STARGATE SG-1-20-21-The Drift-s08e07
Page 1
The Drift
By Diana Dru Botsford
An original publication of Fandemonium Ltd, produced under license from MGM Consumer Products.
Fandemonium Books
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Visit our website: www.stargatenovels.com
METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER Presents
RICHARD DEAN ANDERSON
in
STARGATE SG-1™
AMANDA TAPPING CHRISTOPHER JUDGE
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 is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. ©1997-2012 MGM Television Entertainment Inc. and MGM Global Holdings Inc. All Rights Reserved.
METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER is a trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Lion Corp. ©2012 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Photography and cover art: Copyright ©2012 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.
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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.
CONTENTS
Prelude
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
CODA
For Merlin,
Sleep well in Elysium, old friend.
To be in hell is to drift;
to be in heaven is to steer.
— George Bernard Shaw
Author’s note:
This story takes place shortly after
season eight’s “Avatar.”
PRELUDE
PLANET DESIGNATION: UNKNOWN
STATUS: UNKNOWN
TIME: UNKNOWN… UNKNOWN… UNKNOWN…
He stumbled across darkness, through a rippling pool, and out onto…
Where the hell was he?
Blazing white sunlight forced his eyes shut. That begged a larger question.
Oh, for crying out loud. Who the hell was he?
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember his name.
He felt warmth. Clean air. Complete stillness. No sounds of animals or civilization, just lapping water right behind him. He opened his eyes. Took note of the grayish stone platform beneath his feet. He turned around, coming face-to-face with a vertical stone ring at least three times his height. The ring loomed over him, its center filled with a bluish watery puddle.
He found the massive thing familiar. Almost comforting in an odd sort of way.
As if he and the ring were old friends.
How he’d managed to go through it without getting wet didn’t bother him, not as much as the not knowing… anything.
A ring filled with water?
That made no sense. None. Zip.
If this stone monstrosity was his pal, then why all the red V-shaped lights around its outer edge? He counted seven but, for all he knew, there might be more underneath the platform. Were the lights the ring’s way of saying hello?
Chevrons. Okay, sure. Now he’d figured that out, what about the rest? Something niggled at him. Something about survival tactics. Learn as much about the environment before deciding on a course of action. It was the right thing to do, though he’d no clue how he’d learned that little chestnut.
He took a good, hard look around. Fern-covered hills stretched out in every direction. No buildings, no people, no nothing. The platform was on top of a hill with a widening set of eight steps leading down to the ground. A few feet beyond stood a pedestal with a canted circular top.
That pedestal… Was that his ticket home?
Edging closer to the wall of water, he considered returning the way he came. Maybe, the answers were back there. Wherever ‘there’ was. He took a step, raised an arm to go through.
A blast of heat pushed him away from the ring. When he stopped, the wind subsided. He tried again, only to be blocked by yet another warm gust.
He stepped back, and the air stilled once more.
Okay, something wanted him to stay put. He could do that. Squinting up at the bright blue sky, he briefly wished for a pair of sunglasses.
Sunglasses. There was something familiar about wearing sunglasses. Going through the ring and seeing…
“Nope. I got nothing.” With a sigh, he sank down on the top step, his back to the shimmering water ring. If he could only remember.
Remember what?
A wisp of air ruffled against his neck. More a breeze than an outright gust. With it came memories of sounds. Gun shots. Screams. Then, flashes of sensation. Stepping through another wall of water as the ground rumbled. Lost friends.
Failure.
He ransacked his memories, determined to match sounds to feelings. A single gunshot. A woman’s cry. A child’s blood. Guilt so thick that his throat swelled shut.
He swallowed hard, pushing away shades of things he couldn’t remember.
Wasn’t sure he wanted to remember.
The breeze returned. This time cooler, almost comforting. His mind settled, allowing a memory to surface. No, not a memory. More like an urge, a pressing need. There was something important he needed to do. Somewhere important he needed to be. Important people he was supposed to…
Protect?
He shook his head — pretty sure that wasn’t the case. Sweat dripped down his back. The frustration, the sun, the heat, it was all getting to him. Maybe he couldn’t remember who he was, but he could certainly get more comfortable. Take off a few layers before he boiled to death.
He reached up to unzip his vest and jacket. He stopped. Not because he recalled wearing a vest and jacket at some point, but because now… Now he wore a fleece pullover. That was wrong, this much he knew.
Putting a hand to his head, he discovered a wool watch cap. He tore it off. Standard black-issue, no insignia. He glanced down at his get-up: a black tee, green fleece pullover, black fleece trousers. Heavy black boots, but with thicker, more rubbery soles than normal. Whatever ‘normal’ meant.
“In this heat?” He peered upwards. A sun far whiter and much larger than Earth’s peered back.
Sunlight. Warmth. Earth…
Earth. He needed to protect Earth.
No. He’d done that already. At least a half dozen times, but from whom?
He clenched his fists, frustrated at the games his mind played. He should be able to remember. He should know. The breeze blew across his neck again. Cooler this time. Soothing.
Like a long-lost friend.
Something shifted. A small weight appeared in his left fist. He unfurled his fingers, revealing a rectangular block of dull metal in his palm. A hinge along one side allowed the top to open and shut. He pried it open, the recognizable clink
stirring yet another memory just out of reach. He spun the wheel inside the block. A flame ignited.
A smile tugged at his mouth. There were good memories tied to this… This Zippo. Really good memories, but he couldn’t reach them. Instead, he felt the heavy weight of expectation.
With plenty of self-doubt to go with it.
He snapped the lighter shut and glanced over at the pedestal again. This was ridiculous. Why couldn’t he remember the way home? The pedestal was the key, but as much as he tried to squeeze the answer from his muddled mind, it wouldn’t come.
And that royally pissed him off.
Behind him, a familiar thwap hit the vertical puddle, and then a whoosh. Boots scuffled on stone.
He clenched the Zippo in his fist and turned around. A familiar face peered at him from behind a pair of glasses.
“Sir, are you all right?” Another person. A blonde woman. He recognized her. Knew her. Wished he could say her name —
“O’Neill!” A third person. Tall. Dark. Someone whose strength he’d valued. Hell, admired was more like it.
A moment’s dizziness overcame him and then…
The fog lifted.
He knew the people before him as well as he knew the back of his own hand. Daniel Jackson, Lt. Colonel Samantha Carter, and Teal’c stood beneath the shadow of the now dormant Stargate. Each of them gazed at him expectantly. All three wore the same green fleece pullovers, black pants, watch cap, and thick boots.
General Jack O’Neill remembered everything. Everything except how he’d ended up God knows where, unarmed, and with Skaara’s lighter. He knew he’d stuffed it inside his locker back at the SGC.
The damn planet was driving him nuts.
With a curt nod to his second-in-command, he stormed toward the DHD. It was time to get the hell off this rock.
“Dial us home, Carter. Now.”
CHAPTER ONE
Ten hours earlier…
EARTH — 66th PARALLEL SOUTH
ENROUTE VIA USAF GLOBEMASTER C-17
18 AUG 04/0500 HRS MCMURDO STATION
17 AUG 04/1300 HRS STARGATE COMMAND
General’s choice had allowed Jack to pick a seat far aft, far away from the onboard gaggle of dozing civilians and military. Unable to sleep, he yanked out a handful of deceptively innocuous folders from his briefcase.
Pens and pencils.
Forms and folders.
Pulling out the various things he’d need to do his job, it became apparent just how much his life had changed since being promoted. A general’s arsenal wasn’t made up of P90s, 9mm revolvers, or tidy little packages of C-4.
Nope.
A general’s arsenal was a briefcase stuffed with enough mind-numbing crap to make a Goa’uld wither in surrender.
That is, except for the casualty reports.
He shoved the briefcase under his jump seat and resigned himself to the work that went with the pay grade. Glancing at his watch, he did the math. If local time was sixteen hours ahead of the SGC, that made it 0500 hours. A little less than three hours to kill before McChord AFB’s 728th Airlift Squadron landed this tub of a C-17 transport. Three hours to read through the latest round of losses thanks to Ba’al’s super-soldiers, sign-off on a boatload of transfer requests and requisitions, and then try to join the others in taking a nap.
Perchance to dream?
Not likely.
Perchance to remember?
Apparently, that was even less likely. Memories could be such pains in the ass. Uncooperative, sneaky little bastards that stayed under wraps even when needed.
The aircraft jolted sideways and then settled back down. In addition to the gaggle of military personnel, a dozen scientists dozed off in seats lining the cabin walls. Waist-high supply pallets took up the cavernous interior’s middle.
Jack peered out the small window. At an altitude of 45,000 feet, he didn’t even bother to try and make out the Southern Ocean down below.
He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the one thing he couldn’t quite grasp. It wasn’t a physical memory he sought, more like tapping into a feeling. One he wasn’t keen on revisiting.
The C-17 shuddered again.
And again settled down.
Silently cursing the invisible wind pocket, and the hole in his memory, Jack resigned himself to busy work. Was he getting old? Was that why he couldn’t remember?
Thor had been wrong. Plain and simple. Sure, he mostly recalled what had happened when the Ancient Repository stampeded through his brain, but there was a gap. A hole that his Asgard buddy hadn’t accounted for when Jack was revived. A black hole even Carter couldn’t help fill.
If he’d told her. Which he hadn’t.
The truth was, he hadn’t told anyone. Not even General Hammond, who was counting on him.
Big mistake.
He glanced at his folders and groaned. Of course, the casualty report was on top, listing far too many names under his command. Hell, one name was one too many.
Before forcing himself to open the damn file, Jack took a moment to double-check on three people who happily weren’t on that god-forsaken list. Three names that could have been at the top if things had gone differently the past few months…
Directly across, Carter slumped in her jump seat. Eyes squeezed shut, she had a pair of orange rubber earplugs wedged in against the whine of the C-17’s turbines. Jack was willing to bet dollars to donuts that sleep didn’t come easy for her these days. Not since her recent reunion with Fifth. That demon-spawn human replicator and his infamous hand-in-the-head trick was enough to keep anyone from catching forty winks.
She wouldn’t talk about it, but then Jack wasn’t big on the sharing front either so who was he to judge? That didn’t mean he was blind. She smiled less. A lot less. Hopefully, time spent fiddling with the weapons platform would be a decent distraction.
Daniel sprawled out on a pallet between them, clearly in the land of Nod. A book was split open and plastered on his face. Jack winced, knowing he still owed Carter an apology for biting her head off when Daniel went missing during Tegalus’s zealot-ridden civil war. It had taken a month to get Daniel back. A month that made Jack question yet again if he really could fill General Hammond’s sizeable and shiny shoes.
The last on Jack’s list of near-losses was Teal’c, feigning sleep on a jump seat to Carter’s left. Or maybe he was kelno’reeming, if he even did that anymore now that Junior was out of the picture. Ramrod straight. Eyes barely closed. None the worse for wear after a near no-exit scenario from that alien virtual-reality gizmo chair.
Speaking of…
Jack had a training mission to prepare.
Which was a bit of a problem. Sure, he remembered sitting in the Ancient weapons chair. A moment’s frustration at how the thing was too short in the leg-room department. The gummy feel of those gel packs. The chair back radiating enough heat to warm his six. The sound of gunfire. Laser shots. Carter shouting for him to do something, and then —
The plane pitched right. Not enough to wake anyone up, but Jack gave up on the tour down memory lane. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t remember how to use the damn chair. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to think about losing control. Not knowing what needed to be done. Sitting on the sidelines while a rickety-old device grabbed his brain and did the job for him.
Enough. Once they landed in Antarctica, it would all come back to him.
Or not.
He flipped open the casualty report, determined to make every name an indelible mark in his head. In the greater balance of what mattered most, he wasn’t sure which ranked higher — remembering how to use the one weapon which could protect the planet…
Or remembering the men and women who’d fallen in doing so.
PEGASUS ICE RUNWAY
ROSS ISLAND, ANTARCTICA
18 AUG 04/0750 HRS MCMURDO STATION
Daniel peered out the window as the C-17 descended into blackness. Down below, a narrow band of lights outlin
ed the runway. The illuminated pathway twinkled in assurance like miniature red and blue lighthouses, a guarantee to pilots that yes, landing a heavily loaded plane on a 110-foot thick glaciated ice shelf was no different than landing on asphalt. Ice that could be months or centuries old.
A slight thud, a momentary jostle, and they landed. Daniel leaned right to counter the plane’s forward momentum as it rolled across the snow-covered ice tarmac. Across the plane, Sam and Teal’c did likewise, their black-cap clad heads bent sideways in unison.
“Piece of cake,” Jack said, his eyes stayed fixed on the open folder on his lap. He’d done paperwork all night, a very un-Jack-like behavior even with his recent promotion to general and SGC commander.
As the plane slowed down, Daniel grabbed his backpack from beneath his seat and stuffed in his hardbound copy of the Antarctica Treaty. “I’m guessing the pilots do this sort of thing all the time… Flying into Antarctica when it’s dark.”
“I meant the negotiations, not the landing. You’ll do fine.”
Daniel winced. “Thanks, but after Tegalus — ”
“Back on the horse, Daniel.” Jack lowered his voice. “We talked about this.”
They had, repeatedly. And even though Daniel knew Tegalus had been on the brink of civil war — with or without SG-1’s arrival through the gate inspiring the Caledonian Federation to take action — he still hated the idea that he had failed to get the two sides to find common ground. “Look, I don’t think I’m — ”
“Just give the diplomats a tour.” Jack slapped the folder shut. “Ply them with your charm and wit, tell them to back off on their demands, and in an hour they’ll be gone. Then you and Teal’c can play around the outpost to your heart’s content, Carter will kick-start the chair back up with those naquadah generators, and I’ll — ”
“It’s not going to be that easy.”
“Just get it done.”