He turned. “Hi, Sam. How's it going?”
Joining him at the window overlooking Central Park, she said,“Well, without a naquadah generator we're going to need a lot of raw naquadah to rig up a primitive power supply module.”
“Was that An's description?”
Despite the darkness, he saw her smile. “Actually, he pulled enough components from his escape pod for us to rig up some-thing pretty sophisticated, but I don't think An's accustomed to improvising.”
“He seemed pretty traumatized by the whole thing with Loki.”
“And finding out about the General's Ancient gene. Came as something of a shock to learn we're descended from the Ancients and had found Atlantis. He also keeps asking about you.”
“Me?”
“He's intrigued by the idea that someone could Ascend—twice—and then chose to come back as a mortal. I think deep down, the Asgard aspire to Ascension. Apparently in the early days, An's work was considered something of an anachronism, a step backward in their evolutionary progress. It's only been the last few hundred years that he's received recognition.”
“If we ever do get back and find Merlin's weapon, the whole immortal Ascended thing is going to have to be rethought.”
Sam was silent for a moment, and then said, “We will get them back, Daniel.”
Daniel wished people would stop tying to comfort him about leaving Vala and Cam behind. “Y'know, I've been thinking about this whole time travel thing, Sam. I'm starting to agree with you. Not that I wanted to die inside that cave or anything, but this mess,” he said, pointing in the general direction of Central Park, “really does demonstrate how incredibly risky it is to go stumbling around blindly through time.”
“It's funny you should say that.” Sam leaned against the buckled window frame and looked out below to the Jaffa camp-fires. “Because I was the one who sent us here. Something happened to change my mind.”
'The Ori?”
“I don't know. I suppose when we do get back, I'll have a chance to ask myself.”
“If we get back.”
Sam put her hand on his shoulder, a wordless gesture that said much more. And then, as if she understood he'd appreciate a change of subject, she added, “I had another long talk with Commander Bennett. About his past, not our future,” she clarified.
“Doesn't seem like the type the NID would enlist.”
“Strictly speaking it's not yet the NID. But from what I can understand, it started out life as a joint military extension of Naval Intelligence. Several aspects of the Navy and Army Air Force had already been combined to form what would become the Air Force a couple of months from now. The NID was just another post war reconfiguration of the intelligence community. Because it operated as a military oversight organization, it was, naturally, composed in part of military personnel.”
“A lot of things can happen in fifty years, I guess.”
“The Truman Doctrine came into effect in March. This country is—was—headed into the paranoia of the Cold War.”
“Instead they got this.” Daniel looked out the shattered windowpane again.
Earlier that evening they had tried tuning into several radio stations. While most were off the air, and international broadcasts were limited to relays from a few ham operators, the news reported that 'invaders from Mars' had leveled DC and New York. Still reeling from the war, the British were assessing the situation while Moscow remained surprisingly quiet.
Most of the radio reports had described the invasion as a true life 'war of the worlds'. Harking back to Orson Welles's radio play ten years earlier, some lower echelon bureaucrats thought the entire thing an elaborate joke, while others—those who'd seen with their own eyes the 'death ray' in action—wondered if H.G. Wells's 1898 science fiction novel had in some way been prophetic.
Jack had looked decidedly thoughtful at that declaration, but had gone back to cleaning their P-90s without comment.
“C'mon,” Sam said, turning to leave. “Teal'c's brewing up another batch of coffee.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“Sir,” Carter whispered. “That's Mitchell!”
“What?”
The Jaffa that Carter was pointing at, stood at the entrance of a typically overdone Goa'uld circus tent set up at the edge of the turtle pond, complete with a troupe of Jackal-headed clowns hanging out nearby. Although the night vision goggles he was wearing distorted the Jaffa's features somewhat, Jack knew—with a sick feeling in his gut—that Carter was right. He was maybe fifteen years older, but there was no question. It was Cameron Mitchell.
“That's a gold tattoo on his forehead,” Carter added. “Can't make out the design from this angle.” She lifted her own goggles and wiped the sweat and dirt from her face before replacing them. “I'd assumed he'd been taken over by a Goa'uld.”
“We all did,” Daniel said. “Somehow that would have been easier to stomach.”
“Colonel Mitchell trained as a Jaffa warrior under the Sodan.” Teal'c had crawled up beside them between the fallen trees, and was taking in the field of burned-out cars, rubble and bodies that had once been 84th Street. “Once transformed into a Jaffa, he would have quickly risen through the ranks to become a First Prime.”
Jack found that hard to swallow. Not that Mitchell didn't have the fighting skills or fortitude to survive the training as a Jaffa. But to become a First Prime? That required a degree of ruthlessness that seemed out of character for the Cameron Mitchell Jack remembered.
Another snippet from the collection of memories that Jack was looking forward to losing when Alzheimer's finally set in, suddenly filled his mind. Hathor pulling him into that obscene embrace, drugging him into passive complicity while she'd transformed him into a Jaffa.
Catching Teal'c's concerned expression, Jack shook his head to shove the memory away. Is that what had happened to Cam? Had he been seduced by the Goa'uld? Or had Mitchell turned on his own kind willingly? It wasn't so hard to imagine what it must have been like to wake up and find yourself stranded in the wrong time. How long it had taken before Cam Mitchell had abandoned hope of being recovered? How many years had passed before hope transformed into hatred?
Jack couldn't see it, somehow. It seemed much more likely that the man who had shown such single-minded purpose in learning to walk again, had turned that same single-minded-ness to getting home. Mitchell might have allowed himself to be enslaved because he thought it would position him where he could do some good. Or at least taken the edge off some of Ra's excesses.
Kill millions to save billions. Hadn't Bra'tac said that once?
Which, Jack mused, would also explain why this invasion Just happened to start when SG-1 was in town.
Still, twenty-five years was a long time, assuming the Colonel had been captured soon after he and Vala had stepped through the 'gate at Giza, not to mention the previous fourteen, almost fifteen years he'd spent on Earth prior to that, waiting vainly for SG-1 to return.
No, Jack thought. Mitchell must have reason to believe we 'd be here and he's convinced whichever Goa'uld he's working for that 1947 is the best time to invade Earth. It was the only explanation that fit what had been, thus far, a superbly well-planned attack.
Jack chewed on that for several seconds. The notion didn't make him feel any better because if Cam Mitchell was standing here in 1947 a fully-fledged Jaffa—for whatever reason—it meant SG-1 had never made it back to 1908 to recover them.
Which also begged another question. What had happened to Vala?
It was no surprise that Carter's thoughts had been running along the same lines, because she turned to him and said, “We know we've gone back in time before, and managed to correct the timeline, sir, so I wouldn't take Cam's presence here as a Jaffa as proof that we failed to retrieve them from 1908.”
Except—and here it was again, the same argument—Jack distinctly recalled not going back in time and taking out Ra.
The smell of death and burned rubble drifted across the park. Suddenly, the sw
eat trickling down Jack's back and chest, the gritty sensation of not having showered or shaved for days—in any timeline—and the forest full of woodpeckers hammering away it his head, knees and most of all his chest, drove home the singular fact that he really was getting too old for this.
And yet, Carter would be flitting back and forth through time when she was another ten, even fifteen years older than he was now.
Time travel via the Stargate, huh. Go figure.
While Jack was pondering that dilemma, the Jaffa that used to be Mitchell continued to issue orders. He seemed unaware he was being watched, more concerned with deploying his Jaffa forces with the sure hand of a tactician trained by the US Air Force. Clouds scudded across the night sky, briefly blocking the moon. The air had that tense electric feel ahead of a summer thunderstorm. Mitchell seemed to feel it, too, or perhaps he sensed something else, because he turned in their direction.
“That's not Ra's symbol on his forehead,” Daniel whispered.
Beside him, Jack felt Carter tense. “Are you sure?” She turned to look.
“Daniel Jackson is correct, Colonel Carter,” Teal'c said, lowering his night vision binoculars. “Mitchell is not Ra's First Prime. He wears the symbol of Qetcsh, daughter to Ra.”
“Qetesh?” Carter repeated. “As in, Vala used to be...”
“The one and the same,” Daniel confirmed.
“Oh, well, that's just dandy,” Jack muttered. Could this world get any more screwed up?
Several Jaffa strode out of the tent. Bronzed and bare-chested, their only garment was a short pleated skirt of gold embroidered cream, or maybe white cloth. Their onyx headgear was also considerably less bulky, more organic than the regular Jaffa helmets. Jack watched them with interest. He'd not seen helmets so detailed and life-like before.
Then one of the jackal-headed Jaffa spoke to Mitchell, his canine tooth-filled jaw moving in a distinctly human fashion.
“Oh, my God!” Carter gasped before Jack could. “Did you see that?”
“That's not a helmet!” Daniel's jaw had dropped so hard that Jack could have sworn he heard it impact the tree stump.
“Ya' think?” He was feeling more than a little stunned himself, although he had to admit that these Jaffa bore a closer resemblance to the critters he'd seen embedded in the Stargate capstone, than the standard model.
Even Teal'c seemed taken back. “It has been many years since I have heard of such creatures.”
“What are they?” Carter asked.
“Chimeras.”
“Which are...?” Jack prompted impatiently
“Centuries ago, Ra commanded Nirrti to create guardians for his daughters,” Teal'c explained. “Their bodies are human in appearance, but they are not.”
“Which means they're not likely to succumb to the wiles of Hathor and Qetesh,” Daniel concluded. “Makes sense, actually.”
Teal'c nodded in agreement. “Ra would not allow his daughters the opportunity to build armies of their own to overthrow him. I suspect these are the last of their kind, for while they are exceedingly long lived they are unable to bear offspring, and Nirrti's attempts to create other chimeras resulted in abominations.”
Personally, Jack would've classed these as abominations as well, but right now his only interest was in getting a look at the approach path to the Stargate. Antarctica was off the menu; Mitchell knew where to find it and wasn't likely to have left it unguarded. Jack just wanted to get the eight staff weapons they needed, and get the hell out of Dodge.
The Jaffa—or whatever it was—that Mitchell was speaking to, slapped his hand across his chest in salute, then took off at a light jog into the night, oblivious to the scattered chunks of wreckage beneath his bare feet. Mitchell took a last, suspicious look around, pulled the flap of the tent aside, and stepped in.
Carter glanced behind them, checking they were still unobserved. Then she turned back and leaned against the tree stump. “Am I the only one wondering what became of Vala?”
“No,” Daniel said.
Teal'c came right out with it. “If Colonel Mitchell is now First Prime to Qetesh, and they stepped through the 'gate together, it is logical to assume Vala is either dead or was retaken as a host.”
Daniel let out a soft moan. Jack glanced across and saw that he'd closed his eyes and was resting his forehead on splinted edges of the oak. It had been years since Shar'e's death, but compounded with his guilt for leaving Mitchell and Vala behind, sometimes the agony of that loss still crept up on him unawares.
“It is also highly likely that Qetesh is indeed the Goa'uld entrusted by Ra to lead this invasion, for until Ra's death, she was among his most favored,” Teal'c added, his eyes narrowed as he examined the nearby woods.
“This is fascinating,” Jack said, injecting the necessary harshness into his tone. He might not understand the physics of the damn thing, but he knew this timeline was monumentally screwed, and the only way they were going to fix it, was by getting out of here. Agonizing over the fate of lost comrades wasn't very helpful. Especially since they could make sure this screw-up never even happened simply by getting back to where they belonged. “We only came here to eyeball the 'gate, kids, and grab a few staff weapons, not take on Ra. Or his minions. Even if they're old friends.”
Daniel's head snapped up. “We can't just leave Cam and Vala behind!”
Carter turned to look back over the Jaffa encampment. Her expression said she understood what Jack was getting at. “If we can get back to 1908 none of this will ever happen.”
Daniel seemed unconvinced. “Didn't you say this timeline might continue to exists in a parallel dimension?”
When Carter didn't immediately reply, Jack turned to her. “It's a possibility,” she conceded.
Teal'c, as usual, cut right to the heart of the matter. “Ours is the only timeline that matters.”
“Teal'c's right, sir. We have to focus on restoring our timeline.”
“And if we can't?” Daniel said.
Jack sensed someone moving behind them and swung around, bringing his weapon to bear and firing. “Then we're screwed anyway!”
A blast from a staff weapon hit Carter in the head as she also turned, slamming her backward.
“Jaffa, Kree!”
A second blast beside Jack sent splinters into his face. Teal'c and Daniel had abandoned their zats and were firing their P-90s at what had to be forty or fifty Jaffa converging on them from all over.
A peripheral view of Carter told Jack that she may not have been killed outright, but he didn't kid himself for a moment that any of them were getting out of this alive. The impact of the staff blast had impaled her on one of the splintered branches, and blood was gushing out of her chest and mouth.
The shock of that realization did nothing to deter him. So this is how it ends.
He continued shooting the Jaffa with the single minded ruthlessness of a man who knows he's dead but has every intention of making life as nasty and as short as possible for his executioners. In that split second of awareness before the inevitable blast took him out, Jack heard Mitchell's voice commanding the Jaffa to—
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Sarcophagus induced migraine. Or maybe it was the residual combination of Scopolamine and whatever else Brylcreem and Cancer Man had slipped her.
Sam wanted to throw up, but that was a bad idea because she was lying on her back. Inhaling a predigested MRE was a really, really, stupid way to die. “Have to roll over,” she mumbled, grappling blindly for something she could pull on because she felt as if she was pinned to the ground. Her hands came in contact with a large and cool and slightly textured object—which toppled out of her reach and smashed onto hard floor.
“Whoa! Sam, hang on a sec. Daniel'll have a fit if he finds you've been smashing up the museum's collection of Ming Dynasty vases.” She stared blankly at a shadowy figure standing over her.
“Not that some busted pots really matters in the scheme of things,” he added in a conver
sational tone, “but let's keep the noise down a bit, okay?”
Strong hands lifted her onto her knees. The pain was too blinding and her eyes too gluey to see who it was helping her, but her ears were working just fine.
“Cam,” she croaked between heaves.
“Long time no see, Sam.”
“We thought...”
“Oh, yeah... I can imagine what you thought.” He knelt beside her, holding her upright. She opened and closed her eyes several times, vaguely repulsed by the sight of her stomach contents and confused by the pattern beneath. Carpet. She was throwing up on a Persian rug. Probably priceless. Throwing up on Brylcreem had been much more enjoyable.
“Where... Where are we?”
Stargate - SG-1 - 09 - Roswell Page 29
