flowed loosely over her shoulders. He grinned despite himself as she looked him over. "You look handsome, Dr. Jones. How do you manage it at your age?"

He smirked. "I've found that not caring helps." He held out an arm. "Shall we?"

"Of course." She slid her arm into his, and they descended the staircase like true royalty. As they reached the dining area, a waiter with a genuine French accent led them to a small table. Most were taken, and the fast jazz being played on a nearby stage only added to the buzz. "May I get you something, Monsieur? Madame?"

"I'll take a bourbon," Indy said. He felt like a stiff drink. "Et une rose pour la dame, s'il vous plaît."

"A glass of champagne for me," said Vivian. "Merci." She looked across at him and smiled. "You're not the only one who speaks French, Indy."

He laughed. "Damn. I thought I had the element of surprise going for me, too."

But just then he felt something hard and blunt press into his back. Adrenaline coursed through him. "Put your hands behind your head, Herr Jones," said a familiar voice. "Adolph would like a word with you."

Indy spun around, smiling. A gangly figure stood behind him, a huge grin on his face. "Heya, Indy," said Jack Shannon. "Long time, no see."

"What the hell are you doing here, Jack?" Indy asked him jovially. He and Shannon had been best friends back in college, less study buddies than drinking buddies. Shannon had always played a mean cornet; Indy had many fond memories of watching him juice the instrument for all it was worth in one of the many barrelhouse piano saloons around Chicago's South Side. The last time he had seen him had been during his studies at Paris's Sorbonne, and it was a wonderful surprise to see him again.

"Ah, I'm just here for a few cruises. The pay's damn good, but steamship musicians don't get that many girls. I figure I'll head back to Chicago, maybe start up a band there." He smiled again and looked, for the first time, at Vivian. His eyebrows turned up in surprise, and he held out a hand. "The name's Shannon. Jack Shannon. Pleasure."

"Vivian Monroe," she answered, returning the handshake. Shannon sat down, eyeing Indy with a mock jealous glare.

The waiter returned with a platter of drinks. "Bourbon-" he placed the tumbler in front of Indy- "champagne-" he handed the thin glass to Vivian- "And, also for the lady…" He reached behind his back and extracted a single rose. The assistant curator feigned surprise; she had understood Indy's request, but the sentiment was still there.

Shannon laughed. "C'mon, Jones, no rose for me?" He punched Indy on the shoulder, but just then another recognizable face came into view. Indy's heart jumped into his throat. Was it him? The Portugal trip was somewhat of a blur, but if he wasn't mistaken, that same man had almost made good on Panama Hat's order to kill him. He was a mere thug, but the sight of the roughneck made him sweat regardless.

Shannon noticed him looking at the man, who was flanked by several others. "Yeah, that guy's a shady character. Came in on the same port as you, I think. He's an odd one."

"Do you know what cabin he's in?" Indy asked, increasingly suspicious. After all, with dead people walking, there was no telling what else might be amiss.

"Let's see. Ah, Section C, Cabin… six, I think. I had to bring his bags, the son of a bitch…Why?"

Jesus. That was the cabin neighboring his. "No reason."

"Bullshit." If anyone knew when Indy wasn't being honest, it was Jack Shannon.

Indy looked over at Vivian, who was silently sipping her champagne. "I'm pretty damn sure I already killed that man," he muttered.

Professor Monroe put her hand onto Indy's. "You must be mistaken," she said, but something in her voice told him she wasn't convinced.

Shannon raised an eyebrow. "Archaeology, huh?" The two had kept in touch, but up until now Indy's extracurricular activities had been downplayed in his letters.

"Yeah, well, the world of antiquities is more dangerous than you'd realize." Talk about an understatement, he thought to himself.

"Can't be more dangerous than the world of jazz," Shannon laughed, getting up from his chair. "Well, time to get back. Gimme your address, huh? We've got to catch up." He nodded at Vivian, and departed.

Indy looked at Vivian. "I've got a bad headache," he said. "I think I'll turn in for the night."

She nodded. "If you need anything, Indy…"

"Right." He stood and pushed his chair in. It was strange; Vivian seemed to be trying to convey that she herself was okay, while also trying to comfort him. But he could tell that she wasn't. He glanced back at her as he made his way to the stairs. She was getting up, too, and suddenly he wanted to be with her. But he'd already told himself it was a bad idea, and anyway, he had other things to do. And those didn't include falling asleep.

Indy ruffled through his pocket until he found the paper on which he had written the Morse code transmission. It had come through the left wall, so, if Shannon had been correct, it had come from the room occupied by Panama Hat's thug. Could they be tracking him? Possibly, but the Panama Hat that he knew wouldn't go through all that trouble just to take care of a vendetta.

Unlocking and opening his door, Indy began to take off his tuxedo. No sense trying to look spiffy for criminals. He placed the white suit coat on the bed and took his brown leather jacket out of the duffel. Then came his fedora, which he pulled down over his forehead. He walked to the porthole. It looked barely large enough, God willing. He rolled it open and poked his head outside. Raindrops poured off the brim of his hat.

There it was. Light filtered through the half open porthole, occasionally disturbed by a shadow crossing its path. "Damn," Indy whispered. Cabin 6 was decidedly not empty. But he couldn't turn back now. So, holding on to the edge of his own porthole, Indy lowered himself down so that he was hanging from the window. Now came the tricky part. He took a breath in, silently counted to three, and swung, one hand coming free and groping for the edge of the other porthole. But he missed ever so slightly, and swung back like a pendulum, banging into the hull. Muttering obscenities, he swung again. This time his fingers found the edge. He let go of his own porthole and grasped both hands on Cabin 6's.

Steps echoed in the interior of the cabin. Indy had been relatively quiet, so he figured that for now, he still had surprise on his side. But the rain was beating down harder now. He wouldn't be able to hold on for long. And somehow he doubted that he'd have much chance of surviving stormy seas, especially tonight.

Indy pulled up so that he could see the inside of the cabin. His arms trembled with exertion, but it was worth it; he looked in just as the cabin's lone occupant turned his back. He was a brawny giant, from the looks of it, and not unlike the ones he'd seen flanking Panama Hat's underling in the café. But he also had a gun. He doubted the man had the smarts to know that using it would be stupid in these kinds of quarters, so he'd have to take his chances. Indy pushed upwards until his arms locked and vaulted through the porthole.

The thump that he made as he hit the floor caused his erstwhile roommate to spin around, gun already drawn. "Bad idea," Indy declared, launching himself forward. He smashed into the man's legs and wrapped his arms around them. The man flew backwards with the archaeologist in tow, ramming into a cabinet, and Indy struggled up before his assailant could. He caught him with a right hook to the temple, and the giant slumped over. Indy took his gun for safekeeping.

Wiping a fleck of blood from the corner of his mouth, he glanced around the room. It looked almost identical to his, but the desk was far more cluttered. He walked over to it and began sifting through the papers. The first one he found was a Morse code translation paper. It confirmed his suspicions that this had been the cabin from which it had originated. He stuffed it into the pocket of his slacks. Next came a group of ticket stubs from the ship, a request form… Indy glanced at the items listed. Three Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns, five Browning P35 9mms, and one Springfield 1903A4 sniper rifle. No surprise there; Panama Hat had always liked using force. But who were they planning to empty their rounds on? Could it have something to do with the Morse code transmission he had overheard? Possibly. He continued looking.

Dinner menu, reserved room numbers for the Eliot Hotel, and… "Christ," Indy said aloud, holding the paper he had just uncovered up to the light. "Jesus Christ." It was the same sketch of the tapestry that Edmund Black had shown him, or a minimized copy of it. There was Excalibur, shining in the center. And above the Welsh script there was a message scrawled in near-illegible hand: Recover the scabbard. No…

Suddenly a pistol butt came at him from his left. Indy felt a searing pain on his forehead, and he was falling, falling… "Night night, Dr. Jones," murmured a faraway voice as he slipped into unconsciousness.