by Karen Miller
“The gate’s hinky now?” he said. “For crying out loud.”
“No,” said Daniel, cheerfully. “But you know what she’s like. Where’s Colonel Dixon?”
He stripped off his base fatigues. “I don’t know. But if he’s late we’re leaving without him.”
“Is there a problem, O’Neill?” said Teal’c, looking up from tying his bootlaces.
He kept his face carefully averted. Teal’c and Daniel knew him too damned well. “No. No problem. Now can I get dressed?”
“Sure,” said Daniel, after a moment.
“Thank you. Too kind,” he muttered.
If Dixon screws us I’ll never let Hammond forget it. Never in a million years.
Adjo smelled like Yosemite: clean and fresh and wild.
A brisk breeze was blowing as they stepped through the gate, cool enough to cut through vests and fatigues. Dixon, his heart pounding, sucked in a deep breath as he emerged from the wormhole. Carter had warned him it was better to exhale just before crossing the event horizon and he’d taken her advice without hesitation. Only an idiot ignored the wisdom of an experienced native guide.
Of course, if O’Neill had told him the same thing…
Carter was looking at him now, concern in her eyes. “You okay, sir?”
He nodded, pushing down the red-hot anger. This wasn’t the time, and it sure as hell wasn’t the place. “Yeah. Sure. That’s… quite a ride.”
She glanced back at the Stargate, smiling. “Isn’t it?”
His body was tingling. Prickling on the far edge of pain. Almost an echo of a zat gun blast. “Is it normal to feel…”
“A bit hinky?” said O’Neill, his expression bored, his tone noncommittal. All signs of his own temper vanished. “Yeah. It’s normal. You get used to it.”
He counted to three. “You could’ve said.”
“No, I couldn’t. You’re supposed to be coming into this without preconceptions, remember? No tainting the experience for the rookies, that’s the rule.”
And even if it wasn’t you’d’ve kept your mouth shut. Dixon swallowed a sigh. Had he really expected anything different? If so he was an idiot. “Fair enough,” he said, and took his first good look around.
Huh. I thought the place would look more… alien.
But no. On closer inspection Adjo looked disappointingly Earth-like. Blue sky. Brown earth. Greenish-purple grass dotted with little pink flowers. Trees, tall and spindly, covered in blue and yellow foamy blossoms. Not like any kind of tree he’d seen at home, true, but still they were recognizably trees. Rocks of a reddish hue, sparkling with silver flecks. Some kind of silicate, probably. Or silver maybe. Did you find silver like that? He had no idea. He wasn’t a geologist.
Damn. Why doesn’t it look more alien?
“I know, sir,” said Carter. She was still watching him closely. “Somehow the whole ‘travelling to other worlds’ thing would seem more real if the other worlds didn’t look so much like home.”
What, she was a mind-reader as well as a genius? “And why do they, Major?”
O’Neill, who was checking the status of the three previously deployed MALPs, muttered something under his breath. “Because when the Goa’uld traded up from the Unas to humans as overcoats and slaves they needed simpatico planets with comparable Earth conditions. And what they couldn’t find they terraformed using home as a blueprint.”
Of course there was a logical scientific explanation, but somehow that didn’t ease the sting… “I guess I was expecting to see… I don’t know…” He grinned at Carter. “Tangerine trees and marmalade skies.”
Her answering smile was warm and surprised. “Maybe if the Goa’uld ever start with the funny mushrooms we will.”
“And if I ever start with the funny mushrooms maybe this conversation will suddenly seem useful,” added O’Neill. “But I doubt it.” He straightened out of his crouch. “Any sign of trouble, Teal’c?”
Not surprisingly, Teal’c had taken up a defensive position ten paces from the gate. His face was expressionless but his body language suggested he was on high alert. “Not yet.”
“Ever the optimist,” said O’Neill. He turned to Jackson, who had shrugged out of his pack and was completely absorbed in getting his digital camera up and running. “Hey. Spielberg. Dial the SGC so we can send these MALPs back.”
Dixon tried a tentative smile. “Waste not, want not?”
“I guess,” said O’Neill, shrugging. Indifferent.
No. Bastard wasn’t about to give so much as an inch. Man, this was going to be one long deployment.
Once Jackson had the wormhole back to Earth established, O’Neill warned the SGC that the MALPs were on their way and confirmed that everything seemed peaceful. “At least for now,” he concluded. “We’ll touch base again with a progress report ASAP. O’Neill out.”
As Carter herded the MALPs through the wormhole Jackson finished fiddling with his digicam, scrambled down off the rock plinth on which the gate and DHD stood and started filming the shrine the second MALP’s footage had revealed.
It was made of slabs of the silver-flecked red rock, weathered yet somehow timeless looking. Maybe six feet high and four feet across, with a bunch of symbols or letters deeply carved into each facing edge. Almost hieroglyphs, but not quite. Within the shrine were shelves of something that might have been slate, crowded with offerings: purple and black flowers, lumps of unprocessed minerals, bird feathers, impossible to identify small animal skulls bleached by the sun or time or both. Long blades of grass dyed bright scarlet and dark green and vibrant yellow, intricately plaited and threaded with glass beads.
Alien artifacts, even if they had been created by human hands. Amazing.
“Watch your battery life,” said O’Neill, eyeing Jackson with an expression muddled between amusement and impatience.
Jackson flapped a hand at him. “Don’t need to. I brought eight spares this time.”
“Eight? Battery hog,” said O’Neill. “How much longer?”
“I’m done,” said Jackson, lowering the camera. “What I need to do now is think about this.”
“Think about it?” O’Neill glared. “Daniel, in case it’s slipped your mind we have a thirty klick hike to that village the UAV found.”
“Exactly,” said Jackson. “It’s a long way, so why would the villagers build a shrine here?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
Jackson sighed. “Yeah, but I do,” he said, and sat himself down on the ground in front of the shrine. “Jack, just — give me a minute, would you? There’s plenty of daylight left and we were planning on camping out the first night here anyway.”
Dixon watched, intrigued. Civilian or not, Jackson’s behavior was close to outright insubordination. How would O’Neill play this? Bite Jackson’s head off? Order him to fall in line? Send him packing back to the SGC?
As it turned out, none of the above. Interesting.
“Fine,” said O’Neill, scowling. “But we’re not hanging around here all day.”
“I don’t need all day,” Jackson murmured, his gaze fixed on the shrine. “I just — I need…”
“Daniel?” said Carter. “Is something wrong?”
Knees crossed, elbows planted and chin in his hands, Jackson shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
Teal’c turned. “In my experience, Daniel Jackson, that usually means yes.”
Abruptly O’Neill’s impatience morphed into suspicion. “Daniel? Is that what it means?”
“Sam, you have a look,” said Jackson, ignoring him.
“At the shrine? What am I looking for?”
Jackson shook his head. “No. If I tell you what I think I see I’ll — ”
“Prejudice my perceptions,” she finished for him. “Yeah. Okay.” She dropped to the rocky ground beside Jackson, which had O’Neill rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath again. “Daniel, those carvings,” she said. “Am I going crazy, or — ”
“Yeah,�
� he said. “They’re the glyphs for Ra and Setesh. Same ones you’d have found on the foreheads of their Jaffa. Never mind them for now, Sam. It’s the contents of the shrine I’m worried about, not the shrine itself. Focus there.”
Carter stared at the shrine’s eclectic offerings. “I think… is there more gold than there was the other day? Wasn’t there only one big lump of it in the MALP footage?”
Jackson nodded. “That’s my impression. And now there are two. Keep looking.”
“The flowers,” said Carter, straightening. “My God, Daniel. You’re right. These flowers are fresh and they should be wilted, given that the MALP footage was recorded over twenty-four hours ago. And they’re not the same blooms. The others were long and thin, kind of like skinny trumpets. These are flat-faced, like pansies.”
That got O’Neill’s attention. “You’re sure? They’re different flowers?”
Carter and Jackson exchanged glances, then she nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And the ones we saw before aren’t here now,” added Jackson. “They’ve been removed, probably because the idea of something decaying in the shrine is considered sacrilegious.”
“Yeah. Whatever. I don’t care why, I just care that they’ve changed,” said O’Neill, and unslung his MP5-K from his shoulder. “Hey Teal’c! Look alive. We could have company.”
“Wait a minute, Jack,” said Jackson, as Carter got back on her feet. “You can’t seriously think we’re in danger from the person visiting this shrine. That’s like saying we’re in danger from a florist.”
O’Neill raised his eyebrows. “Little Shop of Horrors. Ring any bells? Come on, get your gear. I want some distance between us and this shrine.”
“Jack, just wait a minute, would you?” said Jackson, scrambling to his feet. “What’s happening here could be part of some elaborate extended ritual, and if it is I need to know. Its significance to Adjoan culture could — ”
“Daniel, I don’t give a fat rat’s ass about its cultural significance,” O’Neill retorted. “It’s a question of security, and — ”
“Jack, there is no demonstrable threat here,” said Jackson, arms folded stubbornly across his chest. “And if whoever’s performing this offering rite does come back we’ll have the perfect opportunity to make first contact without the added complications of group dynamics. This mission will go a whole lot easier if we can make friends with a single individual first. Break the ice slowly. You know that. And you know I have a specific mandate this time. I’m not going to let you ride roughshod over it the first chance you get. So please, back off and let me do my job, for once.”
Chapter Eight
Dixon, watching the air sizzle between Jackson and O’Neill, decided he liked the archeologist. It took guts, standing up to a man like Jack O’Neill. He also decided it was time to remind SG-1 he was here.
“I think Jackson makes a good point,” he said mildly. “If we can gain one person’s confidence now we might be able to avoid misunderstandings down the line.”
O’Neill’s expression tightened, his thoughts clear. I don’t give a crap what you think. But he didn’t say it. “What makes you so sure we’re only dealing with one Adjoan here, Daniel? For all you know there could be a whole gaggle of them traipsing round the place trailing bunches of flowers. And they could be armed.”
Jackson stared. “With what? Deadly nightshade? Anyway, I don’t think we’re looking at a large group. This is a small shrine. It feels… personal. Intimate.”
O’Neill exhaled sharply. “Teal’c?”
The Jaffa didn’t lose any of his taut alertness or abandon his relentless assessment of their surroundings. “I am inclined to agree with Daniel Jackson,” he said. “Provided we do not make the mistake of assuming a flower-carrying stranger poses no threat.” He looked at Jackson, one eyebrow lifted. “As we have previously discovered, the most attractive flowers often hide a thorn.”
“Okay, Daniel, I’ll give you an hour, tops,” O’Neill said briskly. “If nobody’s shown up by then we head towards the village, no arguments.”
Jackson nodded. “Okay. That’s fair.”
They withdrew to the meager cover of nearby trees and made themselves as comfortable and inconspicuous as possible. Well-used to this kind of mission requirement, the members of SG-1 rested their gazes on the surrounding landscape and sank into a watchful, waiting reverie. With his own senses set to autopilot alert, just as used to this kind of suspended action, Dixon let a small sliver of his attention wander.
Interesting team dynamics, with SG-1. Reading mission reports didn’t tell the full story. Couldn’t. First-hand observation was the only way to learn how a team functioned, how the cogs meshed, the wheels turned. How someone like O’Neill led his team.
As it turns out, more democratically than I expected.
Of course SG-1 wasn’t a typical military team. How could it be when half of it wasn’t military? Well, not US military at least. He wondered if that ever bothered O’Neill, knowing he was giving orders to the Jaffa equivalent of — of — well, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He didn’t think so. It looked to him like O’Neill would be comfortable giving orders to the Commander in Chief himself.
He really is an arrogant bastard.
Not that Teal’c seemed to mind. Interesting, that a man who’d once commanded thousands — hell, who’d led an entire army — was content to surrender power to someone who could be considered his inferior, both in experience and in physical prowess.
Wonder if there’s any way I can get him alone for a chat while we’re here…
Carter wasn’t standard military issue either. Sure, she’d done her fair share of soldiering — continued to do it on SG-1’s off-world missions — but it was obvious her heart belonged in a lab, where she could reinvent the laws of science on a weekly basis and save the world every now and then in her spare time.
I guess it’s not always easy, living in her skin. Supersmart, supercompetent daughter of a brilliant, some say difficult, Air Force general. No pressure there. And now she’s O’Neill’s walking talking rabbit’s foot. He seems to think all he has to do is tell her ‘fix it’ and she will, no questions asked, not a hair out of place.
Trouble was, she always did. And what kind of pressure did that put on a person? The more times you succeeded, the harder it got to contemplate failure.
When the time comes she can’t fix something — and it will come, it has to — is failure going to crush her?
He really hoped not. He liked Sam Carter. She deserved better than that.
And then there was Jackson.
Not even Frank had known the story between those two, known why O’Neill cut the guy so much slack. They’d met on the first mission to Abydos. When that was done O’Neill came back home and left Jackson behind. Had disobeyed orders and lied about the man’s survival, the survival of everyone on that planet. And he’d persuaded the men who’d survived the mission with him, Kawalski and Ferretti, to lie as well.
Never expected that, Frank had said. Jack was always a maverick but I never thought he’d cross that line.
Whatever had pushed him over it must have been big. O’Neill’s kid had killed himself around that time. Was that the connection? No, how could it be? O’Neill and Jackson never met before the Stargate was opened. No reason for the boy to factor into it. What did a dead child have to do with the Abydos mission? Nothing.
He was a great kid, Charlie. Memory whispered, Frank’s voice full of old pain. He’d known O’Neill’s kid, and loved him.
And O’Neill knew that, but kept Frank away from the funeral. Bastard.
Remembering O’Neill’s dead son derailed his train of thought then, turned it homewards, little knife-points of guilt pricking. He and Lainie were both only children. They’d sworn to each other they wanted a tribe of kids to love and raise. And now the first of that tribe was cooking and he was on an alien planet halfway across the vast Milky Way…
Someone kicked the side of his
boot. Jolted from troubled reverie he refocused, to see O’Neill staring at him with those dark, hooded and unnervingly perceptive eyes. Not a word spoken, nor did there need to be. Somehow O’Neill, like Carter, had read his thoughts and the message was clear. Keep your mind on the job, Dixon.
Damn. What had possessed him, that he’d tell O’Neill Lainie’s news? Their news? Their own families didn’t know yet and he’d blurted it out to this cold, unsympathetic bastard.
Crazy. I was crazy. Dollars to doughnuts he’ll find a way to use it against me.
He thought again of O’Neill’s dead son. How would that be, knowing your own child — your only child — was dead because you got careless. Left your gun out. How would that be?
According to Frank, O’Neill’s ex-wife had said — when he called to express his condolences — that her then-husband had gone someplace where she couldn’t follow or find him.
Perhaps that explains why he is the way he is. Perhaps not all of him came back.
Or was it just an excuse for crappy behavior? After all, his kid wasn’t dead when he and Frank fought in Desert Storm. Then another thought occurred. Not comfortable. Not the kind of thought that fitted with his preconceived construction of one Colonel Jack O’Neill.
Must’ve been hard in that Iraqi prison, thinking he’d never see his son again. Be pretty easy to throw blame around, thinking you were going to die in that hole.
At a stone’s throw distance, Teal’c sat a little straighter. “O’Neill.”
He didn’t need to say anything else. Jackson had been right. SG-1 had company.
A sudden rush of adrenaline. Senses sharpening to the point of pain. Increased heart rate. Trickles of sweat. Every muscle contracted, ready for attack.
Heads up. It’s showtime.
The newcomer was a woman. Well, closer to a girl really. Maybe fourteen, fifteen years old tops. Slight of build. Not tall, five-one, five-two. Olive skin. Straight dark hair, long and braided away from her face, hanging down her back. Dressed in a simple shift made of a patchily blue-dyed natural material. Linen, maybe? Some kind of laced-up leather sandals on her feet. She approached the gate from the west, coming through the surrounding spindly trees. Cradled in her arms were more fresh flowers, scarlet this time. Another offering for the shrine?