by Stargate
S G • In
THE COST OF HONOR
"Damn it!" Watts yelled from the DHD. "This is pointless, sir! It won't stay open!"
Standing up slowly, Major Henry Boyd glanced up at the twisting nightmare in the sky. It looked like some hideous creature come to tear them to pieces. "Keep trying," he told the Captain.
"Sir?" Lieutenant Jessica McLeod ripped her gaze from the sky, voice shaking. "I've been thinking about why the gate won't activate. The gravitational force of the-" She stammered over the word. "Of the black hole would create a massive time distortion effect."
He stalked toward her, frowning. "A what?"
"Time here will be moving much slower than back on Earth, sir. Much slower. The gate was probably open for half an hour at the SGC, but here.. .just a second."
Boyd felt his heart clench tight. "What are you saying, Lieutenant?"
She looked bleak. "I don't think we're getting out of this one, sir."
Lucy. His daughter was the first thought in his head. Sweet, innocent, adoring Lucy. Her little arms around his neck, her delighted smile when he came home. Daddy! He swallowed hard. "I won't accept that, Lieutenant." Lucy, barely old enough to understand. Heather, having to explain why he was never coming home again. "They'll find a way to come get us. They won't leave us here."
SG•l.
THE COST OF
HONOR
BOOK TWO OF TWO
SALLY MALCOLM
For Tom and the children, with love.
Many thanks to Sabine, for all the red ink.
Kate, for being so speedy.
The Netnutters, for hanging out at all hours.
And Jack, Josh and Jamie, for keeping us chatting.
Author's note:
The events in this book take place during season seven of STARGATE SG-l.
PROLOGUE
he fire crackled, catapulting sparks into the cloudless desert night. They drifted on invisible wings, like the angels themselves, until their flame was consumed by the icy air and they fell dead to the ground.
Fallen angels.
Just like the One.
Through her mass of dark hair, Alvita Candra studied the auspicium where it lay in the cold ruins ofArxantia. It had been silent for fifty years, dark with the corruption of the enemy, but two weeks ago a light had shone in its depths - a hope not seen since her mother was a girl. The light had flared, and then died. Since then, the auspicium had remained dark.
"Does it say more?" Atella was impatient, the blood running hot through his young veins. A warrior born.
Closing her eyes, Alvita reached out and placed her hand on the gray dome of the auspicium. The familiar swirl of images spun through her mind like the desert wind, kicking up sand into a spiral toward the stars. And through the chaos, through the thousand dead minds, she saw the One.
His eyes were alien, pale like the enemy. But he was no enemy; he had walked with the angels. She could see it in his face, his strange colorless face. "I do not know what he is," she whispered. "He is not Arxanti. But neither is he Kinahhi. He is ... different. And yet he has been touched by the angels. He has walked among them."
"You see this?" Atella's harsh voice seemed far away, distant through the clamor. "Are you sure?"
"I see him," she whispered. "But faintly. He has had scant contact with the sheh fet, but it is enough. The Kaw'ree fear him. They fear them all, for the Kaw'ree have seen the truth - though their black hearts deny it." She shivered, the night air cutting through her thin clothes. Too cold to be out, had the auspicium not demanded it. But time was changing - she felt it, felt the wheels spinning backward. "He is of us."
"And does he come?" pressed Atella. Eager, so eager to throw off the chains of generations.
"I cannot see." Atella wanted more than she could give. "He is lost to me now, lost to the sheh fet. He has gone, but he will return. The prophesy cannot be denied. Salvation will come from beyond the stars, when the angels return. Can it be otherwise?"
Atella rose to his feet, his boots crunching anxiously in the sand. "But when?"
"I cannot see. I see only the enemy now, shriveling in fear of shadows. They dread his return. They dread us all."
"The One," Atella asked, stopping and crouching at her side. She could feel the heat of his body in the icy night and relished his warmth. "Does he have a name?"
"A name...?" She sent her mind out, recapturing the image. A sharp mind, slicing to the truth like a blade. An unquenchable thirst for justice, too often thwarted. Frustration, outrage and a great anger, tempered by greater compassion. A name... "Yes," she whispered, hearing the alien sound in her mind. "He has a name, a strange name." She twisted her lips in an attempt to form it. "Dan'yel Jak'sun."
Atella sat back on his haunches. "Dan'yel Jak'sun? A strange name indeed." His hand came to rest on her bare arm, strong and warm. "Come, Alvita. You have searched enough. The night is getting cold, and the fire is failing. We must return."
"Yes." But it was hard to leave, to bid farewell to that face. Those eyes. A fallen angel, come to deliver them from the Kinahhi. At last. At last!
CHAPTER ONE
eneral George Hammond was cold. A late-night chill had seeped into the marrow of his bones, fusing with his exhaustion, guilt and long hours of helpless waiting until he felt cold from the inside out. Through the control room window, at the heart of Stargate Command, he stared down at the silent gate as if he could will the vast machine into action. But it remained inert, absorbing his growing sense of frustration and self-recrimination as easily as it handled the awesome power of a wormhole.
Thirty-six hours ago he'd watched his flagship team stride resolutely up the ramp and through the Stargate. At the time he'd known - suspected - that their mission wasn't exactly textbook, but he'd turned a blind eye, as he'd done so often where Colonel Jack O'Neill was concerned. Now, it seemed, his customary faith in his people was going to come back and bite him on his broad Texan backside.
SG-1 were missing. They could be dead. Captured. AWOL. Fact was, he had no idea. Which meant he had no idea how to help them. He cursed silently - as their CO, that was the one thing he should damn well know how to do. He should have demanded the truth up front. Instead, he'd given them plenty of rope and was afraid they'd used it to hang themselves.
Abruptly, a loud metallic clunk echoed through the gateroom. Chevrons locked, and Hammond felt the familiar tingle of static and tension that accompanied any off-world activation. He stood a little straighter, shoulders braced as the event horizon mushroomed and settled into a shimmering pool of light. It never ceased to impress, even at times like this, when his mind was occupied with grimmer thoughts.
"Receiving IDC," Sergeant Harriman reported, scanning the screen before him. Then he looked up, a note of disappointment in his voice. "It's SG-13, sir."
Nodding, the General turned toward the stairs as Colonel Dave Dixon stepped through the gate. The look on the Colonel's face told the whole story. By the time Hammond had reached the gateroom, Dixon's team were bunched disconsolately at the foot of the ramp. "We've got nothing, sir," the Colonel apologized, tugging off his cap and showering the ramp with grit. "Nothin' but sand and ruins. If SG-1 were on '832, any trace of them would have been swept away within hours. The damn wind never stops blowing."
Hammond nodded, the tension in his shoulders twisting into a cramp that gripped the back of his neck like a vise. "Is it possible Colonel O'Neill took his team further away from the gate?"
"It's possible," Dixon shrugged, although his tone belied his words. "But, frankly, sir, I don't know why he would. Like I said, there's nothing there. It's a dustbowl."
Clutching at straws, George. His gut told him Dixon was right - SG-1 weren't on P6M-832. The moon had
never been Jack's destination, it was just a staging post on his trip to...where? He should have pressed O'Neill for more information. He should have darn well demanded it.
And now SG-1 were running out of time. Kinsey was breathing down his neck like a rabid dog and Hammond knew the Senator wouldn't back off until he had juicier meat to sink his teeth into. Preferably Jack O'Neill flavor.
Angry at himself, he dismissed SG-13 with a brief nod. "Good work."
But as his men trudged towards the door, Dixon paused. Glancing up at the control room - empty but for Harriman - he lowered his voice. "Sir, if SG-1 are in trouble, my team are willing to do whatever's necessary to bring them home."
"I appreciate that, Colonel," Hammond nodded. As always, the loyalty and bravery of the people under his command touched him deeply. But it never surprised him. "I'll keep you posted."
More quietly still, Dixon added, "We've heard a rumor that Senator Kinsey tried to-"
"Rumors," Hammond interrupted, "are best unrepeated, Colonel." He softened the reprimand with a meager smile. "With any luck, SG-1 will walk through the gate in the next twelve hours with a darn good explanation. If not..."
If not, they were in trouble. Big trouble. And it was his damn fault. O'Neill had been all but relieved of command before this final mission - he had nothing to lose. Hammond should have kept him where he could see him until this whole stupid mess with Crawford and Kinsey had been cleared up. Bad call, George. Bad call.
Dixon nodded grimly. "I hope they're okay, sir."
"So do I, Colonel." Hammond looked up at the massive Stargate, its ominous presence offering no comfort. "So do I."
Everything hurt. His right knee was stiff and swollen, despite the Tylenol he'd chewed. Grit had scraped one side of his face raw, and it stung like needles every time he spoke. Not to mention they were into their third day of exhaustion and his eyes were sandy and heavy. All in all, Colonel Jack O'Neill had felt better.
He'd also felt a hell of a lot worse.
Slumped in the co-pilot's seat, feet up on the dash, he stared blindly through the tel'tak's window. Streaks of starlight bled past at incomprehensible speeds as their ship hurtled across the galaxy toward another impossible rescue. Despite his aches and pains, Jack couldn't repress a swell of pride at the thought: his team were the best. No doubt about that.
Speaking of which... Carter had said it would take three days to reach P3 W-451, the planet that was shattering beneath the feet of Henry Boyd and SG-10. With her usual optimism, she'd gone on to assure him that the anti-gray device would be up and running by the time they arrived. And if he'd seen a shadow of doubt in her eyes, he'd chosen to ignore it. Over the past few days he'd seen a lot of shadows in her eyes, and felt a few of his own crowding close. He ignored them all; it was the only way to keep going. And that was one thing they damn well had to do.
So he'd sorted through the remnants of their kit in search of food and water and scrounged enough to keep them functioning - if not exactly satisfied - until they arrived on `451. After that... The plan was to fly to the nearest world with a Stargate and hightail it back to the SGC with a happy, healthy and grateful SG-10 in tow.
From that point onward things got a little blurry. But he was pretty sure that it would involve something unpleasant hitting the fan. Jack shied away from the unwelcome thought. Plenty of things to worry about before he had to face Kinsey's politicking; he might even be dead by then. With any luck.
His companion shifted in the pilot's seat, making a small adjustment to their course. "You appear troubled, O'Neill."
That was the nice thing about Teal'c - he never beat about the bush. He also had the disconcerting habit of knowing exactly what you were thinking. The best response was to play dumb. "I do?"
Teal'c cast him a slow glance from the corner of his eye. "You are concerned that our mission to rescue SG-10 will not succeed?"
Jack yanked his feet from the dash and landed them with a thud on the floor. He sat up straighter and stretched his aching shoulders. "Nah," he yawned. Damn, he was tired. How long had it been since he'd slept for more than a couple of hours? "Carter's on the case, it's a walk in the park."
Teal'c was silent for a moment. "You place a great deal of faith in Major Carter's abilities," he observed. "The task she faces is formidable."
That was true enough, but Jack could read the subtext. Hell, with Teal'c, if you couldn't read the subtext you missed most of the conversation. "It's not like I have much choice right now," he said quietly. "She can handle it." He hoped. But he couldn't shake the image of her sprawled against Baal's gravity wall, nor the brutal revenge she'd tried to exact on a Jaffa barely out of short pants. Teal'c was right; the last couple of days had been tough on Carter. And he'd noticed a brittleness about her that was worrying.
What she really needed was time to regroup and heal, mentally as well as physically. Instead she got short-rations, sparse medical care, and the weight of an all-but-impossible mission resting entirely on her ability to make an alien device work. Not to mention the fact they were in breach of orders and AWOL. A court martial might only be the start of it. God only knew what Teal'c and Daniel might face...
Leaning forward, Jack pushed his hands over his face and screwed his eyes shut. What the hell was he doing? No one gets left behind. Great motto, but... He sighed heavily. "You ever question yourself, Teal'c?"
"On many occasions, O'Neill."
He nodded through his hands, but didn't raise his head. "You think I'm crazy, dragging you guys out here? Just because..." Hell, Boyd might even be dead by now.
Teal'c's silence filled the room as adequately as words; Jack knew his friend understood guilt. They were two of a kind, brothers-in-arms. "I have sacrificed much," Teal'c said at last, his voice quiet and dignified, "for the sake of principle. If we do not uphold our beliefs, O'Neill, what purpose is there to our fight?"
"Staying alive?" Jack stared down at his scuffed boots. The dust of Baal's palace still clung to them, like memories that could never be scrubbed from his mind. "To live to see another day? Maybe find a little happiness, a little peace."
Another silence followed, and then, "Small men may live such lives, O'Neill. We are not such men."
Jack slumped back in his seat. "We're not?"
"We are not."
No arguing with that. He'd had a hundred opportunities to walk away from the fight, to hand over to someone younger, stronger. Smarter. It would have made a lot of things easier. But he never had. Perhaps he never would. Turning to gaze out the window once more, Jack sighed. "You know, sometimes I think it would be nice to just, I dunno, be a barber in Indiana. You know?" Teal'c's eyebrow rose curiously. "It's just something I think about," Jack muttered. "Not sure why, exactly. But it sounds relaxing, don't you think?"
"I am unfamiliar with Indiana," Teal'c replied, clearly less than impressed. After a moment, he added, "And I have little experience of barbers."
Jack smiled slightly, but Teal'c was right. This was the life he'd chosen and he could no more abandon his principles than he could cut off his right arm. The truth was, Daniel, Teal'c and Carter were no different. It was what made SG-1 so extraordinary - and usually what landed them in oceans of hot water. Like right now.
He glanced at his watch. It was later than he'd realized. "Carter?" he called out. No answer. He stood up, grimacing at the stiffness in his right knee. "I thought I told her to quit an hour ago."
Teal'c turned, his face more serious than usual. "I believe Major Carter feels she has much to prove."
"What makes you say that?"
"I see doubt in her eyes, O'Neill."
So he hadn't been imagining it.
The golden brand of Apophis glinted dully in the muted light as Teal'c turned back to the controls. "This mission has damaged her faith."
Just do your job! Jack remembered her shocked expression as he'd yelled at her, furious at her deception. Overreaction? Maybe. But she'd made a bad call, for all the wrong reasons, a
nd she knew it.
"I do not believe she will permit herself to fail - whatever the cost."
Slowly, Jack nodded. That was Carter all over; push herself beyond the limit to get the job done. It was both her strength and the fault line in her character: pile on enough pressure and she'd crack. He'd seen it happen on the roof of Baal's palace, when her rage had burned red-hot and violent. He knew what it was like to lose control like that, and he knew she would see it as a huge personal failure.
He clasped Teal'c's shoulder in silent thanks. He should have recognized this for himself. Perhaps, if he'd been less tired, if his own emotions hadn't been so raw, he would have done. But he appreciated the heads-up; that's what teams were for, after all.
"Dig out the rations," he told Teal'c, as he trudged out of the cockpit. "Time we all got some R&R."
The moon cast cold, silver shadows over the snow-clad face of Cheyenne Mountain. It was a comfortless glow in the midwinter night, and deep beneath the rock and stone it seemed to penetrate the restless dreams of George Hammond. He hadn't left the base since SG-1 had disappeared, and now lay on top of the narrow cot in his base quarters, trying to catch enough sleep to keep him functioning. He wasn't having much luck.
"Unscheduled of world activation!" The sirens blared, loud and dissonant, and Hammond was bolt upright in a heartbeat. A different man might have raced into action, but Hammond knew the value of propriety. It wouldn't do for the base commander to be seen in the control room with his shirt undone and his shoes unlaced. Besides, he trusted his people to handle the situation.
And look where that's gotten you. The quiet voice in the back of his mind was new and unpleasant. He banished it.
With his shirt buttoned and laces tied, he left his quarters and headed smartly for the control room. He could hear the running of booted feet, a couple of barked orders, and knew that the gate security team had deployed. His heart raced a little faster and he picked up the pace, marching up the stairs. "Lieutenant," he demanded, "report."
