STARGATE SG-1: Transitions

by Sabine C. Bauer

  Coffee. God, he wanted to weep with joy at the sheer concept of it! “Coffee, please. Uh… lots of coffee, if it isn’t too much trouble. Thank you.”

  As Daniel headed for the inner sanctum, Jack, Sam, and Teal’c fell in behind him.

  The model got agitated, civility springing a crack or two. “They can’t go in!” And, belatedly, “I’m sorry. Your friends will have to wait. I have no credentials for them.”

  Plus, they looked unkempt, rumpled, and in need of a wash, Daniel figured. Not that he looked or smelled any different.

  “Piece o’ cake. I’ll fill you in.” Jack swung around in a graceful arc that left a racetrack tattoo on the carpet, placed both palms on the reception continent, and leaned in. To his left and right, Teal’c and Sam took position like an enemy fleet off the continental coast. “This is how it’s gonna go,” Jack said, feigning a patience he’d never possessed in his life. “It’s all or nothing. Your boss wants to see Daniel here, he’ll have to see the rest of us. Think of it as a package deal.”

  “My instructions are—”

  “All or nothing.” Jack leaned forward some more, and the enemy fleet smiled and managed to loom a little closer.

  If the model hadn’t felt crowded before, she probably did now. “I don’t even know who you are,” she protested feebly.

  “Major General Jack O’Neill, US Air Force.”

  Going by the look on her face, the model was struck speechless, caught between bafflement and disbelief. Daniel knew how she felt. It sounded weird. Or maybe it was just the new-and-shiny factor. He’d barely acclimatized to the Brigadier, and now this. Fact was, he’d always think of Jack as Colonel O’Neill. Force of habit.

  As if he hadn’t noticed, Jack carried on. “The cranky looking chick to my right is Colonel Samantha Carter, US Air Force. And the exuberant fellow here”— his hand came down on Teal’c’s shoulder loudly enough to make the slap reverberate from the picture windows and bounce around the room— “is a big cheese in the government back where he comes from. So now that those pesky introductions are out of the way and we’re all skookum, we’ll just go in, shall we? Can’t keep the boss waiting.”

  Mouth hanging open the model gave a slow-motion nod that, Daniel suspected, was prompted less by agreement and more by severe systemic shock.

  “Excellent. Daniel, lead the way. Oh”— Jack wheeled around for a last look at his victim— “and don’t forget the coffee. Lots of coffee.”

  “Skookum?” Daniel hissed from the corner of his mouth as they headed for the door.

  “You’re not the only one who speaks foreign languages,” Jack hissed back. “I’m fluent in Canadian.”

  “Chick?” Sam chimed in.

  Daniel opened the door before Jack could do some more shoveling in that hole he’d dug for himself.

  It was the corner office to end them all. Two walls of windows, and the antique oak desk seemed to float midair above the city of Vancouver. Daniel could only imagine the view on a clear day. How Mr. Webber ever got any work done was beyond him. Speaking of…

  The man who rose from a leather office chair was older than Daniel had expected, roughly in his late sixties. Tall, lean, with close-cropped white hair and dressed in an Italian designer suit that probably cost half Daniel’s annual salary, he came across as the epitome of the hard-bitten corporate go-getter.

  Webber stepped around his desk, hand outstretched. “Dr. Jackson, thank you for coming. I—” His eyes widened, gaze jumping from Daniel to the team. The hand dropped, and he turned ghostly pale. “Impossible!”

  Daniel barely managed to catch him as he passed out.

  “Holy buckets,” said Jack. “I knew we were good, kids, but I didn’t think we were that good.”

  Chapter 14

  With the help of O’Neill, Daniel Jackson carried Michael Webber to the seating area located in a corner of the man’s office and carefully placed him on a leather sofa. They checked his pulse and breathing.

  At last, O’Neill said, “He seems okay. Unless any of you brought along the smelling salts, I suppose the best we can do is have the customary glass of water ready and wait till he comes round. Though it might be a better idea to just tie him up, toss this place, find the damn document, and haul ass.”

  “And have the police on that selfsame ass in no time flat. Remember, the Mounties always get their man, and we entered their fair country illegally. So, let’s stick with option A, shall we? We can always knock him out again later.” Daniel Jackson trotted off to fetch water from a cooler near the door.

  Teal’c considered okay to be an exaggeration. At this moment Michael Webber did not look as though he would ever be okay again. Oddly enough, Teal’c was convinced he had seen this man before. Or perhaps his son… Something about that face felt hauntingly familiar, and he wished he could place it. Considering the reasons that had brought them here in the first instance, finding the source of this familiarity might turn out to be of vital importance.

  “Anyone got any idea what caused this?” asked Colonel Carter.

  “Garlic? Remember the pizza we scarfed down in that motel in Reno?” O’Neill offered.

  He had missed this, Teal’c realized suddenly. As O’Neill had pointed out to him often enough, the Jaffa sense of humor left a great deal to be desired. And it never was applied in situations where levity was so completely out of place, although it frequently helped to ease the stress of a situation. Perhaps he should try it in the next council meeting on Dakara. For the moment, however…

  “I believe Michael Webber succumbed to shock,” he said. Teal’c had seen the expression on the man’s face in the split-second before he collapsed. It had revealed an irrational mix of stunned disbelief and absolute terror. He had looked, as the Tauri would put it, as though he had seen a ghost— four ghosts in actual fact. Wherever, whenever they had met before, this man remembered.

  “I don’t see how we did anything shocking. Yet.” Daniel Jackson had returned to the seating area and dropped into a seat next to Teal’c, spilling some of the water he had brought in a white plastic cup. Mopping up the spillage with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, he added, “He was expecting me— hell, he blackmailed me into coming here. The only thing off the playbook was that you guys came along. But since you two”— he flicked a glance to O’Neill and Colonel Carter— “hadn’t actually drawn your guns and threatened to arrest him, and Teal’c left his staff weapon at home, I just don’t see how he could have been scared enough to pass out.”

  “He has met us before.”

  “That would explain it.” O’Neill rose. “I expect he’ll solve the riddle in a minute. He’s coming round.”

  Indeed. The man’s lids had begun to flutter and he groaned. Then he opened his eyes. For the space of a heartbeat, that same look of terrified bafflement crossed his face, and his struggle to compose himself was evident. At last, and with some effort, he pushed himself up to sit. Colonel Carter handed him the cup of water. The gesture and a fleeting touch seemed to convince him that his visitors were indeed corporeal rather than figments of some kind of nightmare. He nodded his thanks, drank a sip, then another. His color improved somewhat, but he still looked far from well.

  “I apologize,” he said, his voice rough. “And I’d like to assure you that I’m not in the habit of keeling over on business partners.”

  “Business partners?” Daniel Jackson murmured under his breath. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

  The look Colonel Carter shot him indicated that she found the remark unhelpful. “What happened?” she asked.

  Michael Webber ignored the question— if he had even heard it. He was still staring at them and finally shook his head. “Impossible. Completely impossible.”

  “What is?” Colonel Carter was straining to maintain her patience.

  “You are. They call you Sam, right?”

  “Yes. But…”

  Suddenly the pieces of a memory jigsaw tumbled into Teal’c’s mind and b
egan to click. Nighttime. The chirping of crickets. A forest almost as tall and dense as the woods on Chulak. High up above the branches a myriad stars. On the ground a campfire, sending up sparks as though it meant to add to the Milky Way. A bearded young man and a girl called Jenny. Strange clothing and a stranger vehicle. A bearded young man. Michael.

  “I presume you decided to cross into Canada and succeeded in dodging the draft,” Teal’c said, adding with a look around the office, “Quite impressively so.”

  “Dodging draft? Teal’c, what the hell are you talking about?” The words were barely out when something shifted in O’Neill’s eyes. He remembered, too. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud… Dammit, I should have reported you!” Lips pressed tight, aware that they had just violated the integrity of the timeline— again— O’Neill directed an apologetic shrug at Colonel Carter.

  “Never mind, sir.” She sighed. “I don’t think there’s any point in clouding the issue with alien traveler stories. We gave the girl at reception our names, and somehow I don’t think he’ll buy the one about us snapping up a really potent batch of Oil of Olay on EBay. But let’s try and keep the info dumps to a minimum.” Glaring at Michael Webber, she snapped, “Yes, you’re right, and no, you’re not crazy. It was us back then. As General O’Neill just pointed out—”

  “General O’Neill?” The man’s eyes grew wide.

  “Actually it was Colonel back then. Though in real terms I was carving out a reputation as the terror of grade seven in 1969.”

  “— he should have reported you. At the very least it would have kept you from sending your goons to kidnap Cassie Fraiser.”

  “Let me stop you right there.” Holding up his hand, as though to physically impede her, Michael Webber frowned at Colonel Carter. “I certainly don’t employ goons, and even if I did I wouldn’t condone kidnapping people. You should know me better than that. Appearances to the contrary”— he flicked an almost embarrassed glance around his lavishly appointed office— “I still adhere to certain principles of the Flower Power years. Rejection of any kind of violence being one of them. So what the hell are you talking about… Sam?”

  “Uh.” Daniel Jackson straightened up and adjusted his spectacles. “She’s talking about the act of non-violence where I get a phone call telling me that they have Cassie and if I or any of us want to see her again, I’m to translate a certain document in your possession and never breathe a word of it to anyone. Care to comment?”

  A knock on the door interrupted whatever answer Michael Webber had been about to give. “Come!” he called instead.

  The young receptionist appeared, carrying a tray laden with coffee and the necessary paraphernalia. She set it down on the table. “Do you want me to pour, Mr. Webber?”

  “No, thanks, Mindy. That’ll be all. Oh, and no interruptions, please. This could take a while.”

  Mindy’s smooth forehead crinkled in disapproval. “You do remember your lunch with Stewart, Kalman, and Willis, Mr. Webber?”

  In Teal’c’s experience the string of names did not indicate a group of people but rather a single entity in the shape of a lawyer. Or possibly a realtor.

  “Damn… Okay, phone and reschedule, with my sincere apologies. Something’s come up.”

  “Fine.” Not entirely appeased, Mindy stalked from the room, leaving Teal’c to wonder, not for the first time, why Tauri women subjected their physique to a type of footwear that all but guaranteed injury.

  Their host— Teal’c supposed the offering of sustenance made him that— poured coffee for everyone, handed around the cups and a platter of small cakes and pastries that emptied at an alarming rate. None of the team had eaten since the previous afternoon in Reno.

  Michael Webber took a small sip of coffee, replaced his cup on the saucer. “To return to the subject,” he said, “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Daniel, but… by the way, do you also have a military rank I ought to know about?”

  “He doesn’t,” supplied O’Neill, eyeing the last piece of pastry on the plate, a pink, round affair crowned by a wilting tuft of cream. “He prefers alphabet soup behind his name. How many Ph.D.s was it, Dr. Jackson?”

  “Two at last count.” Daniel Jackson squinted at their host. “You do believe me, but?”

  “They, whoever they are, would have realized you’d call me on the abduction of… Cassie, was it? And I obviously would deny it, because I really don’t have a clue. It doesn’t make sense.”

  His demeanor was thoughtful, not aggressive, and there was no sign that he might be lying. He radiated the same air of naïve veracity he had displayed as a young man, although it was wildly at odds with the image of the sharp corporate manager he had become.

  At odds or not, Teal’c believed him. “Forgive me,” he said. “But it makes a great deal of sense. Because you could deny any knowledge of the kidnapping with great credibility, considering that your ignorance of it is, in fact, the truth.”

  Colonel Carter seemed to agree. She nodded slowly, watched as O’Neill removed a small glob of cream from the corner of his mouth while mournfully regarding the now empty platter. Then she returned her attention to Michael Webber. “So where is this document Daniel is supposed to translate? And where is the connection to the people who have Cassie?”

  “No idea on that last question. As for the first, easy,” their host said and rose. “Let me just get it for you.” He crossed the room to his desk, removed a thin folder from a drawer, and returned to hand the folder to Daniel Jackson. “Here,” he said. “See what you make of it.”

  Both O’Neill and Colonel Carter relinquished their seats to peer over the archeologist’s shoulders. Daniel Jackson opened the folder onto a single letter-size scanner image. It showed a sheet of paper or parchment, crisscrossed by sharp creases that indicated the document had been folded into a small, tight parcel for a long time. The writing on it was unmistakable.

  “It’s Ancient,” he murmured.

  “Daniel!” Colonel Carter and O’Neill hissed in unison, and O’Neill boxed the younger man’s shoulder in warning.

  “Oh, yes.” Michael Webber had resumed his seat and they stared at him in disbelief. “It’s definitely ancient.”

  “How do you know it’s—”

  “The original has been carbon-dated. It’s at least ten thousand years old.”

  “Wow! That really is ancient,” O’Neill said, a little too effusively perhaps.

  “You see, the assumption is that the symbols on it actually are a form of writing,” their host informed them, clearly waxing passionate about his subject. “Imagine! Written language at a time when we thought people had barely begun to develop pictographs… Is it writing, Daniel? Please tell me it is!”

  “So why on Earth did Dr. Dimitriades send it to you?” Colonel Carter asked.

  “Oh… yes, of course… I’m sponsoring his dig in Greece. Though what’s going to happen now that—”

  Daniel Jackson’s head snapped up. “You? I thought you’re into air charters and freight and… stuff.”

  “Renewable energies, actually. But my corporation also owns Air Services International, a couple of hotels, and a few other items.” Michael Webber gave a brief smile. “Stavros is a very old friend of mine. A couple of months back he turned up here, together with a Ms. Graves from the American Institute of Cultural Collaboration, with—”

  “The what?”

  “With whom?” O’Neill blurted at the same time.

  “Ms. Graves.” Their host frowned. “Why?”

  O’Neill shook his head. “Just a funny coincidence, that’s all… So, that Institute?”

  “They promote efforts of cultural collaboration worldwide, generally by hooking up private sponsors with specific projects. Anyway, they were looking for funding for Stavros’s dig on a small island off Santorini, and I decided to come on board.”

  “Where did you say?” As though it had a mind of its own, Daniel Jackson’s hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, searching for somethin
g.

  “Santorini. The actual island is Therasia, a little speck of land in—”

  “The caldera of Santorini. I know. This have anything to do with your project?” He handed Michael Webber the crumpled newspaper clipping he had fished from his pocket.

  The puzzlement on Michael Webber’s face deepened to concern as he perused the clipping. “I can’t believe nobody contacted me,” he said at last. “Stavros—”

  “— didn’t possess a driving license.” Daniel Jackson retrieved the little piece of paper. “He didn’t know a gear stick from a windshield wiper. Which probably explains why nobody told you. I doubt this was an accident.”

  “You knew him.”

  Daniel Jackson nodded.

  “At the risk of sounding unbelievably stupid, I’m afraid I don’t understand any of this. They sent me regular progress reports, and when the document was found, Stavros emailed me a copy, explaining that Daniel here is an ancient languages expert, and I should contact him.”

  “Dimitriades found something of value, talked to the wrong guys, and was set up. Same as you, Michael,” O’Neill said. “Let me guess. You’ve got something of a reputation as a humanitarian and supporter of the arts and protector of endangered species of garden slugs?”

  It was their host’s turn to nod. “Barring the garden slugs. As a young man I got lucky. I always felt I wanted to give back.”

  “They got your number. They needed money, and they needed a front. And you’re someone who likes to believe people.” A faint ironic smile twitched around O’Neill’s mouth. “Even when they tell you they’re aliens. Having said that, you’re not an idiot, so no doubt Miz Graves showed you impeccable credentials.”

  Another nod.

  “All fake.” It was not a question, and O’Neill exchanged a glance with Colonel Carter. Teal’c had a fair idea of what they were thinking. The Trust. It bore all the hallmarks. O’Neill rose. “We need to go. And we need to take this.” He tugged at a corner of the document Daniel Jackson was still studying and with an increasingly troubled expression.