by Karen Miller
“You were literally asleep on your feet.” Jack stood in the doorway sporting a pair of yellow kitchen gloves. “Why don’t you lie down?” His eyes tracked past Daniel and widened in horror.
“What?” Daniel turned, expecting armed Goa’uld or worse.
“No wonder you can’t sleep with the gruesome sisters staring down at you. Sheesh!”
“Gruesome…?” He stared around the room. Oh. The collection of Papuan ceremonial masks on the wall. “Dr. Jordan left them to me. I haven’t had the heart to take them down. Guess they are a bit unusual.”
“Why put them on your bedroom wall?” Jack sauntered over and tried to stare down the largest mask.
“This isn’t my bedroom,” Daniel mumbled. He looked over the collection of artifacts in the room. Maybe a donation to the Denver Art Museum…
Jack turned and arched an eyebrow at him. “Room. Bed. Bedroom.”
He dropped his eyes to the daybed in the center of the room. “Oh. Right. Actually, it’s a spare. My proper bed is in the back.” He waved a thumb toward the master bedroom at the back of the house. “It gets so hot in summer, I started sleeping here.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Jack nodded.
“Explains what?”
“Five foot bed. Six foot archaeologist. Get some rest, Daniel. I have a refrigerator to excavate.”
Jack hummed to himself, happily absorbed in scrubbing down the worktops in Daniel’s kitchen. With nothing more pressing on his mind than what to order in for dinner he lost himself in menial chores. A lifetime in the Air Force gave him an appreciation for neatness and order — and an aversion to week-old leftovers. He threw the used cloth into the open trashcan liner, tossed the gloves in after and tied the bag up. Done. Pleased, he hefted the bag and took it out the back door to add to the rest.
Afternoon sunlight shone warmly down on his head. Their week of leave time looked to have excellent weather. He threw the garbage in the can, which was already nearly full. He dropped the lid down — should he risk waking Daniel to ask when the next collection was due? A paper note taped to the side of the house, right over the cans, fluttered at him.
TRASH. WEDNESDAY.
Jack grinned. With a head full of planet-saving stuff, Daniel wasn’t the only one who had trouble remembering the little things of life. And today was Tuesday. He wheeled the can out to the curb then wandered back along the side of the house. The grass needed mowing, what there was of it that hadn’t already browned off in the summer heat. Maybe they should organize a working bee. Standing on the back lawn, he took a breather. Daniel’s house was in a block of the older part of town, with his and the surrounding homes all situated on large plots of land. It was pleasant, peaceful. The most disturbance the area had seen had been their own little catch-the-Goa’uld operation a couple of weeks earlier.
A flash of light sparked in the corner of his eye. Jack glanced over his shoulder. Odd. Must be the sun reflecting on a window. Well, maybe he’d have time for a beer before the others arrived. There was an inviting wicker recliner on the back porch. He doubted Daniel found much leisure time in it, but, carpe diem and all that… He bounded up the porch steps and dived into the kitchen.
Beer in hand, Jack shut the refrigerator door, grabbed a pack of pretzels and moved to head back outdoors. And froze.
Two figures stood in the shadowy corner of the kitchen. Big, bulky figures Jack instinctively knew were not his team, arrived early to share a cold beer in the sun.
“Kree!” barked one.
“Kree backatcha,” Jack said quietly.
The sunlight reached far enough into the corner of the room to glint off what had to be a zat gun. Its bearer jerked it upwards. Jack slowly raised his beer and pretzels.
“Larry, Curly. Long way to come for a drink, guys. Hope you like craft beer.”
The one with the zat, Jack christened him Larry, let loose a stream of words in Goa’uld, most of which sailed past Jack without stopping to sink in.
“Well, crap. Just when I’m on vacation, trying to kick back, have a beer, a little dinner with the gang, and the two Stooges turn up.” He inched sideways, keeping eye contact with Larry while sidling towards the block of very sharp kitchen knives Daniel handily kept on the counter.
The zat gun twitched and extended to firing position. Jack paused, the knife block just too far away for a successful lunge. He eyed the intruders. Definite glints of metal armor and big clunky boots. Jaffa. Here on Earth. Colorado Springs. Daniel’s kitchen, no less. The how and why they were here were warring for attention in Jack’s head, but of more importance was to keep them focused on him, and away from his sleeping friend. The second Jaffa clomped forward a couple of steps, and gabbled another string of Goa’uld words. One word caught: “Osiris.” Then another: “Daaneel.”
Of course. Stargate Command had assumed Osiris had come alone. Sarah Gardner had few memories of her time as host to Osiris, even less of events immediately prior to the parasite’s extraction. The techs from planetary defense had not been able to detect whatever ship she’d come in; they’d settled on a theory of a cloaked ship, left to orbit the planet on its own. Presumably someone would find it, some day. Never presume…
Jack smiled his best country bumpkin smile. “Excuse me?” No idea who you are, fella. Must have the wrong house. Planet. Whatever.
Curly stepped closer and repeated his question. Larry scuttled after him, keeping right by his side. That one at least was not looking too sure of himself. In fact, Jack decided he was young — very young — and the other was not much older. Neither looked all that confident.
“Osiris?” Jack pulled a vacant expression. “Nope, no one here by that name.” He shook his head and shrugged. Get the message, bozo, and beam on out of here.
The two exchanged looks, such a comical ‘now what do we do’ glance that Jack would have laughed had not a voice echoed down the hall, from the front ‘bedroom’.
“Who are you talking to? Are the others here?”
The Jaffa were still turning their heads in Daniel’s direction when Jack moved. He flicked the hand holding his beer. Bottle and a spray of Colorado Springs’ finest connected with Larry’s forehead. Pretzels spattered in Curly’s face. Jack flung himself to the right, outstretched hand connected with the meat cleaver as he went down, a wild squirt of zat fire flew over his head, and he hit the tiled floor with a thump. He rolled, flung the cleaver sideways and had the satisfaction of seeing it buried in the shin-guard of Larry. Another zat blast skittered across the kitchen floor and the tail-end of the charge zinged across his legs.
“Argh!”
From his knees down to his toes, Jack’s legs went numb. Remnant charge crept up along his nerves, and he fought valiantly to stay awake. The knife block had landed on the floor next to him. He fumbled for the hilt of the closest, came up with a carving fork. Larry loomed over him. Jack waved the fork with a menacing grimace. Behind his foe, the other Jaffa was aiming his weapon toward the hall door. Desperate, Jack lunged up, and to his surprise, caught Larry’s armored sleeve with the carving fork. The two of them grappled for control. Jack slid around on the tiles, useless legs no help. He caught a glimpse of something long and thin streak through the air and strike Curly a glancing blow. One of Daniel’s incongruous spears clattered to the floor and slid out of sight.
“Oh, crap.”
There was Daniel, in track pants and tee, hair tussled and looking like he very much wished he’d picked up more than one spear.
Jack opened his mouth and bellowed, “Run for it.”
Daniel complied, sort of. He snagged a frying pan from a hook over the island bench, swung and clobbered Curly with a solid thwang. Metallic, totally-inappropriate-for-wearing-on-tiles Jaffa boots skidded out from under the man and he went down, flailing arms grabbed at Daniel as he went and the two of t
hem crashed to the floor. While Jack had his own troubles grappling with the carving fork, he could see glimpses of Daniel: first on top of his foe, then rolled underneath, fists and frying pan proving to be less than effective in such close quarters.
The summer’s twilight filled the kitchen with a bucolic haze. Grunts, thuds and gasps rose into the air amid dancing motes of light. Jack had both hands wrapped around Larry’s, the carving fork hovered inches from his eyes, caught in a well-matched battle of strength. The man looked young, too young to be fighting so desperately for the sake of some jumped up, snake-in-the-grass pseudo god. Still, he was fit, Jack had to allow him that. But the Jaffa’s attention kept slipping; glances darted over to the other battle on the tiles, which betrayed a concern for his fellow bad guy that was not so typical of his kind. He did it again and Jack pounced, if you could pounce while sliding around on the floor in a puddle of beer with half your body numb. He cranked his head forward and sharply butted his forehead into Larry’s cheekbone.
Ow.
Larry overbalanced and slid half off Jack. Impressively, though, he managed to hang on to his part of the carving fork with one hand. Jack heaved his shoulders, trying to turn over and gain a better purchase. Larry’s other hand came back into view… with the zat gun. He swung it at Jack, thought about it for a moment, then aimed back behind him.
The muzzle of the zat landed square against Daniel’s neck. Jack froze. Daniel froze. The Jaffa underneath Daniel froze.
A look of surprise flashed across Larry’s face, then as an afterthought he cried, “Kree!”
Close-contact zat blasts were not pleasant, something he’d prefer to spare Daniel. Jack sighed and let go of the fork. He flopped back onto the tiles and showed his bare hands.
“Waste of good beer,” he muttered.
He’d had such high hopes for this evening. Good food, old friends, cold beer. It wasn’t much, but it was all he wanted. Nowhere in the schedule was sitting on the floor of Daniel’s kitchen, being eyed up by two very nervous Jaffa while tied back to back with his friend (and hadn’t Daniel pitched a hissy fit when Larry had ripped the cord off the blinds — who knew the boy was so house proud?). Jack sidled a glance over to where the Jaffa stood in the shadowy corner of the room. Yup, still muttering between themselves. Seems these two hadn’t come up with much of a plan before launching their raid. A snore drifted up from behind him, causing the Jaffa to stop and stare. Jack tried not to laugh.
The two inched closer. Larry barked a question.
“Hey, don’t look at me, pal. I just came for the beer.” Jack pulled an innocent bystander face. You’ve got the wrong place, guys. Just beam away like good little Jaffa. He wasn’t about to give away that he understood basic Goa’uld. These two were looking for their god — and the longer they hung about in Daniel’s kitchen, the closer the lady formerly known as Osiris got to landing on the front doorstep.
“Daaneel?” Curly leaned into Jack’s face.
Jack shrugged and shook his head. And then Daniel helpfully woke up again with a snort. Curly moved to face him and repeated the question.
“Uh…” Daniel caught himself.
Inwardly, Jack cheered. Five to six odd years of drilling into him not to answer the bad guys when they ask your name had paid off.
“Why are we on the kitchen floor?”
“You remember our guests, Larry and Curly. They dropped by for some beer and pretzels.”
“Pretzels… right.” Jack could hear the frown in Daniel’s voice.
A chime rang down the hallway, coming from the front door.
“Beethoven’s Ninth?” Jack wondered as the two Jaffa looked about curiously for the source of the sound. He wriggled his fingers around a knot in the blind cord.
“Fifth, actually. Came with the house.”
“Nice.” He dropped his voice. “We have a visitor.”
“Uh huh.” Daniel’s fingers met his, both fiddling with the same knot.
The chime sounded again. Larry moved to the hallway and stared up at the small box up above the doorway where the chime peeled its last notes.
A loud knock made everyone jump. The front door opened and a voice floated in.
“Daniel Jackson, it is I, Teal’c.”
In the same instance that the two Jaffa traded triumphant looks, pleased they were indeed in the correct house, Jack heaved himself sideways, taking Daniel with him, and crashed into the legs of Curly. Daniel bellowed, “Teal’c, Jaffa —” to the accompaniment of Curly, who staggered back off-balance and let loose a zat charge into the saucepans.
Footsteps thundered down the hall. Teal’c paused for a frozen moment, framed in the kitchen doorway. He took in the situation: Daniel and Jack tied together, rolling about awkwardly on the floor, one armed Jaffa falling on his rear next to them, another Jaffa torn between reaching to help his compatriot and covering Teal’c with his zat.
Teal’c bellowed, “Kree!”
To which Larry replied, “Kree!”
Jack, half smothered with a Jaffa’s knee in his face and Daniel’s elbows in his ribs, muttered, “Oh, kree yourselves.”
Teal’c could not hide his astonishment. The house of Daniel Jackson had always been open to him, and so he had entered when the announcement of his arrival had not been answered. Never had he expected to be greeted by armed Jaffa, or to find his friends bound and helpless. Well, perhaps not quite so helpless, but certainly in need of some assistance. He drew himself up and stared hard at the standing Jaffa: young, impressionable, a prime candidate to be turned onto the path of the Jaffa resistance.
The youngster took in his gold tattoo. Eyes widened. Posture automatically straightened.
“Jaffa. Hear me. I am Teal’c, of the Free Jaffa,” he announced in the Goa’uld tongue. “Put down your weapons. Cast off the shackles of slavery. Deny your obeisance to false gods. Stand proud and declare your freedom, for yourselves and all your kind. The Goa’uld are liars and betrayers, they deserve none of your loyalty and will only ever reward you with death and dishonor. Put aside this false life and join me on the path to a new life and liberty. Choose your own fate and glory in the power you will wield for yourselves and your families.”
The two just blinked at him, confused. They traded looks, glanced back to him. The one on the ground picked himself up, stepped over O’Neill, and peered at him.
“We do not know you,” he said.
Teal’c raised an affronted eyebrow. “I am Teal’c.” That name alone was usually enough to get the average Jaffa warrior quivering with either rage or admiration. These two just gave back blank stares.
“Former First Prime to the false god Apophis.”
Nothing.
“Slayer of Cronus.”
No reaction.
“Obliterator of Apophis.” Well, he had some help from his team with that one…
“Heru’ur, Seth, Sokar, Klorel, Hathor; these and many other false gods have been slain by my actions.” There was a cough from the back of the kitchen. “With, of course, assistance from the Tau’ri,” he amended.
“We do not know you,” said one of the Jaffa. “We have come in search of our lord, Osiris. Do you know where we can seek her, er, him?”
Teal’c struggled to maintain his stony expression. Not know of him? Years of fighting, upsetting the rule of countless false gods, liberating the enslaved, raising rebellion and dissent wherever he could… His name should be a byword for hope among the oppressed, a rallying cry to arms. He puffed out a breath of annoyance.
Really, the youth of today…
Daniel heaved and pushed against Jack, who was pushing against him. Despite the other’s efforts they managed to right themselves while Teal’c kept the two Jaffa busy.
“What’s going on?” Jack breathed in his ear, head twisted around,
as his compromised balance threatened to dump them both back on the tiles.
“Teal’c’s trying to talk them down.”
“Oh, great. That’ll go well.”
“Yeah.” Daniel grimaced at the expression on Teal’c’s face. “Hey!” The cord bit into his arms as Jack started wriggling himself into a better position.
“Teal’c!”
“Jack, he’s right here, you don’t have to shout.”
“Tell these bozos their god’s a former… god, and get us the hell out of these ropes.”
Teal’c cast a cool look down on them. “I have endeavored to do so, O’Neill. They do not apparently recognize my name or my achievements.”
“Ah, that’s gotta smart. Well, give it another go. Tell ’em we’ll resettle them someplace nice.”
Teal’c launched into a rapid-fire exchange of dialog with the two invaders. Questions and replies flew back and forth so quickly even Daniel had trouble keeping up with the translation. Jack’s patience lasted a monumental two and half minutes before he interrupted.
“Well? What are they saying?”
“I am attempting to discover by which means they arrived at this planet, why they remained hidden for so long, and why they have now broken their cover and come in search of their god and the person she, rather, he, was seeking.”
“And?”
Teal’c huffed an impatient breath.
“Just translate for me,” Jack demanded. “How did they get here?”
Teal’c restrained himself from rolling his eyes and asked the Jaffa the question, which elicited a long and very complicated explanation of events that seemed to stretch back to Osiris’ capture of Thor. Before the man had finished, Jack interrupted again.
