On Cam's signal, the Stargate was eased backward. After a few anxious moments, it fell to the ground the last foot or so, hitting the sand with a resounding thud that reverberated through their feet. Ignoring the argument between Carnarvon's pompous little secretary and Carter, Vala watched Cam connect the power to the 'gate, then order the men to rotate the ring. The first chevron locked into place—which promptly sent most of the diggers scurrying backward. “Bish-mil-la!” several cursed. “In the name of God!”
Howard and the weedy, rat-faced secretary also stumbled backward and gasped.
“Mafi mushkillah” Vala called reassuringly to the diggers. “It's not a problem. We told you this would happen, remember?” But in fact, this could indeed be a problem. If this was their reaction to a little amber glow, the unstable vortex would give them a collective heart attack. They must rebury the 'gate.
“Sora-sora!” Cam called to the diggers. “Hurry! We don't have much time. I'll double the pay of every man here, all right?”
The lure of wealth beyond their wildest dreams was a potent motivator. She and Cam had argued about how much of their wealth Cam had given away to get them here this night, although, in the end, provided it was currency they couldn't use off-world, she didn't see the harm in it. It just irked her in principal, that's all. Having gone to all the trouble of becoming fabulously wealthy, it didn't seem right to just leave it behind.
Cam viewed their wealth far differently to Vala. To him it was, and always had been, simply a means to an end. At least he'd had the common sense to let her bring some portable assets—gold and jewels, and the like—with them. While she had no compunction in stealing a 'gate-capable death glider, bribing the locals on the planet where they were headed should be a considerably faster and much less complicated way of accessing the ship, for all concerned.
Not that she would never actually admit it to anyone, of course, but there was a remote possibility that fourteen years on this miserable little planet may have slightly impacted her reaction time—from lack of practice, of course. Certainly it had absolutely nothing to do with age.
The second chevron locked into place, and Howard, curiosity outweighing fear, inched forward again. “Those stories you told me about the Egyptian gods. I thought...I thought—”
“That I had an over-active imagination? Or that I was perhaps a tad, you know, loony-tunes?” Vala still didn't fully understand the cultural significance of 'loony-tunes' but like so many other such references that Cam had used over the years, she'd added it to her lexicon.
Apparently Howard didn't understand the cultural reference, either, because he looked at her rather oddly. Anything he might have said was forgotten when she produced from beneath the ugly folds of her 1922 designer dress, the gold cuff that had once belonged to Whipple Van Buren, Howard Lovecraft's grandfather.
Howard Lovecraft, of course, had gone on to become a professor of chemistry and rocketry or some such, and it had recently been announced that he would be the recipient of a Nobel Prize. Her only regret was that there'd been no time to visit him in Rhode Island before they'd left for Egypt. Still, she and Cam had bequeathed their mansion to him in their will, with a one-line note explaining that they were finally going home.
That thought made Vala smile. He'd definitely get a kick out of that.
The third chevron revolved into position with a loud chunk, and Cam warned everyone yet again that before the final chevron was dialed, they must all step outside the 'well' because a great geyser would erupt from the center.
The looks on most of the workers' faces suggested that they had no idea what a geyser was, but the tone of Cam's voice was backed up by the promise that he would cut by half the pay of anyone who did not move away swiftly.
Which would be the least of the men's problems if they didn't scoot back, but Vala wasn't going to volunteer that bit of information or else she and Cam would be dialing the final coordinate themselves. Nor was she going to mention that Cam did not have any way of enforcing exactly who was paid what, because the lawyers, bless their larcenous little hearts, were all at home right now in their beds.
The portable DHD device shone brightly in the glow from the fires. Howard Carter stared open mouthed as she slipped the cuff over her hand. Detecting the naquadah in her blood, the device came alive, its center crystal glowing. The subtle neural connection in her mind was awakened. What felt like an instinctual knowledge was in fact knowledge acquired from the Goa'uld, but Vala's understanding of how to use the DHD had been well honed by years of practice with the healing hand device.
A vague spark of guilt enveloped her. She could easily have healed Carnarvon's infected mosquito bite, but to do so, Cam had reminded her, would profoundly alter history. Given how many other things had gone wrong, she didn't see that it made much difference, but Cam was adamant and fourteen years of being “Mrs. Mitchell” had taught her what that meant.
Old Lord Carnarvon was due to die this night, in exactly... She glanced at the diamond and pearl wristwatch that Louis Cartier had personally made for her. Two minutes—plus or minus. While her watch was synchronized with the timepiece at Greenwich, she couldn't say the same for the clock in the Cairo hospital that had been used to record the time of Carnarvon's death. And how Cam remembered that particular detail when he'd forgotten the actual year of Carnarvon's death was not as much of a complete mystery to her as she'd led Cam to think.
Ignoring the gritty, scraping sound, the diggers rotated the bezel until the fifth chevron slid into place.
Sending the wormhole to Earth, 1908, was out of the question. Exiting against a capstone beneath the Egyptian sands was really, really not something they'd wanted to have happen. And while the remote DHD would allow her to subtly alter the tack of the wormhole so that it instead acquired the Antarctic 'gate, arriving there in 1908 wouldn't have been much better. Short of hitching a ride with Ernest Shackleton—and then only after finding their way out of the bottom of the glacier and making a tiresome trek across an inhospitable landscape that was in the early throws of winter—was about the only way out of Antarctica in this time. Going anywhere that cold wasn't her idea of fun, especially after so many miserable winter nights in Highclere Castle.
Which is why they had decided to travel to another planet, first.
Vala knew for a fact that there was a 'gate-capable glider stashed away about three miles from the 'gate, because the local villagers had been worshipping the damned thing for almost a century. With a 'gate-capable glider in hand, returning to Earth 1908 via Antarctica was an entirely different proposition.
The final chevron was proving somewhat difficult, doubtless because an excessive quantity of sand was jamming the mechanism, but finally it, too, locked into place and a familiar eruption of noise and boiling water shot upward. It immediately fell back and settled into a very welcome shimmering glow as the diggers cried out with terror, calling to Allah to preserve them from whatever terrifying beast hid beneath the strangely lit waters. Those few men present who'd carried with them the dark secrets of generations long dead; secrets they had—until this moment—thought nothing more than childhood fairytales, screamed and ran off into the night, imploring gods far older than Allah to protect them from the wrath of Ra.
“The lights! The lights of Cairo have gone out!” came a shrill call from some distance away.
Catching Howard's stunned expression in the sapphire light, Vala smiled. “We did mention that might happen.”
“Take me with you,” he said, his expression torn between terror and wonder. “I need to see for myself. I need to know if it's all really true.”
She looked to Cam for help but he'd slid down the short slope and was negotiating with the head digger, whose eyes were all but popping from his head at the sight of the worm-hole. “The balance of the money will only be payable if you rebury the 'gate with the capstone, exactly as you found it,” she heard him telling the wide-eyed foreman. “Do you understand me? Our lawyers have been given
clear instructions to pay all of the men who help you in this, triple the original amount promised.”
“Vala...please...”
She shook her head and walked down the slope to the 'gate. “I don't think you'd like where we're going, Howard.” Vala glanced over her shoulder at Cam and called out. “Thirty-eight minutes isn't that long when you spend it gossiping, you know!” She turned to Howard, who had walked down with her. He was staring at her with imploring eyes.
“Truly, you don't want to follow us.” As she spoke, Vala unbuttoned her dress and pulled off the gown to reveal the BDUs, flak jacket and boots that she'd kept safely hidden away all these years. They were just as ugly in their own way, but eminently more practical. And at last, she could free herself of the damned dress. “I'm sorry, Howard, but we don't really belong in this time, anymore than you belong in ours. If you come with us, you'll upset history.”
The foreman taken care of, Cam was coming to join them, shedding his early 20th century clothing while he walked. “Vala's right, Howard,” he added. “You really, really do not want to come face to face with what's out there.” He pointed to the imprints of the jackal-headed Jaffa on the capstone. “They genuinely are the Hounds of Hell, and there's plenty more where they came from, so be a good chap and lock the 'gate behind us.”
Vala stepped up to the rim of the 'gate and tossed three of their packs through. Beside her, Cam activated his zat gun, glanced around once, winked at her, then crouched down and dove in.
With a final reassuring smile to Howard Carter, Vala waved to the workers, blew a kiss to Howard, and followed Cam.
The landing on the other side was exactly as expected. They rolled out onto the grassy ground. The wormhole winked out of existence behind them and then she was standing beside... Oh, crap.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Okay, we're out of here,” Jack announced as the ground beneath them fell away at an alarming rate.
Alarming, because Daniel distinctly remembered that the jumper didn't currently have much in the way of life support. “Jack, where are we going?”
By the time the words were out if his mouth, Daniel figured they were already passing the point where the atmosphere held any oxygen whatsoever.
Ignoring him, Jack turned to An. “That thing picking up Carter's signal, yet?”
“No.”
The jumper continued to climb. Daniel wasn't entirely certain there was any atmosphere to speak of at this height, because for the second time that night, the stars were no longer twinkling. “Jack, how long do you think the air lasts in, oh, say, an area about the size of a jumper? Not that I'm worried or anything. Just thought I'd mention it.”
“Daniel, Carter's not in Roswell. I'm not running all over the United States at twelve thousand feet trying to locate her, uncloaked and weaponless, with Ra's goon squad on my six.”
He had a point. “How high are we going?”
“Three thousand miles should just about cover the area they could have taken her during the night—”
“I have acquired Colonel Carter's signal,” An announced, popping a tiny green food cube into his mouth.
Daniel was certain the Asgard had brought a stash of food from his escape pod, because he'd been downing the stuff like M&Ms while installing the transport. A red food cube occasionally made its way into his mouth as well, but it was generally accompanied by a sound of disgust.
“Where?” Jack leaned across the DHD consol to peer at the Sam's laptop screen, which An had rigged up in addition to his own Asgard version of an LCD.
From where Daniel was sitting he could just make out a blip that looked to be in the area of... “Terrific. New York. Why'd they take her there?”
“The NID had offices in New York. Right now, I'm more worried about why Ra—assuming that it is Ra—sent a couple of death gliders to Roswell.”
While Jack talked, the jumper began to descend over upstate New York. The signal bleeped reassuringly on the screen, although An shook his head and mumbled to himself.
“Can I adjust the setting on this?” Daniel asked him.
The Asgard indicated he could take the entire laptop. Careful of the lead, Daniel balanced it on his legs.
“What sort of battle plan can we expect?” Jack said, directing his question to Teal'c.
“I do not believe it is Ra who has come through the 'gate, O'Neill. He would have entrusted the task of conquering Earth to a Goa'uld loyal to him. Knowing that the Tau'ri of this time have no weapons capable of striking a Ha'tak in orbit, it is most likely that the Goa'uld in question will oversee the invasion from there, while ground forces are sent through the Stargate. Under such circumstances the strategy would be to destroy all opposing forces by quickly removing the Tau'ri leaders.”
“Doesn't explain the death gliders over Roswell,” Jack said.
“Did Colonel Carter not say that Earth's entire arsenal of nuclear weapons in 1947 is stored at Roswell?”
Since the death-gliders could only have arrived through the 'gate a short time ago... “How could Ra possibly know...” Daniel trailed off, realizing why Jack's shoulders had just stiffened.
Sam had known about the nukes. Jack, too, since it was a milestone in the history if the USAF, which meant that Mitchell could also have known. Given all the other strategic targets, the only reason Roswell would have been prioritized was if the Goa'uld had acquired advance knowledge. And the only way that could have happened was if Mitchell had been captured sometime in the twenty-five years since he'd stepped through the 'gate with Vala.
Daniel bit back a groan. It wouldn't have mattered how well Cam had resisted interrogation, a few sessions with a hand device or worse—and far more likely—infestation with a Goa'uld would have stripped his mind clean. “DC and the Naval base at Virginia will also be targeted.”
“Post WWII, Daniel, the entire country's a target rich environment. One thing's for certain, the air space over the East Coast is gonna get real crowded, real fast.”
From what Daniel could see as they descended, it already was. Even from this height, it looked as if whole sections of New York City were on fire.
“The President of the United States was scheduled to fly to Santa Fe early this morning to discuss the Roswell situation with Senator Chavez,” Teal'c informed them.
His voice didn't betray any tension, but Daniel had spent too many years with Teal'c not to feel it.
“Which means that even if the Goa'uld take out DC, the President will still be able to direct a military response,” Jack replied.
It had taken Daniel a long time to understand that what appeared to be cold detachment was in fact a professional barrier that both his teammates employed to encapsulate their emotions, enabling them to function under the most traumatic of circumstances.
He'd managed to acquire a certain level of professional detachment himself, over the years, but inside that capsule a part of him still wanted to scream and cry at the horrors they had witnessed. Right now, he dreaded what they would find on the ground, but they had to find Sam. And they had to get her out.
The issue they were facing was that the entire area would be a bloody battlefield for days if not weeks. A war-hardened United States military would pound back with equal—if not superior—force so long as they were only dealing with ground troops and 'gate-capable death gliders. The moment something bigger arrived on the scene, they were screwed. Unfortunately, Teal'c probably was right, because death gliders alone couldn't be imparting the level of damage he could now see.
New York fell out of sight behind them as Jack continued north in the direction of the Adirondacks. “We're half blind without a HUD,” he explained. “I'll come in upwind from the north, along the Hudson.”
“I have lost the signal,” An reported when they descended to tree top level.
The blip on the computer screen winked out. Me too,” Daniel said, feeling a sense of panic grip him.
Jack's head snapped around. “What? Why?”
&
nbsp; “I believe it is because we are now below the horizon. The beaming technology was not designed to be operated from this proximity to the ground.”
Taking a deep breath, Daniel nodded. That explanation made sense because the jumper had descended to within a few yards of the muddy water, churned and frothy from summer rains. Jack brought them around to face the south. Ahead, the cloudless summer sky above New York was filled with hundreds of tiny black dots buzzing one another. Sharp flashes of light—energy weapons—were swiftly followed by fiery eruptions and puffs of black smoke. A dark smudge blurred the entire horizon; it was the smoke from scores of fires they'd seen as they'd passed overhead.
Daniel had seen similar sights before, on many—too many—planets across the galaxy. But this was his planet, his home, even if it wasn't his time. And it was his fault. Earth was now under attack because he'd left Mitchell and Vala behind. Seeing New York in flames was far more personal, more immediate and therefore palpably more meaningful than the brief hours he'd spent in parallel worlds. No matter how hard he tried to construct that barrier around his emotions, the reality of this happening to his world tore into him.
Stargate - SG-1 - 09 - Roswell Page 26