Alliances

by Stargate

  ALLIANCES

  Karen Miller

  An original publication of Fandemonium Ltd, produced under license from MGM Consumer Products.

  Fandemonium Books

  PO Box 795A

  Surbiton

  Surrey KT5 8YB

  United Kingdom

  Visit our website: www.stargatenovels.com

  © 2011 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Photography and cover art: Copyright © 1997-2011 MGM Television Entertainment Inc./ MGM Global Holdings Inc. All rights reserved.

  METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER Presents

  RICHARD DEAN ANDERSON

  in

  STARGATE SG-1™

  AMANDA TAPPING CHRISTOPHER JUDGE and MICHAEL SHANKS as Daniel Jackson

  Executive Producers ROBERT C. COOPER BRAD WRIGHT MICHAEL GREENBURG

  RICHARD DEAN ANDERSON Developed for Television by BRAD WRIGHT & JONATHAN GLASSNER

  STARGATE SG-1 © 1997-2011 MGM Television Entertainment Inc. and MGM Global Holdings Inc. STARGATE: SG-1 is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All rights reserved.

  WWW.MGM.COM

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written consent of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  For Brad Wright,

  storyteller extraordinaire.

  The Other Side was an absolute inspiration

  — hope I haven’t let you down.

  Thanks and enormous appreciation to:

  Sally and Tom of Fandemonium books, for the chance to play in the Stargate sandbox.

  All the folk at Bridge Studios for creating that sandbox in the first place.

  My adored team of Beta-readers: Peter, Elaine, Mary, Cindee, Sharon and Jenn.

  The fans, who love the show as much as I do (if not more).

  Author’s Note

  This story takes place immediately following the events depicted in the Season Four episode The Other Side.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Prologue

  WHEN DOES killing become murder? At what point does self-defence become self-interest? When does self-interest become revenge?

  And does it really matter?

  Dead is dead. The ‘why’ isn’t relevant.

  Jack O’Neill tossed and turned in his unquiet bed, dreaming. Remembering.

  Alar’s desperate. Bloody. All that plausible suaveness obliterated, the arrogance, the smooth sleek self-assurance. His world Euronda is in flames. You lit the match. Nazi wannabes. The urge to control. Destroy. Expunge what they don’t approve of. Is it genetic? Coded into human DNA?

  Alar doesn’t understand. He’s genuinely bewildered. “It could’ve all been yours.”

  You look at him, feeling sick. “I wouldn’t follow us if I were you.”

  The team’s moving out, the bunker complex collapsing around you. Of course it would be a bunker. All rats hide in a hole, eventually. Daniel dials home. He’s got a brain like a rolodex, all those addresses jotted down in there somewhere. Teal’c’s looking anxious. After all these missions you can read the signs, now.

  You want them out of here, safe and sound. “Go.”

  For once, Daniel doesn’t argue.

  Which means it’s just you and Carter, spraying bullets. Taking down the poor schmucks who think they’re dying for something worthwhile. For a leader who deserves their devotion. For an ideal that’s pure and noble.

  God.

  Alar staggers in. “Colonel. Wait. I can teach you everything I know. Just let me come with you. Please.”

  He’s pitiful. You want to punch his lights out, put the boot in. All these fools dead and dying on the floor at his feet, for him, and all he can think of is himself.

  Carter doesn’t even ask you. She just goes.

  You stand there, looking at Alar. You’ve told him once, don’t follow. If you tell him again, he’ll ignore you again. Doesn’t he understand you yet? Doesn’t he realize you’re not kidding?

  Do you care?

  You go through the ’gate.

  Carter’s on the ramp, weapon up, waiting for you. She’s wearing her soldier face. Hammond’s waiting too, and he’s not happy. You know how he feels.

  You look at Carter, but you’re talking to him. “Close the iris.”

  “Do it,” says Hammond. He trusts you implicitly. You appreciate the compliment, but wonder if it’s earned. This mission’s screwed but good… and you’re the colonel. When your chickens come home to roost on this one there’ll be bird crap everywhere.

  Carter’s looking back at you. She knows. It’s her soldier’s face, but different eyes are staring out of it. She knows. She hasn’t said a word. Does that mean you’re right?

  Your hands slide off your weapon and you stand there, waiting. When it comes it’s a tiny sound. Bug on a windshield. Death shouldn’t be that small.

  Hammond says, “I take it, Colonel, you were unable to procure any of the Eurondan technologies.”

  Sweet, sweet machines. Those remote fighters? Awesome. Provided of course your pilots don’t mind ending up with brains like puréed zucchini, but Carter could’ve fixed that little drawback. In her sleep, probably. The fighters. The protective shield. The heavy-water power generation. The cryo-technology. All ours for the asking.

  Just help Hitler, and Rabbi Rosenberg would never be your uncle.

  “That’s correct, sir,” you tell him.

  Hammond’s expression changes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  You look at him. “Don’t be.”

  O’Neill sat bolt upright as the bedside alarm clock exploded into life. Crap. It was morning. He had to get up. Run. Shower. Shave. Eat. Go to work. His heart was pounding, there was sweat in his hair. On his face. His chest. All the emotions he couldn’t afford in the field pouring out of his skin.

  God. He hated dreaming.

  He’d learned long ago that he couldn’t hide in dreams. Will-power couldn’t save him. Self-control deserted him. The unconscious mind was insubordinate. Dreams came, and there was no way to stop them, or protect himself. He couldn’t even change the channel.

  Dreaming sucked, big time.

  Chapter One

  As he made the long, long elevator trip down through Cheyenne Mountain to Stargate Command Jack O’Neill pressed his fingers against his eyes, hoping to squish his gritty headache to death.

  No such luck. The headache stubbornly remained, and now there were little red and black dots doing the rumba in the air before him.

  Great.

  The elevator bumped to a standstill and spat him out into Level 18’s corridor. Airmen Leung and McCluskey slammed on the brakes and nodded at his appearance. “Morning, Colonel.”

  “Unfortunately,” he grunted, and waved in their general direction. They took his place in the elevator, the doors banged shut, way too loudly—he’d have to tell Siler about that, Siler was a very strange man for whom too much maintenance was never enough—and he was alone in the corridor. It was early.
Normal people were still eating breakfast. Maybe he should take a detour via the commissary. Eat something after all. He was a normal person, wasn’t he?

  His stomach rolled queasily, protesting the notion.

  He headed along the corridor to see if Daniel was in his office yet. Gently tormenting Daniel was a sure-fire way to get rid of a headache.

  “Morning,” said Daniel, looking up from his desk. “You look like hell.”

  “And you look disgustingly chipper,” he replied, slouching against the nearest bookcase. “Stop it. That’s an order.”

  “Sorry,” said Daniel, briefly smiling.

  “So you should be.” For irritation’s sake he leaned over, picked up the nearest ancient stone doodad on the desk and tossed it from hand to hand. Was it his imagination, or did the little figurine’s quasi-human face seem alarmed? “Seen Carter or Teal’c yet?”

  Behind his glasses, Daniel’s eyes were intent, their gaze fixed on the dancing doodad. “Sam’s in her lab making love to the naquadah generator. I don’t know where Teal’c is. Jack—”

  “Daniel?” he said innocently. The most important thing was to keep a straight face. Now Daniel and the doodad’s expressions were almost identical. Cool. “By the way, d’you think it’s wise to discuss Carter in those terms? Last time I looked she was pretty damned handy with that P90 of hers.”

  “You’re right, I take it back,” said Daniel. He was holding a pencil, fingers clenched to snapping point. “Now can I also please take back the ancient artefact?” Dropping the pencil, he held out his hand. “Before you ruin its patina? Or break it.”

  “Are you calling your colonel clumsy, Dr. Jackson?”

  Daniel’s smile was edged like a sword. “I’m not calling him anything, but unless he gives me that artefact in the next three seconds Dr. Fraiser will be calling him DOA.”

  Bingo! With exaggerated care he placed the artefact in the centre of Daniel’s palm.

  “Thank you,” said Daniel. “This happens to be an incredibly important archaeological find. Do you have any idea who this figurine represents?”

  He looked at it. “Marge Simpson?”

  “Close. Shri Setale Devi,” said Daniel. “The smallpox goddess of Ancient India.”

  O’Neill nearly wiped his hands down the front of his BDUs. “What are you doing here so early anyway?” he demanded. “We’re in between missions. We can afford to relax for a day or two.” In theory, at least. But practice had taught him that neither Daniel nor Carter would know how to relax if their lives depended on it.

  Daniel put the bug-eyed figurine aside, his irritation melting like mist in the sun. “Relax?” he echoed, with an encompassing sweep of his arm that nearly sent seven of his precious doodads flying. “When there’s all this to catalogue?”

  ‘All this’ was an entire herd of figurines, human and animal, crowded on the desk. Some had faces, some didn’t. They ranged in size from tiny as a thumbnail to bigger than a cat. They were made of baked clay and carved stone and dark weathered wood. What were the odds that the long-dead folk who’d made them had thrown most of them away as junk? Mass-produced kitsch? He’d lay good money the damned things were the ancient equivalent of—of garden gnomes. But to Daniel they were precious beyond measure. Boxes full of the damned things were stacked on the floor against the dangerously overcrowded bookcases. Here a doodad, there a doodad, everywhere a damned dusty doodad.

  He’d never understand it, not in a million years.

  “Fantastic, aren’t they?” continued Daniel. If he turned up the voltage on his happy-meter any higher he’d burst into flames. “They came in last night from P8C-316. SG-12 found an entire ruined city with distinct parallels to what we know of ancient India. Can you believe it? 316 is hundreds of light-years away from Earth. It blows my mind! Doesn’t it blow your mind, Jack?”

  No. Basically, as far as he was concerned, it just blew. All those stolen people turned into slaves. Or worse, Jaffa. Or—the ultimate horror—Goa’uld hosts.

  But he couldn’t say that. Puncturing Daniel’s perennial enthusiasm for ancient doodads was like kicking a puppy. He’d do it if he had to, but if he didn’t have to, well… and besides. They’d had a couple of nasty moments recently. Confrontations that peeled away the civilised tolerance they often employed with one another, to reveal the chasm of mutual incomprehension that always yawned between them. Seemed it really was possible to genuinely like and admire someone and still want to bash their head against a brick wall at regular intervals.

  So. No kicking. Or bashing. At least not now.

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “It’s mind-blowing. I’m thrilled, honestly. Couldn’t be more excited if I tried.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Daniel. For some reason he didn’t sound convinced. His eyes narrowed. “You know, Jack, you really do look like hell.”

  It was a conversation he had no intention of having. Not with Daniel, anyway. Not when the words ‘I told you so’ haunted that empty space between them. He was too tired for ghosts right now. He was too tired, period. “I should let Hammond know I’m here. Have fun playing with your artefacts.”

  Daniel smiled. Nodded. “I will,” he said. Then the smile faded. Like a shadow under water, some uncomfortable emotion shifted across his face. “Actually—Jack—”

  Oh no. He knew that tone. That look. ‘Chipper’ was a relative term. ‘Chipper’ could also be a mask. He should’ve known Daniel was incapable of leaving well enough alone. And he so wasn’t in the mood…

  “Sorry, Daniel. Gotta go. The General awaits.” And, shoving his hands in his pockets, O’Neill slouched away. Going to see Hammond, yes, but taking the scenic route.

  “Morning, sir,” said Carter, who was indeed making love to the naquadah generator. No accounting for taste… “Could you go away, please?”

  “Ah—”

  She flipped a switch on the generator’s casing, hurried round the bench and shoved him backwards out of her lab, pulling its door closed behind them. “Sorry. It’s just I’d rather not be in there if the circuits overload.”

  He stared at her. This morning she was wearing her scientist face. It wasn’t unlike Daniel’s archaeologist face, though to her credit she tended to keep the accompanying hand-waving to a minimum. Now she was staring at the closed laboratory door, eyebrows pinched together as she waited for something—hopefully not half the base—to go ‘boom’.

  Time passed. There was no ‘boom.’ Her frown became a smile. “Excellent! I was pretty sure I had the calculations right but there’s always that .0001% chance of an error.” Dusting her hands together in restrained self-congratulation, she looked at him. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Carter…” He sighed. “If I ask what it is you’re doing in there, do I have a .0001% chance of understanding the answer?”

  She bit her lip. “Well…”

  “Never mind. Good morning. I’m going to see Hammond. Is there anything important I should know beforehand?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir, I don’t think so. But if you don’t mind me making an observation… you look like hell.”

  “See you later, Carter,” he said, and kept on walking.

  He’d long ago come to the conclusion that pretty much the only way to beat General George Hammond to work was to sleep on the base. And even then, nine times out of ten the damned man caught you napping. For someone on the brink of retirement and enjoying the shady side of sixty he had the irritating habit of never missing a beat.

  “Good morning, Jack,” the general greeted him from behind his immaculate desk. “Come on in. Have a seat. You look like hell.”

  “Really, sir?” he said, dropping into the nearest chair. “I had no idea.”

  Hammond’s lips quirked in a smile, but only briefly and the amusement got nowhere near his eyes. “Should I be ordering you along to the infirmary?”

  God, no. The infirmary meant Janet Fraiser, that pint-sized powerhouse of medical interferingness who took shameless a
dvantage of a)having patched him up and saved his life more times than he cared to think about and b)technically outranking him by virtue of her medical degree. He shuddered. “No. I’m fine, sir.”

  “I hope so,” said Hammond. “Because you and I are taking a little trip.”

  And just like that, the headache was back. “Don’t tell me, sir. Let me guess. Washington?”

  Hammond sat back in his chair and laced his fingers across his belly. His expression was grave; never a good sign. “Yes.”

  “I know I don’t want to hear this, but… why?”

  Hammond let his gaze settle on the ominous red phone; an even worse sign. When the news was good, or at least not dreadful, the general never failed to look him in the eye. “There’s no easy way to say it, Jack.”

  That rapidly sinking sensation would be his heart, heading for his boots. “Then let me say it for you, sir. My failure to secure the Eurondan technology as promised has ruffled a few political feathers.”

  Now Hammond did look at him. In the office’s harsh fluorescent lighting he looked older, and weary. “I don’t like people who hog all the credit, Jack. Last time I looked the buck still stopped in this office. I could’ve ordered you to disregard Dr. Jackson’s concerns and obtain everything Alar promised us, regardless of the ethical implications of that action. I didn’t. Ultimately the responsibility lies with me.”

  God. It was tempting, so tempting, to let someone else shoulder the burden. The blame. But he couldn’t do that. It wasn’t the way he lived his life and besides, this was George Hammond. “All due respect, General, but no,” he said, politely uncompromising. “I was the man on the spot. It was my call to send Daniel back here so he could cast doubt on the deal. I could easily have ordered him to stay with me on Euronda and just sent Carter with the request for the heavy water.”

  Hammond nodded. “And if you’d done that we’d have all that promised technology, possibly more, you and Dr. Jackson wouldn’t be speaking and thousands upon thousands of innocent humans would’ve been slaughtered by Alar and his racial purists. Are you saying now you made the wrong call?”