Stargate SG1 - Roswell

by Sonny Whitelaw

  Daniel looked like he was about to object, but conceding defeat, turned back inside the jumper, grabbing the medical kit as he went. Sam was certain the General was also injured, nursing a set of bruised ribs most likely, but at least he was still alive. The head wound she'd seen earlier, before Vala had used the hand device, had, frankly, scared the hell out of her.

  They had Vala to thank on several counts, including reversing the effect of countless dartball wounds on Sam's arms and legs, which had made leaving her and Cam in 1908 that much harder to swallow.

  Damn Loki for his self-aggrandizing opportunism. But the fault did not rest entirely with him. She should have paid more attention to what the Asgard was doing instead of taking his word that he had made the necessary repairs. Her only excuse was that she'd barely had time to prepare the jumper for flight before Daniel had come tearing back from Brown University.

  The panel on the time machine was warped, and pieces of the lightweight material, now blackened and twisted with heat, were lying on the deck. Prying open the machine, she glanced inside, and suddenly felt the urge to kick something—or someone. “Why that little—”

  “More of Loki's creative repairs?” Daniel ventured.

  For an Asgard, Loki had proven to be surprisingly inept when it came to cloning O'Neill, so Sam supposed the current mess could have been due entirely to incompetence. But given the way he'd set the dates on the time machine plus that little trick with the transport, she doubted it. “Loki reconnected the power supply unit too close to the crystals. The entire device is pretty much slag.” Which meant that even presupposing they could locate An, and he was willing to help, they were not going to get the time machine operational again.

  Sam would normally have been confident in fixing anything, but not only was the Ancient technology largely different to that used by the Asgard, some of the exotic materials were not even available on Earth.

  The prospect of being trapped in 1947 was bad enough, but what about Teal'c? He had only a limited supply of Tretonin, and it wasn't exactly an over-the-counter drug.

  Several loud thunks from outside reminded her that the priority was getting the jumper operational. She went to the cockpit and, seeing Daniel's bare leg and bloodied shorts from behind, said, “You sure that bullet just grazed you?”

  He was swabbing away the last of the crusted smears of blood. A little clear fluid oozed out but from where Sam was standing it looked to be otherwise clean. “I think most of it's inside Cam's pelvis.” He met her gaze. “Half an inch higher and I'd have been singing soprano. Y'know, every time we've taken fire in the past, no matter how insane the situation, someone believed they actually had a reason to be shooting at us. But back there in that damned tack room...” He winced again and Sam didn't think it was from the pain. “A drunk with a gun. That's all it took.”

  “Don't worry, we'll get them back.” Judging by his expression, her reply sounded as trite and hollow to Daniel as it did to her.

  Sam couldn't help shake the feeling that she was missing something incredibly important here, some hint of what the hell was really going on, because none of this made sense. Her older self had sent O'Neill and Vala back in time in order to recover SG-1 and An. Aside from her inability to reconcile the logic of going back in time to save herself, why would she, as General O'Neill put it. be gallivanting around time?

  Had the Ori been defeated? Or had they, empowered with the same abilities as the Ancients, decided that a time machine could be utilized as a weapon? Such an application had certainly appealed to the Pentagon, which is why they'd had her researching the Stargate as a time travel device following the first Abydos mission.

  Turning to the laptop, she brought up the schematics of the jumper, hoping that the engineering challenge would take her mind off that circular conundrum, at least for the moment. The simulations she'd run when they'd been parked on Rhode Island had ascertained the optimal power configuration while using the time machine and transport. Now that those pieces of equipment were out of the equation, she could focus entirely on the jumper's systems.

  “Hello,” Daniel muttered. “One of these things is not like the other.”

  Sam looked up. He'd dressed his wound and had found a pair of jeans to change into, having already used the spare BDU pants he normally kept in his pack. He was also dangling a packet of antibiotics from one hand, while in the other he held a similarly clear packet—except this was filled with spongy looking colored shapes that she recognized.

  “Not that it's a bad idea or anything,” he added, “but since when have medical kits come with Asgard MREs?”

  “Cam and Teal'c repacked the kit after Vala opened it. Maybe—”

  Daniel cut her off with a shake of his head. “This was in the unopened medical supplies, not the First Aid kit.”

  Something yellow fluttered to the deck by Daniel's foot. Sam leaned over, picked up the slightly crumpled sticky note, and recognizing her own handwriting, read, “An likes the green ones but he's going to need the red.”

  A wave of irritation swept over her. Why had she found it necessary to be so damned cryptic in her old age? And if her older self had thought to pack Asgard food, why not something useful, like a spare time machine and Asgard transport or maybe a power supply unit or two?

  She knew the answer, of course, but it didn't make the situation any less exasperating.

  “Guess that's a good sign,” Daniel said. “You—I mean General Carter—wouldn't have packed them unless you... she...was certain we'd recover An.” He popped a couple of antibiotics from the gel pack and downed then with a mouthful of water.

  “We got company!” O'Neill was holding his arm across his chest as he ducked into the rear of the jumper.

  His ribs definitely needed attention, but Sam's immediate concern was the realization that no additional aircraft had taken off since the first two that they'd heard. If flight operations had been discontinued because someone had seen or heard the jumper, the place would be crawling with MPs any minute.

  She had to get the jumper cloaked.

  Turning to the laptop, she initiated a new simulation giving the cloaking function priority, and then glanced back through the hatch.

  Daniel was repacking the medical kit. “How many?”

  “Three.” The General's eyes fastened on the Asgard food.

  “Five,” corrected Teal'c, coming into the jumper. “Two further soldiers in a vehicle are headed in this direction.”

  Avoiding what she expected would be another reproachful look from O'Neill, Sam focused on the computer screen and said a silent thank you to Radek Zelenka for taking the time to integrate the jumper's onboard diagnostic systems with a fully-digitized technical manual detailed enough to make an Air Force crew chief green with envy. The simulation provided a recommended configuration, and the manual promptly called up the appropriate schematic and associated instructions.

  The sound of a jeep approaching cut through the early morning silence. Working as she talked, Sam opened the control panel, pulled out the opal rock and began configuring the crystals. “Sir, we have only one functioning power supply module but it's in good shape. It'll take me a few moments to set up, but I think I can get us cloaked. We'll also have full flight and anti-grav capabilities and inertial dampeners, but the trade off is we can't cloak and use shields simultaneously, and life support and weapons are out.”

  General O'Neill's eyes lit up. “We have weapons?”

  While she appreciated his reaction to that announcement, Daniel was less enthusiastic. “I would have thought life support was a little more critical, Jack.” He headed to the back of the jumper where Teal'c was standing, collecting his zat on the way.

  “Not if we fly under twelve thousand feet.” Sam confirmed each adjustment with the real time output on the laptop. “How long do we have?”

  Teal'c raised his hand to indicate they should be silent. Using hand signals herself, Sam motioned for O'Neill to sit in the pilot's seat, but to no
t power up the jumper. Daniel and Teal'c quietly positioned themselves either side of the open hatch, while she continued to work; eight further alignments to make in four panels.

  The sound of the jeep drew closer, passed them and... The brakes slammed on, maybe fifty feet away. Above the low rumble of the vehicle, someone yelled, “Hey, Charlie, over here.”

  “What, Sarge? Don't tell me you're jumping at little green men, too.”

  The engine was switched off. “Looks like something banged up in here pretty good.”

  Sam eased the first panel closed, opened the second. Six crystals to go.

  Laughter followed, before a third voice said, “What are you talking about? It's a pile of junk. Probably shifted around with all those B52s taking off. You ask me, I think the whole flying saucer thing is a load of hooey. The boys at White Sands probably lost one of them ex-per-i-men-tal rockets they been messing around with—”

  “Hold on a sec,” the sergeant ordered, his tone indicating a worrying level of alertness. “You see that?”

  Zat guns ready, Teal'c and Daniel aimed outside. Sam closed the compartment and opened the next. Three remaining.

  O'Neill was glaring at her, silently urging her to hurry.

  “What is it, Brownie?” A fourth voice this time, coming closer.

  “It's like some big ol' plow or something dug a whole through... Lemme get my flashlight.”

  “I don't know about no missile.” The first voice sounded skeptical. “You see that load Major Marcel and Captain Cavitt brought in? The Major's Buick was loaded to the roof. Me 'n Smitty got pulled outta bed at 0300 and ordered to unload the Captain's Carryall and pack it into crates.”

  The voices faded and Sam slipped in the final crystal, closed the compartment, leaned close to the General and whispered, “Don't power up, just think about cloaking us.”

  “...Pappy just flew out with the whole lot of it.”

  “Where'd they take it?”

  “Fort Worth, but I saw the flight plan. He's leaving the colonel there and taking everything to Wright.”

  The implications of that statement alarmed Sam, but she focused on the power readings—which shifted, indicating minimal drain. She could not be absolutely certain they were cloaked because from within the jumper everything appeared unchanged—including their view through the open hatch. Outside, the beam of a flashlight cut through the patchwork of shadows cast by an intensely bright sunrise.

  “There's a hole down there, like a cave or something,” said the sergeant. “I'm going down, I want to take a closer look.”

  Sam's pulse raced when a pair of khaki-clad legs and polished black shoes dangled down through the wreckage less then ten feet from the rear of the jumper. While she knew the theory behind the jumper's cloaking capabilities, it was disconcerting when the beam from the sergeant's flashlight panned inside, causing her to flinch when it briefly hit her eyes. They could not allow the jumper to be discovered.

  “I still reckon it was one of them rockets,” Charlie called from somewhere above. “White Sands; they don't tell no-one nothing. You remember what it was like around here right up until they tested that A-bomb.”

  “Maybe,” the sergeant replied, edging closer. “But I've been out picking up their rockets before. Heck, just last month we got sent out to find that one they called a Hermes, that'd crashed outside Alamogordo. The stuff me and Brownie unloaded this morning weren't from no rocket.”

  Teal'c reached for the mechanism controlling the rear hatch. Sam almost hissed a warning, but then she realized what he had in mind. If the sergeant kept coming, he'd walk straight inside the jumper, but if the hatch was closed, he'd encounter an invisible wall. The men were already on edge. Something that unusual should send them back to the base for reinforcements, by which time the cloaked jumper could be flown out of here.

  When the hatch began to lift, a section of scrap metal fell, scraping loudly against the hull then crashing down. Someone from above yelled, “Get outta there, Brownie. The whole lot's about to come down!”

  Teal'c paused. The hatch remained open just far enough for Sam to see the sergeant scrambling out of the pit. “There's nothing down there,” he reported. “You're right, Casey. These old gals have just shifted around some. Danged dangerous if you ask me. I'll report it to the Captain. Get him to post a warning to keep clear.”

  The rest of the conversation was lost when the jeep engine started up again, and slowly faded into the distance.

  Inside the jumper, they waited silently for several minutes, during which time Sam, her pulse pounding, ran another check on the systems. Finally, Teal'c opened the hatch fully, and went outside to make certain they were in the clear.

  The General twisted in his seat to look behind him, letting out an involuntary grunt of pain.

  “Jack, what's wrong with you?” Daniel sounded more annoyed than concerned.

  Ignoring him, the General asked Sam, “What's the status of the time machine and Asgard transport?”

  Her concerns about being discovered now eased, she could refocus on the larger problem. “Both are completely burned out, sir. I doubt I could even salvage spare parts.”

  “Jack?” Daniel said, watching him wince as he rose to his feet.

  “Maybe a little bruised around the ribs, that's all,” he begrudgingly allowed.

  “Sir?”

  The General silenced Sam with a look, but Daniel was not so easily dissuaded. “At the very least, they'll need strapping.” Refusing any argument to the contrary, he opened the medical kit.

  The computer offered no easy answers, but Sam continued to stare at it while she considered their next move. In the sixty odd years since the 'Roswell incident', countless well-rendered sagas had evolved, all jam packed with elaborate details comprising mostly second and third-hand evidence. From Japanese Fu-Go balloons and Project Mogul high altitude balloons to detect anticipated Soviet missiles to the Operation Paperclip medical experiments using Progeria victims, each new premise was more fantastical than the last. Even those who subscribed to the UFO theory had never agreed on particulars. Where details were missing they had been filled in by speculation until the result was a compelling verisimilitude of crashed UFOs and secret government agendas. Enlarged and factualized in the retelling, it had filled countless books and web sites and formed the basis of a dozen movies and television shows.

  While the general public was correct in assuming that Area 51 stored, experimented with and developed hybrid alien-human technology, it had been entirely Goa'uld or Ancient in origin. Absolutely none of it had been Asgard. And it was that fact which now worried Sam.

  All that she had to go on was that sometime in her future she would go back in time to 2006 knowing that An liked the green food cubes but would need the red...

  Which gave her an idea. Turning around, she asked, “Daniel, where did you get those jeans?”

  Busy with bandaging the General's chest, which, Sam noted, was the subject of a very impressive, multicolored bruise, Daniel nodded in the direction of the cargo bay. “Urn, in one of the supply boxes. Black one, beside the carton of MREs.”

  Sam eased past them, while the General asked Teal'c, “What was he talking about, crates of stuff to Fort Worth? I thought you said the second crash site wasn't reported for days?”

  Teal'c took a few moments before replying. “Details of the Roswell incident have been greatly disputed, O'Neill.”

  “Hell, Jack, the Air Force has always disputed the entire incident,” Daniel said. “Hold still, will you? One of these ribs feels like it's busted. You're lucky you didn't puncture a lung.”

  “It's not busted,” he retorted. “Just a little bent.”

  Sam looked up in time to see Teal'c's eyebrow hike up a notch. “While some claim that the recovery team from White Sands secured the intact pod and Asgard within hours,” he said, “others suggest it took several days.”

  “Sir, the Asgard bodies we saw were days, maybe as much as a week old. Before Val
a healed him, Loki was pretty banged around.”

  “Stands to reason An would have been in equally bad shape,” Daniel Jackson said. “A delay in rescuing him might guarantee he doesn't make it.”

  “I believe today is July 7.”

  “What makes you certain of the date, Teal'c?” Sam asked.

  “When Brazel informed Roswell's Sheriff Wilcox of the debris and bodies at the second site, Wilcox reported the matter to the commanding officer of the 509th Bomb Group at Roswell, Colonel William Blanchard. Unaware of the White Sands recovery effort already underway at the first site, Blanchard dispatched Major Marcel and Captain Cavitt with Brazel to the second Corona site. Marcel filled his vehicle, a Buick, and Cavitt, a Jeep Carryall with wreckage, and returned to Roswell in the early hours of July 7.”

  Sam wasn't surprised by the depth of Teal'c's knowledge. She strongly suspected that, along with his interest in science fiction movies, the Jaffa's fascination with UFO cults stemmed from an innate curiosity that, ruthlessly suppressed by the Goa'uld, had been unleashed following his arrival on Earth.