Hail Daniel, Hail Jack
Hail Daniel, Hail Jack
by ISW
Summary: The Trust! Supersoldiers! Wormhole X-treme! Ex-Senator ex-Kinsey! And how a Napoleonic power-mongering angel helps Jack O'Neill become the galactic man of the year.
Category: Action/Adventure, Humor
Season: Season 8
Pairing: Team
Rating: GEN
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: Actually, I took most of the storylines that annoyed me and tried to make a funny story out of them.
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story was created for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s).
Archived on: 09/25/05
Title: Hail Daniel, Hail Jack
Author: ISW
Rating: PG (a few words and some scuffling)
Category: Drama, alternate universe
Season: Season 8, after Full Alert but before Reckoning
Spoilers: Full Alert; Meridian; Gemini; The Lost City; New Order; Abyss; Smoke and Mirrors; The Curse; Covenant; Wormhole X-treme; Between Two Fires; Heroes, Bloodlines, Fallout; It's Good to be King; Thor's Hammer; Brief Candle; Chimera; Forever in a Day; Enemies; Lockdown; Resurrection; Exodus
Disclaimer: Characters featured in this story are the property of Showtime, Sci-Fi Channel, Bridge Productions, Gekko Film Corporation, Sony Pictures Television and a host of additional companies--including, for all I know, the one with the logo of the shark on the bicycle jumping up on the anvil. Characters from the series belong to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer/United Artists, Gekko Film Corporation, Double Secret Productions, and Stargate SG-1 Productions among still others. To attempt to use these characters to profit would be a species of intellectual theft that neither this author nor the website operators would be a party to, no matter how much we might secretly believe we could triple their ratings if they'd just give us a chance. . . Therefore, this fanfic is written strictly for fun, for the reader's enjoyment and is not intended as copyright infringement of any kind. The story and any additional characters are the property of the author.
Synopsis: The Trust! Ex-Senator ex-Kinsey! Supersoldiers! Lord Ba'al! And how a Napoleonic power mongering angel helps Jack O'Neill become the galactic man of the year.
Author's Note: Readers will note departures from the story told by the writers, which makes this an alternate universe by definition. Hopefully it's fun anyway.(Things that are supposed to be in italics are deliniated by asterisks.)
Major General George Hammond flung open his office door and frowned at his executive officer, Major Paul Davis. One look at the Major's face told him what he needed to know, but he asked anyway. "Anything from SGC?"
Paul Davis answered anyway. "No, sir. Nothing. Our last contact with them was," he glanced at his watch, "31 minutes ago." Both knew the acting command would pass along any news the second they heard it. Still George Hammond had flung open the door and asked for news four times in those 31 minutes. Paul Davis understood. He wasn't as close to SG-1 and Jack O'Neill as Hammond--nobody could be--but he didn't like thinking about them as Ba'al's prisoners. He had had nightmares after reading O'Neill's report about the last time. "It's not even an hour, sir."
"Yes, Major, I know." In other circumstances Hammond might have smiled at himself. "And I know Jacob will do what he can." Jacob Carter would do everything in his power; his daughter would be among the hostages.
If anything happened the worst part would be that Jacob's urgent warning had come five minutes--hell, two minutes--too late. "And if Jacob was right, it was probably too late the second they walked through the Gate," George Hammond added softly; for all the civilians involved, Stargate Command is in essence a combat unit, and its members have learned the hard lessons combat teaches. That doesn't mean anybody likes them.
The phone rang; Paul snatched it out of its cradle. "General Hammond's off--" He nodded to his boss.
"Speaker," Hammond barked, and he was almost overrun by the excited voice of Sergeant Walter Harriman, about two octaves higher than normal. "Sir, General Carter--"
"Put him through."
"George." Hammond's eyes narrowed; he'd never heard that tone from Jacob before. "George, can you get MALP telemetry?"
"Of course." Hammond waved a hand, but Davis was already on it. "Jacob, what's the situation out there?"
"Nobody's hurt but-- Just wait for the picture. Just--wait. You'll have to see it to believe it. Hell, George, I'm seeing it and I can't believe it. Selmac says he's never seen anything like it."
"Jacob--" Hammond began, and the video feed arrived just in time to avoid hard words from one old friend to another. George Hammond began to understand why Jacob was babbling. "$#!^&8*," he said, and Paul Davis was mildly impressed with what a man could learn in 35-plus years in the Air Force. "&^%$#*," Hammond added, but Paul was listening to the thunderous chorus of Anubis drones. "Sir? Did they say what I think they said?"
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George Hammond had been wrong about one thing. It was more like 90 seconds before it was too late. The Anubis drones let SG-1 get a good 400 feet from the Stargate--and more to the point, the DHD--before they were surrounded.
Jack O'Neill knew it was hopeless but he tried anyway. "You boys want to talk to us? Okay, look, I have a date tonight, I'll have to call my girlfriend and cancel. She'll be very pissed, so this better be good." He took a step back toward the DHD; three of the drones raised an arm and pointed closed fists at him. He knew about the wounds left by those weapons. "Okay." O'Neill raised his hands in the air but didn't release the catch on his weapon; not that a P-90 was any use against the drones, but he wanted it handy. One drone took Teal'c's staff weapon, Samantha Carter and Daniel Jackson raised their hands.
What must have been the leader--they really all did look alike--stepped forward. "Come," he said, and as Jack moved the drone did something Jack found weird and kinda creepy. He stepped up to the SGC commander and sniffed him. "I put on deodorant this morning, I swear," Jack said; of course the drone ignored him. He raised his hand and laid it, very gently, on the top of Jack's head. A second drone had approached Daniel and was inspecting him intently; he pushed his face close to Daniel's and sniffed. There was a slight ripple of movement among the black-clad figures. The leader turned his back on Jack, approached Carter and looked at her; no sniffing, no touching, just a thorough inspection, head to toe. Abruptly the leader turned away. "Come," he repeated, and to Jack's surprise he led them away from the Stargate.
"Carter?" Jack murmured, and one of the two smartest people he had ever met, Tollan and Nox included, shook her head. "I don't know, sir." She frowned, glad for some distraction. Her guys formed a protective screen around her, but nobody had any illusions about her probable treatment at the hands of their captor. "We do know they're bred to fight, and only to fight. Their intelligence seems to be limited in other ways."
"Don't say that too loud," Jack hissed.
"Keep in mind, these are--barely sentient tanks, essentially," said the other smartest person he had ever met, Tollan and Nox included. "They may communicate through smell and touch," Daniel added.
"I believe Daniel Jackson is correct," Teal'c studied the back of a drone. "Certainly they were investigating something they sensed about you and Daniel Jackson."
"Okay, does that help us?" But before anyone could answer Jack's question, they stopped at the edge of a small clearing.
It should have worked. Wickedness should have helped wickedness. The wickedness of the men and women who styled themselves as the Trust (a sure sign they watched too much TV) was only eclipsed by their ineptitude and stupidity. Their dimwitted effort to defeat Ba'al had damaged the Jaffa rebellion and killed a courageous Tok'ra operative instead. They put an exclamation point on this tale of incompetence by getting themselves snaked; the Goa'uld, just as stupid, got themselves blown to smithereens. They could take comfort from only one thing as they went to hell, the way they left the good guys in disarray. The sudden eruption of the replicators had screwed things up even further.
The Trust's activities also left Stargate Command with an urgent fence-mending job. So it should have come as no surprise that at least one Goa'uld would try to take advantage; he was just as wicked, and thought he was smart.
When Jaffa rebel leaders allegedly asked for a meeting on P3X759, it was natural that SGC would send the base commander as well as the flagship team. It should have worked; it looked like it was going to work. But the Goa'uld always rely on the Devil's own luck, and, as George Hammond observed later, damned if that doesn't run out.
There was a mound, apparently ruins, in the center of the clearing. Jack ignored it. "Crap." He studied the tall man/snake, surrounded by a cluster of Jaffa and drones. "Bocce, don't you have an empire to run, or something?" He grinned, the famous O'Neill attitude hiding the sickness in the pit of his stomach. "Or at least something better to do than chase us around? Especially when you get your little snake ass kicked every time. Oh. And in case you didn't notice, you've got replicators on that selfsame ass. You won't like the bugs. Trust me."
The Lord Ba'al smiled, not pleasantly. "I will ignore your insolence. For the moment. But you will pay, of course--"
And the supersoldier at Ba'al's side lifted his hand. "Kral shak nee'tah."
"What?" O'Neill asked, and Teal'c stiffened. It took Daniel a second longer to translate the words, and when he did his eyes widened. "Teal'c, did he just--?"
"Indeed. It is quite possibly the greatest insult among the Goa'uld." Teal'c was shoved backward as more and more of the Anubis drones surrounded Jack and Daniel.
Ba'al's face had turned an unattractive shade of purple, and yet there was uncertainty in his eyes. Apparently he did get it; the drones were beyond his control, if they chose to disobey him. The Jaffa definitely got it. Loyal servants to their master, they formed a protective ring around him. "Kral shak nee'tah," the supersoldier leader repeated, and shoved the Jaffa aside. He grabbed Ba'al by the scruff of the neck and began to shake him; Ba'al shrieked. "Do not hurt me. Spare me. Do not hurt me, please."
"Damn undignified behavior for a god," Jack announced; a very good line, but totally wasted. Nobody was listening.
The drone tossed Ba'al aside as his fellow creatures took the Jaffa's weapons. They returned Teal'c's energy staff while a circle of supersoldiers formed around SG-1. The circle grew; the drones seemed to come from everywhere.
Ba'al scrambled to his feet, roaring; the drone leader swept out an arm and sent him sprawling. Ba'al began to--well, the only word for it was snivel, Daniel thought, watching in astonishment. Ba'al crawled away, almost mewing like a cat; at the edge of the clearing he scrambled to his feet and ran in complete panic. The Jaffa overlooked it, covering their master's retreat although the only weapon they had was their defiant posture.
The drones ignored the sideshow. They opened a path through the crowd for their leader. He stared at Jack, apparently looking for something; he sniffed Jack once, twice, then turned to Daniel. He reached out an armor-clad fist and touched the top of Daniel's head. "Who are you?"
"I'm Daniel." You are talking, Daniel told himself, to a really dumb tank--but still a sentient being under all that armor. "My name is Daniel." He kept his voice low and gentle. "And who are you?"
"If I had a name, it would be Goxx. Our masters have not allowed us names. We were bred for a purpose; it does not require names." The drone leader was matter of fact about it; maybe they were at least a little smarter than people (including himself) had assumed, Daniel thought. "And him. Who is he?" The leader pointed at Jack, by now openly gawking; the drone that had brought them here was clumsily patting Jack on the head.
"His name is Jack." The leader looked at Sam; "She's called Samantha," Daniel said, curiosity starting to overcome his fear, at least a little. The drone leader studied them all, closely. "Daniel," he repeated, and Daniel nodded. "And Jack. Daniel and Jack." He looked back to Daniel for confirmation. Daniel nodded.
Then the drone leader, who would be Goxx if he could, dropped to his knees in front of the team; "Hail, Daniel," he shouted. "Hail, Jack." Every drone, except the ones who formed the protective screen, followed suit. All of them added their voices to the chorus.
"Hail, Daniel," they shouted. "Hail, Jack."
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"They were still yelling when I got here," Jacob said to the astonished George Hammond. "Down on their knees--what's it called? Genuflecting? Over and over. `Hail, Daniel. Hail, Jack.' The second in command--his name is Glex--he started calling them King Jack and King Daniel."
"King Jack?" George Hammond said faintly, making heroic efforts not to laugh. But Jacob was under no such restraint; he chuckled, and within seconds both men were laughing uproariously. "King Jack." Hammond wiped his eyes. "That's a hell of an idea, and no mistake." He cleared his throat, still fighting chuckles, and said, "Do we know why?"
Jacob dropped his head, and when he raised it Selmac spoke in the echoing voice of the symbiote. "I still do not see why you and Jacob think it is so funny. Be that as it may, both General O'Neill and Dr. Jackson have had intimate contact with the Ancients."
"We have not." Jack O'Neill, trailed by a bodyguard of big black drones, arrived in time to hear Selmac's last remark. "D'you know how that *sounds?* Yeah, I've got that Ancient-gene-to-turn-things-on thing, but that's *it.* Okay, Daniel was an Ancient for a while, but I don't think they're the type, if you get my drift. `Intimate contact.' That's creepy."
"I did not mean it so." Selmac shrugged Jacob's shoulders. "Close contact, then, and it must leave traces behind. A marker that can be sensed by the. . ." Selmac/Jacob's voice trailed off. It didn't seem quite polite, under their watchful eyes, to keep referring to them as drones or supersoldiers; other descriptions were even less tactful.
"They call themselves Sensua." Daniel had joined them; he too had a drone escort. Drones and Tok'ra eyed each other with suspicion. "It's okay." Daniel drew Goxx aside and pointed at Jacob, speaking softly and slowly in the unexpectedly pleasing tones of archaic Ancient.
Jacob ducked his head to hide a fond grin; that kid--not so much of a kid anymore, really--could connect with anyone. Nobody worked harder than Daniel to meet the creatures he encountered on their own level, understand their hopes and fears. He thanked God (not for the first time) that Daniel had seen the futility of the Ancients gig.
Sometimes, when the road without Daniel became especially rough for his daughter, Jacob would assure her (would insist, actually) that Daniel would come home, and sooner rather than later. Sam wanted to believe it but in the end she dismissed it as her father's incurable optimism. Actually Jacob was a shrewd judge of character. He knew Daniel, knew he would get bored with the prospect of gazing at his navel for eternity, and (much more importantly) would get impatient with the Ancients' ostentatiously detached attitude. Jack stood beside Sam, projecting various levels of impatience. Jacob hid another grin. After all these years, sometimes Jack still tried to pretend he wasn't proud of Daniel. At least he had finally given up the idiotic notion that thinking of Daniel like a kid brother--hell, like his kid--was asking more of himself than he wanted to give. (Shrewd ol' Jacob. He's about 90 percent right. Jack had a son; Charlie died and Jack didn't want another kid, ever. Daniel's parents had been killed right in front of him; fiercely independent afterward, he didn't need parents, definitely not a dad. They stubbornly held to those ideas even after circumstances showed them differently. Jacob was wrong in thinking it was a conscious process. All the work went on underground, which of course made it tougher on them and everybody within range--but hey, it was all right now. After a long hard &^%# unnecessary pull--but it was all right.)
"It's okay." Daniel led Goxx toward them. "They know you're a friend." Goxx pushed his face close to Jacob and sniffed; Jacob found it every bit as disconcerting as Jack had complained it was. "They've got you identified," Daniel said as Jacob fought the urge to step back. "Just--don't make any really sudden moves."
"Reassuring." Jacob tried not to sound as dubious as he felt. "So. King Jack."
"Not funny, Jacob."
"Oh, yeah. Damn funny, actually. Okay, King Jack, what now?"
Daniel crossed his arms and studied the ground, a quizzical expression on his face. All classic Daniel, so common his team had stopped seeing it. Things his friends cherished now; they missed them so much when he was gone. "Goxx says his people will desert Ba'al as soon as they learn the, um, lords and protectors have been found." ("Protector," Jack muttered. "For crying out loud." Daniel contrived to ignore him.) "Goxx has started spreading the word already."
Sam shifted position slightly. "Sir--"
"Don't tell me, Carter, you've been thinking."
"Actually, sir," she exchanged a glance with Daniel, "Daniel and I have an idea. Tartarus is compromised, thanks to me." They'd had a hell of a time coming up with a designation for Fifth's little creation; while Jack preferred Lady McCarter, he had finally settled on RepliCarter. They tried to avoid referring to her at all when Carter was around, however. "Goxx says Ba'al hasn't found all of Anubis's bases. So we have some options."
"Carter. One second." Jack gestured to Goxx. "Look, Goxx, um, King, um, Daniel and I need to talk something over. Why don't you take the boys and go--go. . ." He desperately searched his mind and found inspiration. "I know. Go play. Yeah. Take the boys and go play."
"Play?" Puzzlement was visible in every line of Goxx's body. "I don't--what is `play,' King Jack? King Daniel?" Daniel spoke a few words of Ancient; a ripple of excitement ran through the ranks of drones. "Play." Goxx's voice vibrated with wonder. "Oh, thank you, King Jack. We can go play? Our masters never allowed us--you do not mind if we go play?" As one the drones began to move, then stopped. "You will require some of our number to remain as guards," Goxx said.
"We'll be right here," Jack said, using the tone (although he didn't recognize it) he used to use when Charlie was sick or scared. "We'll stay where you can see us," Daniel added gently.
"Thank you, King Jack. Oh, thank you, King Daniel. Thank you." To their consternation Goxx sounded like he was about to cry; the drones began hopping up and down in excitement. "Thank you, thank you. Oh, truly you are the lords and protectors." And Goxx threw his arms around the astonished Jack O'Neill, almost breaking his ribs in the process, and began hopping up and down in unison with his fellow drones.
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Sufficient unto the day. . . George Hammond suppressed a sigh. "How does this help us, exactly?"
"Well sir, the--the--guys have sworn allegiance to, um, me. And Daniel." Was there, in Jack's tone, maybe just the faintest suggestion that the drones' taste in masters had improved? "It was kind of impressive, actually."
"No doubt." George Hammond's tone definitely was designed to puncture any imperial pretensions. "That still doesn't--what's that noise?"
"They're laughing, sir." Daniel had been keeping an eye on them; no one had been hurt, at least not yet. Play involved a lot of crashing into each other. . .Daniel, ever the scientist, took mental notes.
"Actually, sir, the boys say Ba'al never found all or even most of Anubis's hideouts. Daniel and," Jack grinned, "Princess Samantha recommend taking them to one of those. After that--well, Daniel says he thinks we can train them not to kill every Jaffa that gets in their way."
"General Hammond, if that is true then at least the threat of the Goa'uld would be removed from your world," Teal'c said. "Neither Ba'al nor the remaining System Lords would dare attack the Tau're if they could not use Jaffa as shields. Our efforts then could be directed toward the threat posed by the replicators."
"Unfortunately the fact we would control the supersoldiers makes us a more attractive target for the--for the lady." The new and improved replicator was a very sore spot with Samantha Carter. "In the meantime Ba'al might be crazy enough to try something even without his drones. I've ordered Prometheus launched as a precaution--"
There was a sudden stillness among the supersoldiers; they abandoned their play and broke into groups, big and small, that began moving purposefully in all directions. Jacob's communicator beeped as a phalanx led by Goxx trotted toward them. "Come, King Jack, King Daniel, open space is a poor choice--"
"Selmac. Jacob." The voice of Jacob's colleague, in the tiny Tok'ra scout ship orbiting the planet, was sharp with anxiety. "My sensors indicate a mothership has entered this system--no. There are two. Two motherships."
"Understood," Jacob barked. "Get outta here. We've got an alternate way out." He opened his mouth to yell for SG-1, but they were already moving; "Daniel," Jack shouted, "dial the Alpha--no, wait. Carter, you got a place picked out? Someplace with oxygen and everything?" She nodded as the wormhole whooshed shut. "Okay. Goxx." Jack turned to the drone leader, who was tugging at his jacket. "We're going to take your people to--the new hideout, whatever it's called. Establish a perimeter around the Gate, and--does this new Gate have a force field--?"
"Excuse me, King Jack." Goxx was deferential, but puzzled. "Would it not be simpler to destroy the motherships?"
Jack stared at the creature towering over him. "Well yeah, but Goxx, we don't have a weapon that can do that. Uh--not on us, anyway."
"Yes, you do. We will need your assistance and that of Prince Teal'c." (The famous Teal'c eyebrow climbed straight up into the new hairline at that, and even now Jack had to suppress a chuckle.) "But you must come now, or leave without us. The lords and protectors must be safe." SG-1 and Jacob already were surrounded by a ring of drones, three deep; "Please, King Jack. The forest trail. Or leave us." Jack silently consulted his team, who looked at the trail. He smiled; like he expected anything different. He turned toward the trail. The bodyguard of drones moved with them, in lockstep.
Goxx didn't waste any time. Jack's in good shape, but he was huffing a little by the time they reached the forest clearing. The drone went straight to the artistically tumbled ruin. Jack's eyes narrowed; maybe too artistic, now that he looked at it. Goxx ran his hand along a ridge of stone, searching, and uttered a yip of satisfaction; there was a subdued hum, the stones crashed down, and in a few seconds enough of them were gone to reveal--
What sure as hell looked like an ion cannon.
"Sweet," breathed Jack O'Neill. "Very sweet."
"You will have to activate it, King Jack," Goxx said. "Or King Daniel. Prince Teal'c knows the firing sequence. Please make haste. The motherships approach." Jack examined the instrument panel, extended his hand; the Ancient headsucker had really scrambled his memory but he did remember this--the pleasant sensation of the activator warming gradually under his fingers. (Give the Ancients credit, he thought, essentially they're useless but their "on" switches are cool.)
"Your turn, T," he said, stepping back.
"Daniel Jackson, I will require your help with translation." Jaffa stoicism notwithstanding, Jack could see the wheels turning as if Teal'c's head was transparent. "O'Neill, this weapon is far more precise than the Tollan cannon. With your permission I will test that precision."
"Hey, be my guest, T." What happened next was recorded by posterity for the Tok'ra scout ship, with the pilot providing a running commentary to a fascinated audience below. "I believe the shields have been destroyed. . . that shot disabled the launch bay doors. . . the long range laser weapons appear to be inoperative. . ."
"I didn't know motherships had reverse gear," Jacob commented cheerfully.
Suddenly the Tok'ra pilot chuckled. "Ba'al will not use those staterooms again." Jaffa pride themselves on their stoicism, but even Jaffa have their limits. Teal'c's limit was reached a long time ago (Drey'ac, Sha'noc, Daniel Jackson's wife Sha're, Abydos. . .) Just for the fun of it, he shot off Ba'al's ID markings, the ones on the capstones, right before the motherships fled into hyperspace.
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"You have a theory, I take it." George Hammond sounded suspicious, and as a result, grumpy. It would be so nice not to have to look in the gift horse's mouth.
Jack frowned. "Kinda, General. It happened pretty fast--he could've been thinking we hadn't found the cannons yet. Nothing coming toward Earth?"
Hammond compressed his lips; the unexpected order to launch Prometheus had turned up yet another mysterious and alarming effort to compromise Earth's one reliable defensive weapon. "No. Tok'ra intelligence informed of us a major fleet movement, but he took off in an entirely different direction--"
"King Jack." Glex tugged at his jacket. "I am sorry to interrupt, but King Daniel wishes to speak to you."
"King Daniel can't wait his turn?" asked the monarchs' commanding officer dryly.
"King Daniel agrees with the Sensua that it could be very important." Glex kept his voice deferential, but his glance at Jack said this pushy little human could be taken care of anytime King Jack gave the word.
Okay, his "subjects" whacking the director of Homeworld Security would be a bad thing. "Glex, this is somebody important. You boys will call him," and Jack was visited by one of those inspirations that always seem like such a good idea at the time, "King George. King George of Texas." Even halfway across the galaxy he could hear Paul Davis erupt in a sudden coughing fit. "Orders from him are like orders from King Daniel or me," he added.
"King Jack." Glex lowered his voice. "He is not the lord and protector." Hammond had activated his on-demand stone face, but Jack knew there would be a little discussion, when this incident was over.
"Okay, think of it as a--a--courtesy title, or something." Jack raised a hand, just a little gratified at the way the drone, who topped even him and Teal'c by a good three inches, instantly subsided. "I just wanna make sure you all understand he's important. When he talks, you listen. Starting now." Jack took a couple of steps back from his boss's glower. "What?" he hissed to his fellow monarch.
The Anubis drones, huge, hulking, almost invulnerable, would've quailed before that tone, rushed to apologize. It bounced right off a resolute and courageous but (as circumstances had proved) disaster prone and so not bulletproof archeologist. Daniel just smiled. "Ba'al's fleet went after the base where he was hiding the Sensua. He hit it with everything he had."
"It didn't work. Did it?"
"Excuse me, King Jack." Glex contrived to sound respectful and a little reproachful at the same time. "Of course not. We do not know if he had the weapons to destroy us, but we must behave as if he did."
"Your people had countermeasures?" So the drones had a little initiative; Jack filed that away for future reference.
"No, King Jack. But we did not have to present ourselves as an easy target. The planet has much forest." Glex went down on one knee. "But that is not important. We have a confession we must make to you. And Princess Samantha. King Daniel said she must hear it also."
Carter practically had to be dragged away from the cannon, but finally the third strong hint brought her back to the Gate. What seemed like (and was, actually) every drone in the place formed a circle around the three of them. There was a profound silence among them; Goxx and Glex exchanged a glance and dropped to their knees in front of SG-1.
"Princess Samantha." Goxx's tone left no doubt the drones thought this was important. "With the permission of the lords and protectors we will appeal to your mercy. We failed in our duty. We would ask that you accept the sacrifice of Glex and myself as punishment."
Sam blinked in astonishment, but there was no doubt they were in earnest. "Goxx, before I make such a serious decision I have to know how you failed," she said gently.
"We cannot defeat her always. The machine woman, the one who looks like you." Goxx bowed his head. "Although we have destroyed many of her kind, we have not destroyed them all. Many of us have been destroyed as well, and we believed that to be sufficient punishment before. But we are in the presence of the lords and protectors, and the lady defender. If you do not agree, we ask only that you punish the leaders, whose responsibility--"
"Just a second, Goxx," Sam found her heart pumping hard, "are you saying you can destroy the replicators?"
"The machine that looks like you. Yes. Sometimes, but not always." Goxx raised his head. "The one who said he was creator expected to live long, and face many enemies. He knew of the machines, but did not know when or where they would appear. We had to be ready." He dropped his head again. "But the woman is ready also. Sometimes."
"I don't want to punish you, Goxx." Sam drew on every ounce of Carter family discipline and kept her voice soft and sympathetic. "But I want to know exactly how you stop them. What happens to them?" Sam's guys knew her so well; they took care to ensure she didn't see the look that passed between them. They told her (early and often, actually) the whole RepliCarter mess was not her fault. She thought they were lying, trying to comfort her, and she did take comfort in this evidence of their love for her. (She was right about the love but wrong about their intent; Fifth never would've left them alone. But she couldn't see that.)
Now they could see she really wanted to grab poor ol' Goxx by the face mask and scream questions at him. It wasn't just the guilt and rage--and okay, the shame--of being so thoroughly used and betrayed. They saw, if no one else did, how much she feared the RepliCarter.
A thoroughly modern man, Jack O'Neill hadn't paid much attention to questions of good and evil; he stuck to his own vague but immovable moral compass and considered that good enough. Most of the time it serves him well. Daniel had explained the concept of the doppelganger a couple of days ago, though, and Jack hadn't even been tempted to joke about Doppler radar. He was beginning to think those Middle Ages guys had it about right. It was weird and very creepy, the way RepliCarter was as smart and beautiful as the real Carter on the outside and so cruel and vicious--yeah, evil--on the inside. And the creepiest thing was, the replicators didn't get it at all. . .
"Sometimes they fall to pieces." Goxx was answering Carter's questions. "Sometimes they remain intact but cannot move. Sometimes when that happens the effect spreads to others. Then they destroy themselves."
"Sir." All the Carter discipline in the world couldn't keep her hands from shaking. "You see what this means."
"Believe it or not, Carter, I do." Jack raised a hand, momentarily lost in thought. With this embarrassment of riches, where to start? Daniel cleared his throat. "Goxx and Glex asked for the audience because they wanted to get an answer before lunch. Apparently everybody is getting hungry."
"Lunch?" Actually, it was an interesting question; if the drones were fused into that armor, how did they eat? "Now?"
"They've recommended another base." Daniel had been born with less than his fair share of caution; who else in the galaxy would've assaulted an hatack by himself? (Well, me, Jack thought--but that wasn't the point.) "The Sensua are going there as they desert Ba'al. They're asking if they can go play."
"Nobody plays anywhere until that cannon is secured," Hammond growled, and Jack resisted the temptation to ask if they had to clean their rooms first too. "How are they spreading the word so fast?" Hammond asked.
"Anubis gave them these communicators, sir, like little Goa'uld TVs, except they're secure." Jack studied the area around the Gate. "Maybe if we offer to share, the Tok'ra will lend us the scout ship to look around this place," Jack said. In all the excitement he hadn't noticed it before, but there was an artistically tumbled ruin near the Gate. "I'd like to know what else is on this planet."
Goxx coughed. "Eighty-six, King Jack."
"Hmm?" Jack studied the pile of stones, looking for the little ledge.
"Eighty-six cannon," Goxx said, and raised his arm, pressing a button on the wristband. And Jack beheld a holographic image of a planet, presumably this one, little red dots blinking all over the place. "The Lord Ba'al required a survey."
Well, there are days you like and days you don't, and Jack O'Neill was starting to like this day a lot. "I'm thinking the Tok'ra and Jaffa won't mind helping on this one, sir."
"No." Hammond's expression was a mix of relief and suspicion. As gift horses went this was a whizzerdo. "Jack--I'm sure you haven't forgotten what the Tollan taught us."
"The Tollan didn't teach us anything, sir; they just reminded us. I think I see where to go." Jack grinned. "Okay. Walter, can you hear me?" And at Harriman's assent he started giving orders.
It pleases Jack O'Neill to play the dim bulb. He has done it so well for so long he fooled a lot of people, some of them very intelligent. They should have paid attention to Daniel Jackson, whose words and actions (on two planes of existence, no less) always have shown complete, almost superstitious confidence in SG-1's, and now the SGC's, leader. Daniel is right; anyone seeing Jack in action then would've realized Dense Jack is just another act.
Certainly the Anubis drones listened closely; there was a deep swelling murmur of approval. Jack turned as the Gate whooshed shut and found the drones had dropped to their knees; "Hail, Jack," they shouted. "Hey, guys," Jack said; he could get used to constant adulation, but. "We don't need the hailing. No more hailing."
"As you wish, King Jack," Goxx said, and the chorus stopped in mid-hail. "We have very little brain; therefore you will have to tell us how you wish to be adored. He who said he was the creator preferred that we hailed him."
"Anubis." He was gonna have to get Daniel to make him a chart or something.
"Yes. Anubis. The Jaffa feared him, but he was not satisfied. From the Sensua he required adoration, King Jack."
Well, if Mary Steenburgen wanted to adore him, or some of those really cute curvy nurses of Janet's--no. They weren't Janet's nurses anymore; he hated it when he remembered that. "Okay. Whatever weird Goa'uld Ancient thing was up with that, I'm not him. I don't need adoration." There was the faintest of sounds, which might have been a snort, from Teal'c's general direction. "I don't need it from you." He sighed. "Respect works for me."
"It will be as you command, King Jack. How do you wish to be adored respectfully?" Jack sputtered; poor Goxx cringed as if he expected to be annihilated. Jack sat on his temper and really tried to explain, until he was interrupted by the Gate.
Colonel Dan Reynolds and SG-3 emerged from the shimmering blue field. Reynolds is a professional to his fingertips; he kept his face under control but he couldn't hide the amusement in his eyes. "I've never actually seen a man drool until I talked to Dallek," he remarked to his CO, manfully resisting any temptation to crack wise. (Of course the hulking drones, their weapons and uncertain temperament made it easier to hold his tongue. . .) "The Jaffa are on their way too; Rak'nor kinda lost the power of speech." He coughed. "Braytac--he said he trusted the wisdom of O'Neill of Minnesota, but like all great warriors you would understand the need for caution."
Jack was mildly annoyed; Braytac, the legendary Jaffa master, wasn't even trying to be subtle. "Way ahead of him. Hey, Goxx, can we borrow your little glowy map thing?"
Obediently Goxx activated the wristband; "You do not wish the Sensua to guard the cannons, King Jack?"
Carefully Jack detached the hologram. "Um, not today, Goxx. Besides, it's lunchtime." He handed the map to Reynolds. "I'll leave it up to you to establish coordinates," he said basely. Dr. Lee popped out of the event horizon. "Seymour can translate." With a smile, Tom Reynolds accepted this rare passing of the buck. Feeling drone eyes boring into his back, Jack turned and motioned to Goxx. "Okay, Goxx, gather everybody up. We're headed out."
"It is your command, King Jack." Goxx threw his head back, making a high trilling noise in the back of his throat; the forest around the Gate suddenly came alive with black figures trotting toward the clearing. "Perhaps it is presumptuous of us," Goxx said tentatively, "but Glex and I have chosen some Sensua for your bodyguard, and King Daniel's--"
"Look, Glex." Just how honest could he get, Jack wondered, with a creature that could pound him into the turf and not break a sweat? "Uh, we really won't need a bodyguard."
"Of course we obey, King Jack, but--may I ask you a question? Why do you not? Need a bodyguard."
Jack laid a cautious hand on the creature's shoulder. "Well look, Goxx, there are issues. You've told us you weren't always honest with Ba'al."
"The Lord Ba'al was the overlord merely." Goxx's tone consigned Ba'al to a status slightly below dogcatcher. "He provided sustenance and purpose. We offered our allegiance in trade. But he has no honor; the Sensua learned their lesson with he who said he was creator. No Sensua will be dependent on a lord without honor. We may be creatures of very little brain, King Jack, but what we have, we use." He tipped his head. "Ba'al did not understand that we served him only until we found the lords and protectors. We knew you would come. There would be signs. And there were. The one who said he was creator was lost. The lady destroyer came, then the lady defender. It is as every Sensua foresees at the moment of creation. The scent, the touch, only confirmed it."
"Similar to the procedure for choosing the Dali Lama in independent Tibet," Daniel mused aloud, the professional getting the better of him. "The priests are tasked with discovering omens--"
"Dan-iel," Jack said; two syllables, the tone that Daniel always thinks of as the terminally exasperated, listen up and shut up voice. (He keeps that to himself. Jack is very sensitive about the impression he makes on his friends these days. A legacy of Collona.) "Look, boys. Call it a precaution thing. We don't you well enough to tell if you're lying--"
Goxx cut him short. "You do not trust us."
Just when you wanted them to be slow. . . "I didn't say that," Jack temporized, but all of a sudden they were on their knees again. A voice came out of the pack, a little more surprised than Jack thought was really necessary. "We have found the great overlord," it yelled. No hailing this time, just a rumbling noise impossible to describe. "Really happy engines," as Daniel put it, and while that didn't fit exactly Jack took a liking to it.
The wormhole shimmered and SG-34 emerged to find Jack O'Neill in the middle of a circle of happily rumbling drones, trying to look humble. Trying, and failing miserably.
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"The creatures seemed very pleased that O'Neill did not trust them, and would not allow them access to the Tau're homeworld." Teal'c pitched his voice low, a tone for Jaffa ears alone, and spoke in the language of ancient Chulak. He did not know if it was wasted effort. In reality he did not care. It did the drones no harm to know they were being watched by someone who harbored no illusions. O'Neill is as his brother, but he is clear-eyed about what are, in his opinion, the man's shortcomings; mostly these stem (according to Teal'c) from occasionally excessive sentimentality. (He would get an argument from O'Neill, knows it, so never speaks of it.) "They proclaimed it showed great wisdom."
"And you can see through that armor into the hearts of these creatures?" Braytac eyed the line of drones obediently lining up at the Gate. "I confess some disappointment in O'Neill. His judgment is not always as keen as I anticipated."
"He is following the recommendation of Daniel Jackson also. And I have learned," Teal'c said, looking back over the past, "that Daniel Jackson's opinion is to be respected in these matters."
"It is true they have proven me wrong. On occasion." Like Hammond, Braytac was inclined to be suspicious and therefore grumpy. "Do you understand the risk you are running? There is no way to know if these creatures are still in league with Ba'al. And no way to help you if you are taken captive."
"It is indeed a great risk." Teal'c frowned, a Jaffa frown, barely visible to the naked eye. "And yet the reward is even greater, if these creatures are telling the truth. It is a risk we must take."
The old man bowed his head, the classic Jaffa gesture that can mean a lot or nothing but this time signified reluctant acquiescence. "It is true some risks are unacceptable, yet must be taken regardless." O'Neill, Daniel Jackson and Colonel Carter were engulfed in the crowd of drones, but Bray'tac could still follow their progress; a drone head or two would disappear, there would be a sputter from O'Neill, a few patient words from Daniel Jackson, a "very well, King Jack, King Daniel," and the drones would reappear. Braytac could not keep himself from smiling.
The three emerged from the crowd, deep in discussion. In actuality, the two young ones--it never occurred to Braytac to think of them in any other way--were chattering, tossing the conversational ball back and forth with practiced ease. O'Neill appeared to be listening, and perhaps actually was. Bray'tac watched them with detached but deep affection. "I remember the day you brought them to Chulak. `Warriors of great skill and cunning,' you said. I was willing to consider the possibility O'Neill had some small talent. But I confess I thought your judgment had deserted you." He exchanged a glance with his friend and pupil. "In this case I am happy to acknowledge my error."
"I too was in error," Teal'c said. "They have surpassed my every expectation, as warriors and as friends." His expression became thoughtful. "Have you ever considered, my old friend, where we might be if Apophis had not become bored and decided go raiding?"
"Yes." The old man was grim. "I have considered where Ry'ac might be as well, and others of the next generation." Grim thoughts indeed; in order to escape them, Braytac focused his attention on the approach of SG-1. "You may have done very well, O'Neill."
"Hey, Braytac." Jack was well aware he was at his most insufferable. "Want to do lunch with us?"
Braytac propped his staff weapon in the crook of his arm. "It will depend entirely on what you are serving, O'Neill."
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If there was a little extra spring, maybe even a little strut, in Jack O'Neill's step when he walked into the friendly confines at Stargate Command--oh for crying out loud, of course he was strutting. Bocce had just lost his most potent offensive weapon, Jack and SG-1 had just secured major defensive weapons for Earth. He just might have rebuilt the Jaffa-Tok'ra-Earth alliance, at least temporarily. Millions of potential Jaffa and Tok'ra casualties had been averted. Carter was pretty certain they had a line on a way to stop the replicators. If a man can't swagger after that day's work--not even a day, seven and a half hours from start to finish--when can he swagger?
What happened next was kind of unfair, because on occasion Jack has passed up legitimate changes to strut; he really deserved more than 10 minutes of swaggering. Yeah well, sometimes fighting the bad guys is just a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately proposition.
SGC personnel are very fond of Jack O'Neill; they let him swagger out of the Gateroom, through the control room and all the way to the briefing room doors before he got run over by the next 18-wheel crisis.
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It was equally unfair, probably, that Jonas Quinn got stuck with delivering the bad news.
Being smarter than the average bear (funny--only Daniel understood his obsession with Hanna-Barbera cartoons), Jonas had been under no illusions about his reception at SGC, back in the beginning. Confirmation had come from people outside SG-1's immediate orbit. Jacob Carter and Braytac had been kind but unenthusiastic. Lou Ferretti--well, when he could get away with it Lou took different routes through the complex to avoid meeting Jonas. John Pierce and Gene Castleman, Dan Reynolds, most of the offworld leaders and teams, Harriman and Phil Siler and SGC personnel down to the kitchen staff, had tried and tried and managed a correct and only mildly chilly reception.
Paul Davis's reaction was typical. He had watched Jonas's (genuine) heroics on Anubis's mothership, complimented him--and made it clear it didn't change his opinion at all. Of course Major Davis had been living with Jennifer Hailey at the time. (Sam and Janet really had tried to talk a little sense into the man, and failed.) Maybe that had made a difference; Jen, Graham Simmons, Cassandra Fraiser, Tice Grogan, all the kids--they had just hated him, plain and simple.
It was weirder for SG-1, and they had never really decided what they thought of him. Ever the realist, Teal'c had tried to make the best of circumstances, set an example. At first Sam treated him like she wished she had treated Daniel; it took her about six months to acknowledge that didn't make it up to Daniel. Only then did she become his friend. Janet (damn, how she was missed) and Hammond had worked and worked and talked themselves into liking him. He would always be grateful to them all. Jack--well, all of Jack's energy had gone into denial; he tried to pretend it didn't matter that Daniel was gone. Assigning Jonas to SG-1 had been part of that effort. Of course it backfired disastrously, and most of the debris had fallen on one Jonas Quinn.
It was to his credit (although not as much as it might look at first) that Jonas rarely felt sorry for himself. He had only to remember five minutes of horror on Collona--and the price Daniel had paid to save Collona's people--and self-pity died. In perspective a little disdain was nothing, he told himself, and he was right. It was one of those ironic twists that so please Fate that this forbearance, the least he could do, had been his ticket back to SGC.
Well, that and Daniel's forbearance. Actually it was Sam who suggested bringing Jonas and his girlfriend Kianna to SGC, after what turned out to be their last, um, disagreement with the Langaran ruling council. But the decisive vote was Daniel's. He genuinely forgot and forgave, and Jonas had to admit he didn't know if he would've been so generous.
In another of those paradoxical little twists, Jonas began to understand the reaction to him only after Daniel came home. The guy was astonishing. He had spent a lot of blood and tears--and sometimes almost his life--attempting to help others, often with little thanks. He had sustained emotional blows that would've sent a lesser man off a bridge. Through it all he retained his generosity, his compassion, his courage and resolution, even his optimism. Amazing. Daniel genuinely accepted his offer of friendship, and the SGC personnel had followed his lead. Since his return Jonas was having more fun than he'd ever had in his life.
Most of the time. There were advantages to having what he sometimes thought of as the real SG-1 around; it was lot easier to deliver bad news to the commanding officer when they were here to contain the explosion.
"Let me make sure I got this," said Jack O'Neill, who had it but wasn't going to accept it without a fight. "Sometime before they got snaked somebody in The Trust--when this is over, nobody will ever use that phrase in my hearing, ever again--used the Tok'ra poison and stole a naquadah mine."
"That is an exaggeration, O'Neill. The Trust conducted a raid at Santander and carried off six months worth of naquadah production." Trust Teal'c to do the Kipling thing, keep his head while all about him were losing theirs. "Ironic. The use of the poison will mean Bastet's Legion will not be remembered for the krul'roc they were." ("Murders, destroyers," Daniel translated in response to the quizzical looks.)
"They released the workers in the mine and sent them through to the original Alpha site. SG-27 found them on one of the scheduled sweeps," Jonas said. He hoped that old Earth proverb about shooting the messenger was only a proverb. Looking at Jack now, he wasn't so sure.
"The kooks blew up the mine--I know, Carter, we don't know if they meant to blow up the mine or just underestimated the enhancing effect of the naquadah, whatever that means." Jack glared out the window at the Stargate, the inadvertent cause of all this trouble. Sometimes he really wished Daniel hadn't been so smart. "Then sometime somewhere along the way somebody contacted our old friends, the Collonans." (Did he dare point out it was the Langarans now, Jonas wondered? After about three nanoseconds his sense of self-preservation kicked in. . . .) "And offered them whatever their little double-crossing hearts desired in exchange for the naquadria research."
"They couldn't be that &^%() crazy." Normally, truck-driver language from Daniel would've drawn shocked stares. When the subject was naquadria--well, Daniel's words were mild compared to what his companions were thinking. Daniel's encounter with the stuff was only the biggest disaster on a long and bitter list. . .
"Oh, yes they can." Jack broke the icy little silence that always descended when the subjects of Daniel and naquadria came up at the same time. "Sea urchins are smarter than these guys. Bottom line--do we know what they got?"
Jonas really wished the man would stop scowling at him. "First minister Dreylock insists all the research was destroyed."
"And Dreylock buys that." Jack slapped the file in front him (a dry but still scary analysis of the effects of naquadria, actually) with an irritated movement. "Jonas Quinn, these are your people," Teal'c broke in. "You spent most of your life among them. First minister Dreylock is an honest woman, but are the people who reported to her as honest?"
Jonas hesitated; he was going to have to admit he didn't know. But at that delicate moment there was the clunk-schwong-whirr of an activated chevron. The alarms were going off as Harriman appeared in the doorway. "Sir, it's. . ." Walter's voice trailed away. What to call a man he considered a *&(^# liar, traitor and disgrace to his country? "Sir, it sounds like Maybourne."
"Oh, God," Jack O'Neill muttered. "This can't be good."
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And it wasn't.
"You better not be gaming me, Harry. This is so not the time." Jack was outraged by the unfairness of it all; for crying out loud, hadn't he saved the galaxy once today?
"I'm not." And for once in his miserable life Harry Maybourne was telling the truth. The royal drawers were still the same pair King Archon the First had put on that morning, but it had been (to misquote Wellington) a damned close-run thing, once he heard the story from the refugees. "I've been talking to people all day. I got sketches from two different groups who came through hours apart. Send me a picture if you want, that'll settle it, but I'm telling you, it's him."
"Kinsey was on the hatak."
"Not when it blew." Harry took off his little kingly headband and ran an agitated hand over his hair. "I don't like it any more than you do, but it's--listen, when was the last time you saw a Goa'uld in khakis and a button down shirt?"
"God%$&* son&^$()*^#%%," Jack snarled, but then it was a rhetorical question anyway. "&*()^%." To be honest it was Daniel who kept his eye on the ball. "The refugees. Do they know what Kinsey's Goa'uld was after?"
And Harry looked, if anything, even more scared. "The place has been free for years, but it used to be in--" He hesitated. "Nirrti's domain." (Jack O'Neill muttered something, fortunately inaudible.) "She did some experiments there, but it wasn't a bio lab from the descriptions. She--she could've been fooling around with naquadah."
What Jack really wanted to do was kick Nirrti's ass, or the Colonans', or Kinsey's; even Harry's would do. But it wasn't the time for that, either. He had to settle for asking, "So--what was he looking for? Did he find it?"
Harry hesitated. "I would say no, or at least not all of it, whatever it was. Nobody ever went near the complex; they told me it was a place of great evil." ("So they have some sense," Jack muttered.) "He pounded the hell out of the settlements around it. Not many Jaffa but--but from the description he's got an alkesh. No questions or demands, just--kaboom." Harry wiped his brow and said, "Jack, they're asking for my help." (Jack sighed, inaudibly. "Not as much sense as I thought.") "And I'm asking for your help."
"An assessment team is on the way, Harry. With a picture of Kinsey. This had better not be one of your scams." Jack turned to give orders, and Daniel broke in. "Maybourne, just out of curiosity--did Kinsey's Goa'uld give a name?"
King Archon opened his mouth, keenly aware of Jack's glower; he hesitated, his natural yellowness of spine reasserting itself. "Dr. Jackson. My college days are far behind me; mythology class is a little fuzzy. But undoubtedly you remember the moon god--the god of gods, if you will--of Ur, in ancient Sumeria."
Daniel has this expression, nothing so obvious as scrunching his face; more like he's confronted with a horrible smell, or maybe his stomach hurts. The consensus among women at the SGC who have discussed him (that would be all of them) and the women around the galaxy who've seen and discussed him (pretty much all of them too) is that he is always attractive. The further consensus is that look is as close as he'll ever get to unattractive. That expression came over his face as Harry passed him the buck. "Um--Nanna is the name you're looking for, I think."
Regrettably it must be reported Harry couldn't resist piling on. "Nanna. Yes, that's right. Nanna."
And there was nothing to say to that, really, although for the next three minutes Jack O'Neill said plenty. It involved a lot of repetition, however, and nothing constructive, so perhaps it's just as well to let it go.
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Various and sundry events over the next 72 hours left things in a state of uneasy equilibrium.
No busy signal from the Asgard this time--Thor and the *Daniel Jackson* were over Colorado almost before Jack could finish saying "disruptor technology." Thor and Carter got three remote-controlled ion cannons in orbit before breakfast; they were, as she said, lucky enough to guess right on the modifications. Lady McCarter showed up before lunch and got her shapely-but-evil mechanical butt kicked. Carter was relieved but not triumphant, saying RepliCarter would be back, and better prepared. Jack knew it, and resented it.
SG-14 and a team of scientists examined Nirrti's lab and couldn't determine what, if anything, had been taken. Tok'ra intelligence got enough of a line on Nanna to determine he was looking for a way to convert--well, something into something else.
The drones gladly gave up everything they knew about Anubis, Ba'al, anything Goa'uld, weaponry, Ancient technology--the whole bag. SGC teams and Jaffa were running all over the galaxy following leads and bringing home stuff that made the scientists' mouths water. It must be admitted it gave Jack great pleasure to be the one deciding what and how to share with the Tok'ra.
Four men and two women, armed with the proper paperwork, showed up at *Daedalus* claiming to be inspectors checking on implementation of ergonomics rules. They actually got on board; by some happy chance Paul Davis was there and managed to sound the alarm. He ended up with a hole in his shoulder, a commendation and a lot of extra attention from his girlfriend Julia Donovan, the former host of *Inside Access.* (Jen Hailey and Paul had met the tragic end everyone predicted.) *Daedalus* stayed on the ground still under repair and heavier guard; the potential thieves wouldn't talk.
The next 10 days were quiet. They were tough on Jack O'Neill, and oh God, that made them tough on everybody else.
He tried to keep it to himself, really he did. But after about three days even normally unflappable types like Phil Siler and Walter Harriman were staying as far away from him as they could. After five days Jonas invited himself offworld with Colonel Chebrikov's team; they endured a week of monsoons and counted themselves lucky. After six days Jack tried to pick a fight with Daniel--not the sharp sarcastic exchanges they both secretly enjoy, but a real say-things-to-regret-later, step-out-in-the-parking-lot fight. Daniel, who loves him like the father he lost, avoided fisticuffs but let him get away with a temper fit, making him even more annoyed. The next day Jack almost managed to pick a fight with Carter. As so often in the past Thor helped save the day, claiming he needed Sam's help offworld. She and Daniel escaped while she was still hanging on to the threads of her temper. Actually Teal'c could've gone with them but he chose to be the one who stayed behind. He was his usual stoic self through it all; his patience was sorely tried, but it only showed in their ping-pong games. It must be admitted he took unseemly pleasure in whupping Jack's ass.
On the 10th evening Jack went to the base gym and worked hard for a good 90 minutes. It should have improved his mood but didn't, because he stumbled over a weight bench and slightly twisted his good knee. He sulked all the way home, forgot to check out the girl who delivered his takeout, even had to lecture himself to keep from snapping at her. He sat through a new episode of The Simpsons and two reruns but even Homer couldn't help. He only laughed twice.
He got on the computer with the intention of looking up some astronomy postings--and almost tossed the laptop across the room when he found himself surfing superhero sites, looking for messages to Starsky. How pathetic was that?
Sullenly he went back to TV, intending to sulk and hypercriticize his way through an action movie, but the first thing he hit was *Singing In The Rain* and he was so annoyed that he threw the remote. Then he was too annoyed to pick it up (and frankly too discouraged too, although he'd never admit it). Within seconds he was back on the mental merry-go-round, pacing his den, looking for a solution and not finding it, sucking on a beer and wishing he still smoked, snarling at the TV since there was nothing else to snarl at, and finally all the sunniness spilling from the tube got to him and he found the remote and turned it off. He knew he was being completely childish; in his present mood the worst part was there was nobody around to see.
But in the midst of the pacing and beer-swilling and childish behavior Someone took pity on him. The answer came that night, in a dream.
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To the end of his life he will swear it wasn't the salsa. That salsa was still good. His team challenged that later, being familiar with the state of his refrigerator, and he defended himself at length. "So if it was not indigestion, O'Neill, what do you believe prompted your vision?" Teal'c asked. Jack responded by changing the subject. In the first place he doesn't get indigestion; he has a cast-iron stomach. In the second place--well, in the second place he knows exactly what happened. It's just not exactly an O'Neill kind of happening.
It was a memory of the poor lost lady Kendra, the woman who led Daniel and Carter to Thor's Hammer all those years ago, that clued him in. Nice lady, Kendra. She had tried to help Daniel out, telling him maybe Sha're was trying to communicate with him through his dreams. Daniel had needed to believe it; superficially cynical Jack O'Neill was another story. But now. . .
He went to bed late, reluctantly, dreading hours of lying awake in the dark; he surprised himself by falling asleep almost instantly. And somehow sometime during the night he found himself in the Gateroom.
It was raining in there, coming down in buckets, although not on him. And not on the dance orchestra that was all lined up along the ramp--horns, strings, drums, the whole nine yards. He was puzzling that out when he noticed the Gate was active; he opened his mouth to yell a warning. It was too late, but the dance orchestra didn't miss a note as the event horizon rolled right over them. When he dared to take a peek they were still intact. That was impossible, of course, but before he could think about that the event horizon shimmered and Carter came tap-dancing down the ramp toward him.
Okay, maybe his subconscious mind lingered a little too long on the dream-Carter's dress--not a dress, really, a little black shimmery dance thingamajig that was tight in all the right places. Exactly the right places. But what really got him was her smile, beautiful and bright like always but definitely come-hither, and she didn't smile at him like that. That smile held promise, if only in a dream.
Thus it was all the more disconcerting when she danced right by him.
He became aware Daniel was standing a few feet away--what was he doing here?--and Carter tap-danced up to him and the look they exchanged made him feel like a third wheel and why the hell was this happening in his dream? Then Carter was in Daniel's arms and they were kissing and Jack started to get seriously annoyed because this was supposed to be his dream and why was Daniel getting some--but right then they vanished.
And before he could think good riddance, in the bizarre way of dreams he found himself in the infirmary. It was deserted except for a woman sitting straight up in a chair, one leg extended in front of her like Cyd or Sheila or whatever that lady's name in the movie was, in that sexy dance scene. Jack was in full-dress uniform except for his cap, which was dangling off the toe of lady in the chair, and he took a closer look and realized she was--
Janet Fraiser.
His rational mind cringed at that but his subconscious mind jeered: C'mon, you think I didn't see? Those dreams you had after you got your head sucked? The twins might've started out looking like Uma Thurman, but they always--always--ended up looking like Sarah or Laira, or Kintha, or Carter or Janet. You know there was a lot of Janet.
Janet slid down in the chair just like Cyd or Sherry in the movie, his hat riding on her toe, and the smile on her face (she had never smiled at him like that either) made him forget all about Carter. She flipped him his hat, and as he caught it she kinda floated out of the chair. The next thing he knew she was tap-dancing around the infirmary, leaping gracefully from bed to bed. She wore her white lab coat, but underneath he caught glimpses of a white spangled dress, and--okay, maybe his subconscious mind worked a little hard on Janet's dress too. It too was tight in all the right places. She made another leap, straight for him, and he stretched out his arms to catch her, but before she landed the scene changed again. They were in the briefing room now; she was tap-dancing down the conference table. He was back in fatigues, she had lost the white lab coat; she looked like a million bucks in that dress. She executed a series of graceful pirouettes, then a back flip off the table and she floated down into his arms, light as a feather. She started sucking on his earlobe and his rational mind was getting a little uncomfortable; he wanted more but after all Janet was--then she started whispering in his ear.
And what she said brought him out of a sound sleep.
Barefoot, not stopping to turn on a light, he rushed into the living room and grabbed his laptop. He typed furiously for about 20 minutes. Then, with the satisfied smile of a man who has solved at least one of his many problems, he went back to bed. He fell asleep immediately and happily dreamed of twins and even triplets for hours. Okay, not twins, exactly--two leggy blondes named Sarah and Sam, and the triplet was a statuesque brunette named Laira. And if the twins and triplets eventually faded away and were replaced by a petite woman with light brown hair in a white lab coat and a hat like Napoleon wears in all the pictures, and if in some of those dreams she was wearing just the hat and sometimes not even that--well, it's probably appropriate to repeat a conversation between Daniel and Teal'c not long after SG-1 returned from Orilla.
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Teal'c had inquired about twins and Daniel, no skirt chaser, had stammered his way to a reply. "I suppose every man has thought about it," he continued. "Tau're men. Well, men around the galaxy, maybe. It might've crossed my mind--Sha're and Sarah?--it might've crossed my mind once. Or twice. Once in a great while." Daniel rarely protests too much; his fiery blush testified to considerable embarrassment. Not for the obvious reason, however. It's true Daniel doesn't have Jack's (alleged) taste for, ahem, group activity. But when he dreams those dreams, Sha're is there but not Sarah. It's Sam. Knowing she is Jack's girl, acutely uncomfortable with the fantasy, the woman he dreams of is Sam.
Teal'c did not request--or indeed require--an explanation for his friend's discomfiture. Daniel Jackson keeps his troubles to himself, but Teal'c understands his friend far better than he realizes. Teal'c is well aware Sarah Gardner could never assume the place Colonel Carter holds in Daniel Jackson's life. Nor could any other woman.
"Such speculation is not unknown among Jaffa men," he admitted, contriving to ignore Daniel's blush. He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps O'Neill should be made aware of the chemical compound Viagra. After all he is not Jaffa."
Poor Daniel's color deepened. "I--um--that's not--I don't--Jack and I, we don't--we don't, um, talk--talk about--anyway." He floundered to a halt, took a deep breath, tried again. "I don't know about Jaffa guys, but for most--most Earth guys, it's just--just theoretical. I mean--there's more to a relationship--you can't be in bed--there's other things--what I mean is, there's more to life. You know?"
Teal'c was silent. He thought of Daniel Jackson, and Colonel Carter, and Sha're. Valiant women both, courageous and strong. Very strong. Strong-minded as well. Women with a great capacity for love, and very forthright. Very.
And he thought of himself, and the women he loved. And he considered. Drey'ac and Sha'noc. Drey'ac and Ishta. Ishta and Sha'noc. He admired as well as loved them, admired their courage and strength. All three of them were very strong. Loving and very strong. Very strong.
"Indeed," he said. "Once again you have shown wisdom, Daniel Jackson."
Jack O'Neill spends a lot of time directing attention to the image, the immature and slightly dense semi-dorfus, the would-be skirt and twins chaser. It's okay; it amuses him and it's harmless, because the image hides nothing. The intelligent and thoughtful grownup that forms the bedrock of his character (the shy, slightly sad one that actually attracts the women he wants to attract) knows twins or triplets are beyond him. (Out of bed, that is.) He's even willing to recognize he'll have his troubles with one woman, unless she's the right woman. She'll need the patience to put up with the games that come with the image; she'll require some attitude. Like a Napoleonic power monger, maybe.
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In the SGC control room, Day 11 didn't look to be any better than Day 10. Teal'c and Sergeant Harriman exchanged an eloquent look as they heard O'Neill on the stairs. Jack saw the end of the look but ignored it. He felt way too good. "Hey, guys. Nice day." He got cautious nods in return; nobody said a word, and with the mood he'd been in he couldn't blame them. "Okay. So--where'd Thor go with Carter and Daniel?"
"P8C 509." Walter's tone made it clear Jack had already been informed of that but had been too grouchy to listen.
"The planet where we took the refugees from--"
"P3R 118. Yes, sir."
"Tropical beaches. Dang, those Asgard are full of surprises." Jack was so cheerful it was difficult to believe this was the same man who had sulked his way out last night. "Y'know, I wonder if that Administrator--what was his name? Yeah, Calder--I wonder if he liked digging his own coal." (For the record, he didn't. He had called down many curses on the heads of SG-1, until he came to a bad end just about the time Ba'al captured Jack O'Neill and Kanan.) "Well, I hate to interrupt all that--science, but call them up, will ya, Walter? Tell them I need them back home."
"They are scheduled to return tomorrow, O'Neill." Teal'c was considering O'Neill's belligerent behavior toward his team earlier in the week. (He may get exasperated with Jack's alleged sentimentality, but there are times he's as soft and squishy as a toasted marshmallow.)
Jack shook his head. "Need `em today. I want to get those Trust kooks and Kinsey while the getting's good. Nanna--y'know, I used to know a guy who called his grandmother that." He waved a hand at the Stargate. "Time's a-wasting, Walter." And he started up the stairs toward the briefing room and his office.
But Harriman was staring after his commanding officer in astonishment. God knew General O'Neill had his share of quirky character traits but he had never ever burst into song. Now, it wasn't like he had suddenly turned into Frank Sinatra, or Elvis. But as O'Neill bounced up the stairs he was definitely doing something that sounded like humming. He took the precaution of closing his office door; even so, before it got all the way closed some very strange sounds floated down to the control room, so strange Walter was tempted to call Medical and ask if they could sneak some tests on the general. He couldn't have been snaked. . .
"I believe it is O'Neill making that noise." With time it's easier to decipher that deadpan Jaffa delivery and know when Teal'c is making a joke. Walter grinned. "I walk down the lane with a happy refrain," Teal'c repeated thoughtfully.
"I'm singin', just singin' in the rain." Walter's response slipped out of its own volition. All eyes turned to him, and he cleared his throat. "My wife--she, uh, she's a big Gene Kelly fan. It's really a pretty good movie." He cleared his throat again. "I'll contact P8C509."
"Sergeant Harriman. There is in this country of the Tau're a saying that encourages people not to rely on talents they may believe they possess." Teal'c glanced at the briefing room door.
"Chevron three encoded. `Don't give up your day job' is what you're looking for, I think."
"Perhaps we should endeavor to express that sentiment gently to O'Neill. Certainly he should not give up his day job."
Probably it was a good thing the event horizon opened just then. Walter passed along the message to Sam and Daniel; he was mildly surprised they answered without hesitation. They returned looking relaxed and suspiciously tanned. Jack, acting as if the week's drama had been a figment of their imagination, outlined his plan.
What happened next was something he always loved to watch. Their eyes lit up and they went into what he privately thought of as genius mode. They were already planning their strategy as they left the briefing room, and Jack watched them go with satisfaction and silent gratitude to a certain medico who had turned out to be a hell of dancer.
Even inspired plans require some help and a couple of days to come together. Federal Bureau of Investigation agents were asked to float certain rumors, Central Intelligence Agency personnel were asked to plant others, the rebel Jaffa and Tok'ra still others. The CIA and Tok'ra saw to it that carefully selected people were informed of certain activities. Certain websites, cell and land phones, the activities of certain people were monitored closely.
And among many other things, NID agent Malcolm Barrett privately acknowledged he had made a mistake.
Barrett was the lead investigator on the Trust case; he thought he knew it in and out. He had thought it was about greed and money, and power. He should've known better; he had read (not willingly) Raul Hilberg and Robert Conquest, Solzhenistsyn and the story of the ordinary men of Reserve Police Battalion 101. Colonel Carter and Dr. Jackson had known better, without benefit of all the hints. They understood it was about power, but mostly about arrogance and self-righteousness.
The Trust types exist out where the buses don't run, out there past even the Goa'uld. The snakes don't have what it takes to play with true Trusties. Goa'uld love power, love satisfying every whim no matter how perverse or cruel. But for them power is the end. For Trust types it's the means to the end.
Malcolm Barrett realized the crucial nature of that distinction as he stood in Dr. Jackson's office and watched as Jackson and Colonel Carter baited the hook. The nature of the vision changes according to time and place--religion, politics, even ecology; the fact of the vision is eternal. That the visions inevitably incite opposition is part of the attraction; true Trusties positively revel in doing what they think it will take to realize their vision. That's why religion is ultimately an unsatisfactory vehicle; it imposes limits. True Trusties are contemptuous of limits. They have plans; their plans can't be limited by outmoded notions like morality and law.
Samantha Carter and Daniel Jackson had been on their trail for three days now, and what they had found caused the hair to stand up on the back of Barrett's neck. Trusties need outside help like war and revolution to succeed because their plans lack appeal in normal times. The Trust leaders were unperturbed when their lesser colleagues were snaked and a Goa'uld conspiracy took the planet to the brink of nuclear war. They had their plan--and if Colonel Carter was right, they had the naquadriah research also. What they didn't have, thank God, was a way of getting to their naquadah stash.
Jack O'Neill had heard this news with well-concealed satisfaction. Kinsey and naquadah and the Trust; Janet had given him a way to get them all, although she had left the details up to him. You'll figure it out, she had said, and added, there's nobody better at this than you. You or Kinsey. Kinsey or you. My money's on you every time, honey, she had said, and kissed him.
You have Teal'c, she had added, you have Daniel and Sam. What else do you need? Jack suppressed a grin as he looked at Carter and Daniel, hunched over the computer. She was right; hey, she was usually right. Teal'c was off at the drone base, gathering up some of the boys; he had come up with the perfect way to use them. Daniel and Carter--well, in three days they had found more than the FBI and NID had turned up in two and a half years. Impressive, even for them.
Agent Barrett was trying to keep up with them and failing; Jack recognized that hit-with-a-brick look. That mental afterburner they shared had kicked in, and they were chattering to each other in that language they had, the one of scientistese and half-finished sentences that sounded like English. Carter, thoroughly engrossed in the problem, had her arm across the back of Daniel's chair, hand idly playing with his hair. Suddenly Jack felt sorry for Pete Shanahan--and for himself.
Not very sorry. Some of Pete's antics set his teeth on edge--background-checking, new-girlfriend-following flatfoot. He didn't like it, and not just because he wanted Carter for himself. He would always love her; when they opened him up they would find her name engraved on his heart. (Okay, along with Sarah and maybe Laira. . . ) But he wasn't sure he wanted her for himself anymore. It was a pleasant fantasy, but Jack had always known that loving her and living with her would be two totally different things.
He didn't know what he wanted anymore. He did know he wanted her to have the kind of man she deserved, which sure as hell wasn't Pete but might not be him either. Probably wasn't, painful as it was to admit that. He suppressed a sigh.
And in the midst of his sea of indecision he was visited by a vision. Nothing like bright lights and voices from the sky; he didn't rate. More just a thing where the room faded away and he found himself on his back deck fighting the grill and the steaks. A little boy played on the swing set in the yard; Cassie and her fianc (fianc?!?) were supervising. Teal'c and Ishta sat on a blanket near the swing set, with the baby (baby!?!).
Two kids, Carter and Daniel's kids (!?!), and even the baby had those impossibly big, impossibly blue eyes. They would have their mother's long legs and heart-stopping smile. (Daniel has both too, but the only thing Jack has noticed about him is his effect on women. A less secure guy would be jealous of the way women melt around Daniel.) From the kitchen Daniel yelled for the boy; his name will be John, and the grownup Jack felt a glow of pride. But. If Carter is with Daniel, he wondered, then who's with me? Just then Carter walked out of the house, followed by--
A brown haired, brown eyed Napoleonic power mongering angel. And Jack O'Neill had to fight down a smile, because seeing her meant he could count on this. Okay, his girl was a secret; he accepted she wouldn't tell him everything. She winked at him and suddenly he wondered--any chance you can ditch the angel gig and come home? And just like that the vision faded. The king of the grill and his angel were gone and he was back at SGC, a little disappointed, even though he knew he was asking the impossible. Yet that was secondary. We're going to be okay, he had told Daniel on the day he met the Asgard, and he knew now it was truth. He had it from an unimpeachable source.
"Jack?" Daniel's voice chased away the last images of a great day in the backyard. "Are you okay?"
Jack O'Neill grinned. "Of course." And he really meant it.
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The late and totally unlamented Goa'uld who called herself Hathor had been, along with her many other unlovely qualities, a first-class liar. She had once told Sam that a symbiote could inflict excruciating pain on its host. Robert Kinsey had discovered this to be basically untrue. Not that his captor, intensely annoyed by him, didn't try.
"Shut up," Nanna snapped, goaded beyond endurance. "Or I'll--"
"You'll what?" Kinsey asked, in the tone that had infuriated representatives, senators, governors, presidents, reporters, people testifying at hearings and pretty much everyone else (not quite enough voters, alas) since the 1976 election. "You can't hurt me without hurting yourself. I have nothing to worry about. I've never met a bigger coward."
"Except perhaps yourself," Nanna snarled. "And you forget. Nothing requires me to stay with you. I can leave at any time. And ensure that I kill you in the process." With Kinsey's hands he adjusted their course. The hatak raced on through hyperspace.
Kinsey sneered. "Oh, please. Spare me the threats. You need me, at least for now. A pity," he added thoughtfully, "that Jack O'Neill and his unit were our first contacts with your species. Had you met more. . . reasonable representatives, we might have reached an understanding. There were no fundamental issues between us. There is room in this galaxy for an infinite variety of life choices." Robert Kinsey, pillar of the Episcopal Church, embarrasses his co-religionists with his occasional references to God and country. But he's always demonstrated a thorough grasp of current dogma.
"Pah. Apophis should have dealt with you properly when he had the chance." Nanna clenched Kinsey's fists; damn Apophis, and damn Amaunet. He had had a harem full of suitable women to serve as her host; there had been no need to look elsewhere. They had paid with their lives for their mistakes, but not before they had brought trouble to all Goa'uld. "You would hardly have made suitable slaves. You were even too arrogant to acknowledge us as gods."
"Yes," Kinsey mused. "Look what happened when you ran into people who knew you were lying." Inwardly he smiled, knowing his captor would feel it. "A genuine Gotterdammerung--how does it feel? `All who hear the news of you clap their hands over you. For upon whom has not come your unceasing evil?'" Robert Kinsey knew his Bible, even if he had never bothered to absorb its lessons.
"Do not be so quick to consign us to oblivion." Nanna busied himself with the controls to keep Kinsey's hands from shaking. "These--replicators will share the fate of all the others who have challenged us. This pathetic Jaffa rebellion is no match for us. We have reigned for many centuries; we will reign for many more." He swallowed. "Many more," he repeated, knowing, as Kinsey knew, that he was trying to convince himself as much as his captive host.
"Then perhaps you can. . . clarify how naquadah--or naquadriah, should you be so crazy as to try to make it--fits into your plan. I'm assuming you have a plan." Back in 1993 that tone had so infuriated the president of France that he questioned Kinsey's relations with the goats on the Senator's suburban Virginia farm.
"You would dare mock me?" Nanna roared, and Kinsey hastily retreated. After all, the Goa'uld could and would put up with a little pain. . . Nanna too retreated, intent on beating down a flicker of panic. "No plan, you say." Nanna managed a laugh. "I find it amusing that the Tau're have shown me the way." He used Kinsey's mouth to smile, an even more unpleasant smile than the original. "Your race has much knowledge of the Ancients; surely you have found something to tempt the replicator woman. Make the bait attractive enough, and she will bring her entire army. Even she cannot survive the naquadriah. Once she is gone it will be a simple matter to destroy such replicators as are left. Neither Ba'al nor the System Lords can stand against me then."
"Hmm." Kinsey refrained from pointing out it wasn't so much a plan as a drama inspired by wishful thinking, with Nanna as the star. "Wouldn't naquadah do the trick, if it's simply a matter of blowing her up? You shouldn't fool around with it--that stuff is far more dangerous than you realize." For Robert Kinsey's overriding concern is always his own skin. "And how, exactly, do you plan to make naquadriah? You don't know anything about it, let alone how to make it."
Nanna was smug. "Your friends in the Trust will help me there. Some Collonans were persuaded, shall we say, to share the information that had been collected. I have no doubt your friends are equally open to persuasion, in their turn."
Kinsey had noted their course the moment Nanna had entered it. "Well. You may be a little optimistic there, considering the entire reason they exist is to fight your kind." Well, not exactly; they wanted to fight, sure, but they wanted to fight dirty. That fighting dirty had gotten them nowhere had escaped their notice, as well as Kinsey's.
Nanna snorted. "You well know the Goa'uld have many ways to get what they seek. I am confident your friends will respond to my--request."
"Your confidence might be misplaced," Kinsey observed coolly. "You're assuming my friends learned nothing from your friends. That your recent activities went unnoticed. You might want to rethink that assumption, in light of the changed circumstances."
"And what has changed?"
"My dear fellow." Now it was Kinsey's turn to be smug. "The System Lords are on the verge of total defeat--Bastet, Ares; who knows how many more are already dead? There are still the replicators, and of course Anubis might still be out there somewhere. They're closing in--don't you feel it? `Draw water for the siege, strengthen your forts,'" Kinsey chanted. "'Man the ramparts; watch the road. Gather all your strength. . .'"
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"No," said Jack O'Neill.
"You have to." Jonas Quinn was firm; the control room staff looked at him in surprise. He was not one to talk back.
"No. I don't." Jack was equally firm.
Jonas rubbed his forehead. "Yes, you do."
"No, I don't." Jack turned away and started up the stairs to the briefing room, making it clear that was the last word.
Not quite. "Jack, two-thirds of their organization was blown to hell, and most of the rest are in jail. They still tried to grab Prometheus and Daedalus. They aren't going quietly. They've got the naquadriah research; they're not going to stop just because they can't read the damn instructions. Not when they know where there's raw naquadah and people who can read the instructions."
"Right now they've got bigger problems." Jack grinned when he thought how big those problems were getting, thanks to his resident geniuses. "I'm thinking they're concentrating on--what's the word I'm looking for? Oh. Survival."
"That's ^%*&$ and you know it," Jonas said, while the control room crew listened in fascinated silence. "Why did you send Kianna offworld? And thanks."
"Were you in the room when she talked about her mom?" Jack O'Neill's motto is, never admit anything when you're caught acting smart. "Something about surgery, or whatever it's called on Collona? And you're welcome."
A hit, a palpable hit, and Jonas acknowledged it with a slight grimace. "It's called surgery there, too." He waved a hand in the air, signaling it was time to get serious. "The point is, you have to give them something--someone." It was unfair, but he pulled out his trump card. "They've already targeted Daniel once. They won't hesitate to go after him again. And he doesn't know the physics. Who does know the physics?"
Well, pick the sports metaphor--game, set and match; four aces, checkmate, slam dunk, whatever. Jack had hoped to avoid it, but. It did no good to sulk, but he did it anyway; then he and Jonas worked out a revision in the plan.
Thus it was that some 25 hours later, Mrs. Anne Gould sat in her living room and looked earnestly at Pete Shanahan of the Colorado Springs Police Department. "It was just a little strange."
"Yes, ma'am." Sheer fate had thrown Pete and Mrs. Gould together; Pete wondered what Fate's problem was with him. "If we can just go over what you told the officers. You saw your neighbor--"
"Jonas Quinn." Anne Gould nodded vigorously.
"Yes ma'am. You saw Mr. Quinn leaving his residence with two men, in a manner you found suspicious."
"But they all finished their ice cream first." Anne Gould took a deep breath. "It was just--it was *odd.* I mean, it's not the first time odd things have happened over there; Jonas and Kianna are a little odd, and so are some of their friends, but aren't we all?" She gave a little laugh, and Pete wondered what she might say if she knew her neighbors gave the term "resident alien" a whole new meaning. "Well, Jonas was sitting on the porch, reading--this is sure the day for it; isn't it beautiful? Anyway, these two guys drove up."
"Can you describe them?"
"Well, really, I. . ." Anne Gould made a helpless little gesture. "Just--two men. One African-American, in their 30s, I suppose. Dark hair, both of them. They were--usual. Anyway, they went up to Jonas and they talked for a few minutes, while he finished his ice cream. And then I heard him say, `I insist. It's new; it's banana.' And one of the men went in the house with him, and they came back out with ice cream. And when they were finished one of the men took the bowls back in the house, and they all three left. But--" She pressed her lips together and looked away, completely serious now. "I didn't like them. I didn't like it. Any of it."
Pete, a little further in the loop (but not much), liked it even less. In a remarkable display of athletic ability, he rose without help from the depth of Mrs. Gould's overstuffed couch. He had to explain there were rules about these things; but unofficially, he said, he could do some checking. And while Pete lacks sense in important ways (when he met Sam he treated her like a homicide suspect, but with less respect), he's an excellent police officer. The first thing he did, upon taking leave of Mrs. Gould, was dial a cell phone number he knew by heart.
"Hi, beautiful." In the long run Pete would be happy he met Samantha Carter, although not for the reasons he anticipated. Now Sam sounded distracted, Pete regretfully put of flirting and got to the point. "Your friend Jonas Quinn. . ."
"Actually, yeah, I do know where Jonas is." Sam felt mildly guilty about paying so little attention to her fianc, but she was concentrating on the computer in her lap. Phil Siler sat behind the wheel of the nondescript sedan in which they traveled, silent, intent on negotiating the tricky junction of 470 and I-70.
Actually she knew exactly where Jonas was, in the back of a van about 17 miles west of the interchange, headed toward the Utah border. One of the men who had escorted from the house was with him. "No, he can't talk to you right now, but I'll tell him to call you when I see him--sorry, Pete, I have to go." The slight feeling of guilt increased as Pete good-naturedly broke the connection.
But Sam didn't have much time to think about it; the voice of Major Davis sounded in her ear. "Colonel, we've received word the former senator has departed for points unknown." Paul Davis was a sucker for the cloak-and-dagger stuff usually denied majors with a flair for negotiation; hole in his shoulder, arm in a sling, he was in the control room at Cheyenne Mountain. "As for our second subject, he left Stapleton on his way to Chicago." For the banana ice cream, despite the proclamation on the carton, did in fact have an additive--one of those handy-dandy Tok'ra isotopes, one that allowed the wearer to be tracked like he was wearing a big red and green flashing neon sign. Remembering the Tollan, Jack was inclined to be suspicious at such largesse. But as Jacob Carter pointed out (with just the faintest touch of sarcasm), even the Tok'ra could be grateful for services rendered.
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Goxx and Glex and a third drone, Golox, looked out the--well, it's always been called a windscreen, regardless of the fact there's no wind and no glass--out the window with interest, watching the planet Saturn drift by on their left. Teal'c manipulated the controls; Reynolds and SG-3 stood between him and the drones, weapons trained the black-clad figures. They had been docile the whole three-day trip, and Dan Reynolds thought maybe all the precautions were a little too much, but Teal'c had insisted. And Reynolds had to admit, given the stakes, that he was a convert to the better-safe-than-sorry school.
Goxx watched as Teal'c deftly threaded his way through an asteroid field. "We approach the Tau're homeworld."
"We do." Teal'c concentrated on his task; the Tau're system was unusually full of space junk.
"Prince Teal'c, with your permission I would question you."
Teal'c waited until they had cleared the asteroids, then studied Goxx for a moment before saying, "Proceed."
"We have killed Tau're--not so many, but some. We have killed many thousands of Jaffa, and some Tok'ra. King Jack and King Daniel could have ordered us to destroy ourselves, or ordered us destroyed. We would have submitted; we are Sensua. Yet they have spent many hours among us and have sent their people to help us. Why? I do not understand."
"It is the way of these Tau're." Teal'c smiled a Jaffa smile. It was to be expected that Daniel Jackson would take this responsibility seriously, even though it had been thrust upon him without his consent. There were many Tok'ra and even some Jaffa who were surprised that O'Neill too had taken it seriously. Teal'c thought they should have known better. "Of course there are many billions of Tau're, just as there are many thousands of Sensua. Not all Tau're would have been so generous, as no doubt there are some Sensua who have not accepted the new masters."
But all three drones shook their heads. "That is incorrect," Goxx said. He was silent for a long minute, then said thoughtfully, "Do you know, Prince Teal'c, King Daniel did not command us to give our assistance? He asked us. Now the Sensua have served masters with honor, as well as those without." He tipped his head. "The lord Anubis still lives."
"Of that I am aware." Teal'c's voice was thoughtful in turn.
"If he returns from exile he will expect us to return to his service."
"And will you?"
"No." As Glex spoke all three shook their heads. "The Lord Anubis said he was creator; it may be true, I do not know. If that is true he designed us to be used, then die. He intended that we believe his service was all life held for us. He miscalculated. Or perhaps his calculations did not matter; perhaps we always had the choice regardless of his intentions. Wherever the truth lies, we have chosen. If the Lord Anubis returns he will expect adoration and obedience. He will receive neither. Our choice is to serve a lord with honor."
Choice. Teal'c understood, perhaps better than anyone in the galaxy. His memories of the rite of mal'sha'ron were fragmentary at best, but he remembered the moment of truth, and of choice. Choose, Bray'tac had shouted at him. Choose. Choose to come back to us. Now he inclined his head, the gesture signaling respect. "You understand honor, and you have pledged yourself to its service. Perhaps you have more brain than you know."
The drones shook their heads again. "No," Goxx said. "It takes little brain to see what honor is, and what it is not."
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The dry lakebeds at Edwards Air Force Base have seen many strange and wonderful things, but nothing like this. It wasn't the cargo ship--those had been here, in conditions of strict secrecy--it was the tall creatures in glittering black armor. Their first act, upon exiting the cargo ship, had been to drop to their knees in front of the two men waiting for them. They didn't hail, they didn't rumble, they just knelt in silence. Actually it was more impressive as any hailing.
Jack O'Neill, quintessential baby boomer, actually does take serious things seriously--but he doesn't want to be seen taking them seriously, at least most of the time. The patent seriousness of the drones made him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. "So. You boys bring me back something nice?"
"A most interesting voyage." Teal'c regarded him with ill-concealed amusement. "Your plan proceeds, O'Neill."
Jack, brio firmly back in place, raised one eyebrow. "Like clockwork." He looked at the silent drones at his feet. "C'mon, guys, you can get up. Too much of that adoring will ruin your knees." As they scrambled to their feet Jack directed them to a van a few feet away, rather battered, "MGM Properties" written on its side.
The cargo ship shimmered, then vanished as the cloaking device activated. Surrounded by a swarm of Marines, the drones walked toward the van. Malcolm Barrett and a second swarm, this one of NID agents, waited by the vehicle. "Hey Glex, did you guys go to the bathroom?" Jack yelled as people and drones began climbing into the van. "It's a long way to LA, y'know." Glex half-turned; Barrett laid a hand on his arm. "He's joking, Glex. It's okay."
Glex looked at Jack, saw Barrett was correct; "you will have to explain jokes to me someday, King Jack." O'Neill suppressed a sigh; some people--creatures--no, people, kinda--would never appreciate his razor-sharp wit.
"Jack, I've been thinking," Daniel said, as Jack led the way to the small group waiting by the second vehicle.
"Daniel, I wish you'd quit that." Jack was only half-joking. "It's never caused anything but trouble. Mostly for you," he added under his breath, but Daniel heard.
He suppressed a smile. "Jack, is Los Angeles really the best choice for this? General Hammond isn't going to like trying to explain another incident. Not after last time." When he thought of that day Daniel always felt the same twinge of sadness and regret. Poor Anna. . .
"Nothing will go wrong. Besides--six-foot-eight guys in shiny black armor," Jack countered. "Where else can we go?" His cell phone rang; it was Davis. "General, the former Senator has arrived." (The reworked computer program for detecting cloaked ships was coming in very handy.) "And delivery of the packages appears to be on schedule." It can't be said that Jonas Quinn was enjoying his trip to LA, and Jack wasn't enjoying it either. But all the Trusties seemed to really want to talk to him; Jonas had proven to be the final nail in their coffin. Ten nasty bad guys, all in a room--Jack suppressed a smile as his team climbed in and he started the engine. There was poem in there somewhere.
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Actually, there weren't ten of them left. Of the 25 or so men and women who had (as one of the original 25 expressed it) gotten involved in this effort, only four survived. And it must be admitted they were still alive and human because of their superior judgment, at least on the question of survival.
Over time they had emerged as the real leaders, but were content to stay in the background. As Maybourne went on the run, the businessmen were arrested, their more active colleagues driven to flee the galaxy with unfortunate consequences, they kept doing what they always did. The attractive lady with black hair and dead white skin continued to sell luxury goods produced in eastern Europe. The dark haired man who dressed so neatly was the same fussy and infuriatingly precise accountant he always had been. The man with skin the color of strong coffee and close-cropped gray hair managed a glass factory; he had been questioned, after his boss was charged with conspiracy in the attempted assassination of Robert Kinsey, but had managed to allay suspicion. The tiny Oriental woman, the lady with enigmatic smile, had inherited an export-import company from her late husband; they had taken pride in being among the 25.
The fifth man at the table was a little better known, a one-time computer whiz who had failed to live up to his promise. He prided himself that he believed in nothing; he cooperated with these people for the money. Now he was beginning to discover he did value something other than money. His skin.
"They were outside my house last night." The computer ex-whiz was on the verge of hysterics. "I'm telling you, they're on to me--you have to do something!" His voice rose to a shriek. "They're on to me. That means they're on to you."
"They aren't on to you." The accountant hated scenes. "If they were on to you, you'd be dead. Pull yourself together."
"I was always skeptical of the wisdom of stealing so much money from drug dealers." The factory manager studied his hands. (These people loved nothing so much as reminding each other of their superior judgment.) "However, I agree. We have not been compromised by them."
"We have been compromised by someone." The fur-caviar saleslady began passing papers around the table. "I felt something was wrong when I checked the e-mail drop. I was correct--look." The others studied the papers, for the first time feeling a little uneasy. "There were unauthorized inquiries. If it hadn't been for my suspicion, we might not have known they were there. He," she sneered in the direction of the computer ex-whiz, "has been unable to trace them."
"This is irrelevant," snapped the owner of the export-import company. "If we have been careful, and we have, they will find nothing." She looked up and down the table. "However. We must take this latest effort into account. Quinn is in the next room; I suggest we begin with all possible speed." The factory manager got up and went to the door.
"This is $#^*)(%," shrieked the computer ex-whiz. "&^#$%. You have to help me! You have to!" Clumsily he leaped to his feet, tipping over the chair in the process.
The caviar-fur saleslady reached into her purse, pulled out a .45 and pointed it at the computer ex-whiz. "Sit down." With a strangled sob, the computer ex-whiz flung himself under the table. "We will address your problem in due time," the caviar-fur saleslady continued. "Now we have more important things to think about."
"More important," the computer ex-whiz moaned. "For God's sake--are you people nuts? They're closing in!" Now, no one would've cast him in the role of prophet; the conspirators ignored him as Jonas Quinn was escorted into the room. They forgot prophets can come in the most unlikely packages.
Fourteen miles above Los Angeles, Nanna straightened Kinsey's tie. "Perhaps you were right about the suit."
"I guarantee we will cut a more impressive figure than we would have bare-chested and in a tufted wool skirt." Kinsey's sarcasm, alas, did not register with his captor. Nanna activated the Asgard transport device he had stolen from a vassal of Anubis and they disappeared from the hatak in a flash of light. There was a slight shimmer in space, off the hatak's port side; *Prometheus* appeared. The hatak's rings activated, carrying cargo from the bigger ship.
"The probes are aboard, General." Privately no one was more surprised than Lionel Pendergraft that the whole nutty plan was working. "We are jamming the transport device. And the gang's all there."
"On the way." Jack O'Neill grinned his most infuriating grin.
Time and circumstances had, in fact, taken their toll on the Trust. There were none of their guards to see the slightly battered van and the blue SUV pull into the parking garage and disgorge their passengers. (They appeared briefly on the building's security monitors; the staff was impressed with the quality of science fiction movie costumes these days.) There was no one to hear as a disturbance, substantial and staged, drew the security team to the back entrance.
Jonas surveyed his captors as he was forced into a chair. "Y'know, I should be flattered. Y'all went to a lot of trouble to set up this meeting. Too bad it will be totally unproductive."
The export-import company owner smiled, an unpleasant smile. "You are not good at imitating O'Neill--" She was interrupted by a flash of white light; all eyes turned to the newcomer, regarded with a notable lack of enthusiasm. "Kinsey. I can't say it's nice to see you again, but I am glad you're here. We have some matters to discuss with you."
Kinsey's eyes flashed; it was never a pleasant sight. "I will not insist that you worship me as your god," Nanna said. The factory manager snorted. "Not yet. But I think you will be glad to do anything I ask, once I am finished with you."
The factory manager stood and made a gesture that might have been an ironic bow, a gesture of defiance, maybe. Actually he reached under the table, pulled out a rifle and fired it at Nanna.
The creature touched his wrist band and was enveloped in a glowing cone; to the factory manager's surprise, the dart bounced off and fell to the floor. "Your lackey didn't steal the whole report, huh?" Jonas kept his tone conversational. "You need a trinium dart." He stood, picked up the metal chair and, in a thoroughly unsporting gesture, aimed low at the man on his right. His aim was perfect; direct hit. The two men on his left leaped for him and were sent flying by a blast from Nanna's ribbon device. Jonas dove under the table, the Trusties began squawking and at that moment the door was not so much kicked in as wrenched from its frame.
"Remember what we talked about, boys," Daniel cautioned, and if their faces hadn't been hidden by the helmets, it would've been possible to see the drones smiling, mirroring that affection for Daniel felt by a long list of beings, from Oma Desala to the Unas.
"Of course, King Daniel." Goxx meant to sound reassuring. He turned to Daniel, a little embarrassed; "I forgot one thing. Which one first?"
"Start with the Goa'uld." Goxx nodded, and the three drones advanced on Nanna. The creature roared, raised his hand; the drones rocked a little at the blast from the ribbon device but kept coming. Nanna touched his wristband and there was a little gneep, the sound of a jammed transport beam. By that time the drones were on him; there was a subdued flash as Glex reached through the force field and took Kinsey by the wrist. Goxx picked up the dart, looked at it curiously as Glex pried the ribbon device from Nanna/Kinsey's hand.
"I will kill him," Nanna screamed; Kinsey began choking and Jonas's victim rose to his feet, groggily. Teal'c zatted him as the factory manager began edging toward the door. Goxx looked at Daniel, who nodded his head, and Goxx plunged the dart into the base of Kinsey's neck. There was a strangled noise from the Goa'uld and Golox stepped forward to catch the man as he fell. "Now, King Jack?"
"Lemme check." Jack clicked his radio. "Secure up there, Colonel?" The export-import company owner picked up the rifle and lifted it over her head; she charged Daniel and was stopped dead in her tracks by a shot from Sam's zat. Pendergraft's voice crackled over the airwaves; "SG-12 is aboard, sir. Still checking for possible explosive devices; self-destruct is disengaged."
"I'm sending Kinsey up."
"Understood." The factory manager made a leap toward the door, only to be met by a flood of NID agents, shouting instructions. He was wrestled to the floor. Golox and Kinsey disappeared. The computer ex-whiz was screaming; "I'll talk, I'll talk, I'll tell you everything," he sobbed. He tried to crawl further under the table.
"Yeah, I bet you will. I bet you'll even make stuff up to get out from under, won't you?" Jack regarded the hysterics with distaste. "Goxx, Glex, help Agent Barrett clean up this mess." The drones turned toward the caviar-fur saleslady, and the sight caused her to lose her head. She picked up the .45 and opened fire, blazing away until she ran out ammunition, screaming incoherently all the while. Goxx and Glex looked with mild interest at the bullets bouncing off their chests. Those not encased in armor hit the floor.
Except the accountant. Bullets flew all around him, and he didn't move. He didn't move as the fur-caviar saleslady, her ammunition expended at last, threw the gun at the drones. He didn't move, didn't speak as Glex picked her up and carried her, kicking and screaming, to Malcolm Barrett. He didn't move, except a curious wriggling of his shoulders, as two of Barrett's agents advanced on him, guns drawn. He spoke as they forced him to his feet.
"This will not be forgotten," he said coldly.
Jack O'Neill looked at him, genuinely impressed. "You sound like you think you're going to get out of this."
"Of course we will get out of this, as you so picturesquely put it. You can't arrest us; you certainly can't try us. The first minute in court and the entire Stargate program would be blown wide open. You can't risk it."
Jack grinned. "We have some really smart people on our side, y'know. They thought of that. So there's this plan."
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There was indeed a plan, actually the brainchild of President Henry Hayes. The secretaries of State and Defense had tried to talk him out of it, going so far as to use the word "harebrained." Whether they were right or not, it probably shouldn't have worked. But it did.
It was three days after the incident in Los Angeles that the Tok'ra High Council agreed to a joint meeting with Jaffa representatives and the commander and flagship team of Stargate Command. Jack thought their more or less allies deserved to hear the rest of the story.
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Jacob's first thought was that Jack cleans up pretty good.
This was a little unfair, since Jacob has seen Jack cleaned up before (and if the women Jacob knows are any indication, Jack doesn't have to be very clean to get feminine attention). But today he was practically spit-shined--full dress blues with a chest full of campaign ribbons, spotless white shirt; he'd gone so far as to replace his usual black sneakers with leather shoes, polished, no less. Shaved, scrubbed, hair combed--he practically gleamed.
Teal'c too was scrubbed to a fare-thee-well. Jacob grinned. Teal'c had excellent taste for a man who hadn't seen a suit until he was 98 or so. Or maybe he had dragged Sam or Cassie (or maybe the late, so lamented Janet Fraiser) along when he went shopping for the black suit and shirt and restrained red tie. Jonas Quinn was a touch sportier--blazer and khakis, discreet plaid shirt, instead of a suit--but between them they made one hell of a trio.
Jacob glanced at the striking young couple who followed them into the Council chamber and wondered where Sam and Daniel were. It was a good 30 seconds before it sank in that the beautiful blonde and her good-looking escort were his daughter and Daniel.
Jacob the fond father has always known his daughter was beautiful; it hit Jacob the protective father with hurricane force. She had opted for civvies; her deceptively simple dress--what did they call that color, royal blue?--enhanced her eyes and hugged every curve, to the advantage of the curves. And Daniel--Jacob vaguely remembered an ugly tweed jacket. He'd learned a thing or two; he and his dark suit, wine-colored shirt and tie, had the two female guards practically drooling, for all their Tok'ra discipline. And the looks directed at his daughter by the male guards sent Jacob into full protective-dad mode.
They were mostly checking out each other. They exchanged a look of appreciation and approval, rather shy, and on Daniel's part a little surprised. Jacob Carter suddenly discovered he had a lot to think about.
"Jacob!" Jack said loudly, and Jacob returned his surroundings with a start. Jack presented his notebook with a flourish. "Got an extension cord?" It must be admitted Jacob was not as amused as he should've been.
Siler (also spit-shined) set up two more notebooks on the table, and at Jack's nod hit the remote.
". . . From NBC world headquarters in New York, it's NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams. . ."
". . . Good evening. Reporting from Washington, I'm Brit Hume. . ."
". . . The CBS Evening News with Bob Schieffer. . . "
". . . From CNN headquarters in Atlanta. . ."
". . . The ABC Evening News. . ."
"We kind of thought," Jack said blandly, in response to the politely and impolitely puzzled looks from Jaffa and Tok'ra alike, "that you might enjoy this." Siler hit the remote a second time. But Jacob allowed his mind to wander as NBC News detailed and analyzed the top story of the day. "Jack. I'm sure both the Tok'ra and Jaffa are sorry as hell that The Beloved Leader discovered he couldn't fly even if he jumped off that huge statue of his dad--gotta hand it to the North Koreans, though; that's the most original cover story I've heard in years--but what does that have to do with us?"
"That's how we got away with it, I think." Jack was sincerely, and most unusually, humble. "Sheer luck. But we probably wouldn't have tried it without that break."
"This wasn't Plan B; this was about Plan R or S," Daniel murmured, and Jack frowned at him. "Anyway, we so got them this time. They'll never bother you or us again. It's crazy, but it's working," Jack continued.
"What's working? Still needing an explanation here," said Jacob, heavily patient. And at Jack's nod Siler hit the remote.
"And now, the day's other top story," Brian Williams continued, "a tale of alleged conspiracy, racketeering, money laundering, theft, possibly even murder. And with a motive that's literally out of this world." And Jacob, finally paying attention, listened with amazement.
". . . The first arrests were made in Los Angeles, with others following in Moscow, London, New York, the Cayman Islands and a dozen other locations around the world. . .allegations of the theft of billions of dollars, from drug cartels and possibly even terrorist networks. . . money laundering, illegal campaign contributions to the last senatorial campaign of former Vice-President Robert Kinsey. . . possible involvement in the mysterious death of Brian Vogler, assistant to fugitive billionaire Alec Colson. . . the announcement was made by David Warner, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of California."
With a grave demeanor the U. S. Attorney spoke of greed and ruthlessness and a nasty catalog of crimes. The Los Angeles Times reporter got his hand up first and asked the inevitable question; "What do you know about their motive?"
The U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of California cleared his throat. "Have you ever heard of a television show called *Wormhole X-treme*?"
And Jack O'Neill had the x-treme pleasure of watching the entire Tok'ra High Council and a whole lot of important Jaffa go slack-jawed with astonishment.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Syndicated in 113 countries and beginning a fourth season on the Sci-Fi Channel, *Wormhole X-treme* follows the adventures of a four-person team who have mastered alien technology that allows them to use what physicists call `wormholes' to explore the galaxy. Sources close to the investigation tell NBC News that the conspirators believe Wormhole X-treme is based on real events, and that an alien device does exist, located at Fort Carson, Colorado, at the headquarters of the North American Air Defense Command near Colorado Springs. The conspirators allegedly believe there have been contacts between humans and aliens that use advanced technology and Earth mythology to convince other races that they are gods. . ." Jack hit the pause button and turned to his fascinated and bewildered audience, beaming. "Well?"
"Well--" Jacob pulled at his bottom lip. "Well, I haven't watched much TV the last four-five years. But the few episodes I have seen, I think that girl that plays Sam--"
"Yolanda Reese," Teal'c interjected.
Jacob looked at him. "Okay. Well, I think that girl does a piss-poor job; she's not Sam at all. And her character--"
"Stacy Monroe," Teal's said.
Jacob looked at him, a little longer this time. "Anyway, it's a miserable imitation of a physicist. So is the archeologist--"
"Dr. Levant," said Teal'c.
"And the guy who plays him--"
"Raymond Gunn."
"Doesn't even look like Daniel." Jacob glanced at Jack, who shrugged. "It's appointment TV for him," Jack said. "He never misses it when he's in town."
Teal'c's posture indicated mild displeasure. "I find the actions and attitudes of the robot Grell most amusing."
Jacob grinned. "Now the one that's supposed to be you, Jack--"
"Colonel Danning is a perpetual showoff who plays dumb to get attention."
"Nothing like you at all," Jacob said cheerfully. "Even the rank's not right anymore. But listen," he studied Jack, suddenly serious. "You can't tell me people are buying this story. Even with the dictator who couldn't fly--Jack, this is a little hard to swallow."
"I think we're gonna pull it off. Really. Watch." Jack rolled tape. "Helping us to make sense of all this," Brian was saying smoothly, "are Dr. Theresa Marlowe, professor of astrophysics at Cal Tech, and Dr. Steven Raynor, professor of archeology at the University of Chicago and author of several popular books on the subject."
"What!?" Jacob yelled. "That supercilious sonuva^%$*(#, that little--that %$*)(# nearly got Sam and Daniel killed! And Dr. Fraiser." (Jacob completely ignored the nice lady from Cal Tech, explaining why it was impossible to access, let alone travel through, wormholes.) "He handed Osiris the way off the planet. He did everything but fire up the engine!"
"He's doing this for Sarah," Daniel said quietly. "She wanted to see him, and we had to tell him something. He suspected something anyway; we couldn't completely explain away what happened."
"Of all the people on the planet," Jacob muttered, and glared at Steven's image. He was as self-assured and irritating as ever; that slightly superior smile made Jacob long to deck him.
"Well, Brian, not only the civilizations we study but archeology itself is surrounded by myths, and people do believe some of them," Steven was saying smoothly. "In the late 1960s there was a whole cottage industry built around the Chariots of the Gods stuff, and back in the Twenties there was that whole curse of King Tutankhamen thing."
"Dr. Raynor, you worked with Dr. David Jordan and with the artifacts from the Stuart expedition."
Genuine though it was, Steven's sudden air of gravity made Jacob even more irritated. "Doctor Jordan's accident was a terrible loss for all of us. And poor Sarah--well, she paid a high price for her impetuosity."
"You mentioned Dr. Sarah Gardner. Doctor, she did disappear for almost three years."
"Brian, when you're around mummies you're around partially decayed matter, a perfect breeding ground for infectious disease. Sarah thought she had found something unique, she went into a partially cleared site without taking proper precautions." Steven shook his head. "We know now it was two years before the Egyptian doctors could get even an approximate diagnosis of her condition--that's how rare it is--and it took another year to treat it. They had no way of knowing who she was; she had no memory."
"But she has recovered."
"Yes."
"And she is now living in Colorado Springs." Brian invested that fact with immense significance.
Steven shrugged; even Jacob had to admit it was perfect. "She's under psychiatric treatment; it was a terrible ordeal. Dr. Philip McKenzie is one of the most respected specialists in the field."
Jacob snorted. "He completely misdiagnosed Daniel, and Teal'c--"
"Never did fool him, not really. That was part of the act," Daniel said. "And Janet agreed with the diagnosis of me. It didn't help, but I know he regretted what happened. I had my doubts about him, Jacob; I fought it. But I have to admit he's done wonders for Sarah."
"Hmph." Jacob managed a wry grin. "You don't stay mad at people, Daniel, even when you should." He shook his head. "What about Alec Colson--Kinsey, for that matter?" Steven Raynor was still yapping in the background, and when Jacob stopped sputtering it was Steven, to his intense irritation, who answered him.
". . . and even Alec Colson now admits he was completely fooled by the hologram," Steven said, and smiled. "I think I heard on MSNBC that the posts on the Colson weblog have been authenticated."
Jacob turned away in disgust from the overbearing *^%$#*() twerp. "What did the deal end up being with Kinsey?"
For an answer Jack pointed to the screen, which showed Kinsey walking into his house. ". . . Released a statement which read in part, `It was due to my efforts that the activities of this group, and the unlawful element within the NID, were first discovered three years ago. I am not surprised that they would try to rope me in as an accomplice. . .'" Jack grimaced. "I suppose he's less trouble without the Goa'uld--did he thank you for de-snaking him, by the way?"
"Actually, he did. Even sent us a present." Jacob grinned. He had been surprised when he read the labels on the bottles; that stuff didn't grow on trees. The surgical crew had been skeptical, so had Selmac and even Jacob. But it turned out well-aged Scotch went down just as smooth even without the kick. "What's gonna happen to him?"
"We tried to palm him off on Harry." Jack was glum; the conversation hadn't gone well.
Jacob grinned. "I bet that was entertaining." (It had been.) "But seriously, Jack, you can't just boot him offworld. Even Kinsey has rights."
"Hey, if the President wanted to push it his ass would be fried. There's enough on him to put him away for the rest of his miserable life. But he's totally discredited, so Hayes thinks he's less trouble where he is."
"Jack thought about sending him to Langara. Kind of a diplomatic mission." Jonas grinned. "Daniel talked him out of it."
Jack shrugged. "I was ready to open the gate and kick his sorry ass through. He would've fit right in with those people. (Present company excepted, man.) Daniel kept telling me I was above that."
Daniel's face colored slightly as he became the focus of all Jaffa and Tok'ra eyes. His story was well known here, at least in general, at least as far as it concerned Collona. That he had refused to seek revenge, had even worked to help the Langarans save themselves, was regarded with ill-concealed amazement. "It's a practicality thing. We have enough enemies as it is." His expressive face clouded with worry. "They won't kill anymore of our allies, which is good. But they were the easy part."
Jacob refrained from pointing out that the easy part had been hard enough--seven and a half years between Harry, the NID and these kooks, a ton of money and way, way too many lives. But. Daniel's words were scary but true. Jacob's daughter had remained silent, quietly enjoying herself; now the color drained from her face as she thought about what might await them--not only Earth, the entire galaxy.
Jacob's encounters with the bugs had been mercifully brief. But he would always remember the sparks flying as he frantically tried to get the cargo ship through the half-closed hangar door. What he remembered best was the way the creature had looked at Daniel, deciding whether it would less trouble to let him go or kill him; a cool assessment based solely on convenience, concerned for nothing but itself. Even that little encounter scared the crap out of him.
Sam, his Sammie, hadn't said much about her double, except to rail at herself for her stupidity. But Jack and Teal'c had talked about her.
Creepy, Jack had said, when you first see her she looks like Carter for a minute. But only a minute. Then you can tell the difference. She is an exact copy of Colonel Carter, Teal'c had said, yet they are very unlike. Jacob thought of the whole checkered history of humanity, its highs and lows, what men and women had learned, what they needed to learn, what they managed to keep forgetting. The replicator girl seemed to know it all, to be perfect, yet she lacked the most basic element. Who know a soul would be so important?
With an effort Jacob threw off the dark thoughts; he managed a genuine smile as he got to his feet. "I keep forgetting," he said, looking at Jack. "Am I still on active duty, or retired?" He waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. I still rank Jack. Okay, it's--Sam, honey, lemme look at your watch." Obediently she extended her arm. "It's about ten to five back home. So--as senior officer I'm ordering this unit to stop thinking about what needs to be done and appreciate what was done. That order is in effect until about seven o'clock tomorrow morning. Go home, go enjoy yourselves for the rest of the day." His daughter opened her mouth, apparently to argue with him (God knew she had always been good at that) but he forestalled her with that special smile she had always loved. "What--you're gonna start arguing with your old man again?" He was rewarded with her smile, small and troubled but real. It was the best thing he had seen all day.
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His team looked at Jack in surprise when he ordered red wine. "What?"
"You hate red wine," Daniel said.
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
"Do."
"Don't."
"Do."
"Don't. I don't know. A man has to experiment, doesn't he?" Jack was defensive. "Besides, red wine with red meat, isn't that a law or something?" Teal'c regarded him for a minute, then exchanged a look with Daniel and Carter. "You always teased Janet about liking red wine, sir," she said.
Actually he had always teased her about liking this red wine. "Maybe I'm trying to broaden my horizons, Carter," he said coldly. "Inflexibility is a sign of old age."
His team smiled. "You're not old, sir," Carter said, and Jack was silent as the conversation turned to other things. When the wine arrived he swirled it around the glass in a tiny private toast. He looked up at something Daniel said and she was there, across the dimly lit room--small and indomitable, brown hair falling around her face, eyes sparkling; he could've sworn she winked at him. He blinked and looked again, and of course she was gone; a man was holding the chair for another woman entirely. For a split second he had almost believed she was going to walk over and join them.
And he smiled the little private smile saved for special occasions. You're right, he told her silently. We done damn good.
The end
Author's further note: Opinions, pro and con, are welcomed and in fact openly solicited like the panhandler I met outside Powell's Books a couple of weeks ago. They can be sent to cms2507@verizon.net. Thanks in advance.
Author still talking: I know Bray'tac is misspelled, but the spelling in the official synopses looks silly on paper. I know Collona is misspelled also, but I refuse to embarrass what is no doubt a very nice Canadian town just because some misguided writer tried to immortalize it in such a catastrophically silly story.
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to ISW
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