SG1-17 Sunrise
Page 1
SUNRISE
By J. F. Crane
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Chapter One
Dr Maol Caluim’s Journal
Acarsaid Dorch Research Outpost
Year Three
Entry #276WB
Our moods are lighter today. Finally, we have a breakthrough! Yesterday’s simulation was a success, two-way communication was established and we were able to contact the remote device via its embedded server. Despite the doubts of so many, we believe we have created a patch that will allow us to deploy the shield as originally designed—with luck, we will be in time. Now, all that remains is to test the fix on the live system, which means we must return to Ierna. If we do not, all our work will be for naught. The work of a generation will be for naught.
We must persuade the Elect to listen to us, in that there is no choice. Lann tells me that an ice storm has raged here all week, but so caught up was I in the testing that I hadn’t even noticed. He predicts that it will pass overnight and in the morning we can attempt, once more, to communicate with the new authorities in the shelter. All our hopes rest on their acquiescence.
I have not spoken with the others about our return home. Though none of us utter the words, we all know that we have been exiled here and that to return will not be a simple venture. The memories of our leaving are fresh, even three years on. How can we forget the rage of the people and the tears on our children’s faces? But surely, when we show the Elect what we have achieved, they will listen to us. They must listen. To turn from us now would be madness.
Even the wildest zealot must realize that the so called Sciath Dé is our last hope. Without it, our homes—all of Ierna—will perish. Surely they pray for our success as well as for their own deliverance? I cannot conceive that they would embrace this disaster when we are so close to salvation.
I hope that in my entry tomorrow I can speak of our triumph. I hope the self appointed ‘Pastor’ will listen to reason. I hope we are not already too late.
One way or another, the end draws near.
~~~
Dr Maol Caluim’s Journal
Acarsaid Dorch Research Outpost
Year Three
Entry #277WB
Today Lann Dyric opened the Sungate and returned to Ierna. He carried word of our success, proof that we can deploy Sciath Dé and defend our world from the wrath of their Lord. With him he carries the hopes of our world. Though I do not worship their god, I find myself casting my prayers into the stars this night as we wait for Lann to return with word of our fate. Of our world’s fate.
~~~
Dr Maol Caluim’s Journal
Acarsaid Dorch Research Outpost
Year Three
Entry #278WB
It has been five days and we have received no word from Lann. We cannot decide if this is good news or bad. We can do nothing but wait.
~~~
Dr Maol Caluim’s Journal
Acarsaid Dorch Research Outpost
Year Three
Entry #279WB
No entry found.
“There were no more entries after that, General.” Dr. Daniel Jackson closed his note book and sat back in his chair, the laptop in the center of the briefing room table showing screeds of text in a language incomprehensible to General George Hammond. He squinted at the jittery data and then skimmed through the translation in front of him.
“You said it was some sort of beta site you found. Perhaps they left to return to their home planet?” Around the briefing room table, SG-1 cast glances at each other, communicating volumes in an unspoken language in which, George knew, he would never be fluent. But four years in this command had taught him a few things, one of them being the ability to read the mood of each of his teams when they returned from a mission. Judging from the apprehension on the faces of the SGC’s flagship team, Hammond was certain that whatever they had discovered on P4X-66Q, it was bigger than a few garbled journal entries. “Colonel O’Neill?”
“They didn’t leave, sir.”
“So what happened?”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Well, first things first, General. The settlement we found wasn’t just a beta site. It appeared to be a research outpost of some sort. The language of the text looks like a progression from Irish-Gaelic, but the journal entries were…” He frowned and glanced around at the team. “They were very old, sir. Perhaps two hundred years. And they weren’t exactly intact.”
“But you managed to translate them?”
“For the most part. The writer, Dr Maol Caluim, talks about their home planet of Ierna—she even gives a gate address—and describes some sort of catastrophe unfolding there. It appears they were working on a way to prevent it from happening.”
“The shield.”
“Yes, sir. She refers to the project as Sciath Dé—God’s shield… Or, perhaps, Shield of the Gods, or Shield from the Gods.”
The phrase hung there, taking on a meaning that would have seemed absurd to George Hammond just four short years ago. The Gods. Only one race he knew was arrogant enough to assume such a moniker.
For the first time throughout the debriefing, Teal’c spoke, voicing Hammond’s own thoughts. “General Hammond, it appears these scientists were working on a way to defend themselves against the Goa’uld.”
“So what is this shield? Some sort of armor?” He had asked the question of Jackson, but Major Samantha Carter answered instead.
“No, sir. It may be on a slightly bigger scale than that.”
“How much bigger, Major?”
“Well, sir, from what I can calculate from Dr Caluim’s numbers…” She paused and shook her head with an incredulous smile. “Sir, I think it was planetary.”
It took a moment for her words to sink in. “A planetary shield.” The notion was astounding; a shield that could protect an entire planet, that could fend off an attack by the System Lords. Hammond sat forward in his chair, considering the enormous implications of such a defense, but the faces before him were less enthusiastic than he’d have anticipated, given the nature of their discovery. “Were they unsuccessf
ul?”
“We’re not exactly sure,” replied Jackson with a frown.
“Well, Carter did find an energy signature that she got excited about,” said O’Neill. He turned to his second in command. “Show the general what Santa left for you, Carter.” The major clicked open the small metal case that sat on the table before her. From within, she pulled a flat black box with wires trailing from one end.
“Now I know what you’re thinking, sir,” continued O’Neill, casting a meaningful glare at his team. “You’re thinking ‘It’s a Playstation.’ And that’s ok, because that’s exactly what it looks like.”
“Maybe it does, Colonel, but I wouldn’t know a Playstation from a Game Box.” He paused for a beat. “So how about you tell me what it is.”
“Gameboy, sir. Or Xbox.”
“Colonel, you’re trying my patience.”
“Only trying?” O’Neill cleared his throat. “Carter thinks it might be the reason behind all this hoo-ha.”
“This little thing is their planetary shield?” Hammond couldn’t keep the skepticism from his voice.
“Not exactly,” said Carter. “According to the journal, the shield had failed to deploy properly… And I think this could be the key to making it work.”
Still, Hammond could see doubt in their eyes. “People, the way I see it, you’ve just discovered a potential way to protect not only Earth from a Goa’uld attack, but every planet in the Protected Planets Treaty. Why aren’t you demanding to go search for this thing?”
“Good question,” Jackson said, throwing a pointed look at O’Neill over the rims of his glasses. Hammond got the distinct feeling they’d already had this discussion.
O’Neill tapped his pen irritably against the desk. “Show him, Daniel.”
Picking up his camcorder, Daniel flipped open the viewscreen. “That box wasn’t the only thing we found on the planet, General. Take a look.” He hit play and handed the camera to Hammond.
A grainy image appeared on the tiny screen, the camera sweeping across a snowy landscape bitten through by harsh black rocks. In the near distance squatted a handful of prefabricated aluminum cabins. The scene changed, cutting to what Hammond assumed was the interior of one of those cabins. The image was dark, but he could make out Major Carter kneeling behind what looked like a tall computer stack, one of many that lined the walls of the long room. In the center of the room there was a round table, upon which sat monitors and keyboards.
“You sure you can get the power back up, Carter?” Colonel O’Neill’s voice came from somewhere off-screen. “This place is trashed.”
“Almost there, sir.” In the next moment the stacks behind which Carter was working came to life, and the overhead lights flickered on, illuminating an alarming sight. The entire place had been destroyed. Monitors smashed, torn papers strewn everywhere. The camera zoomed in on one of the stacks which sparked and fizzed, a lethargic protest at the sudden restoration of power; it was clear that this destruction had been no accident.
The scene changed again, a different room, another cabin, this time with a bed and lockers lining the walls. The camera panned round, taking in a nightstand with a book and a pair of spectacles sitting on top, overalls hanging on hooks on the wall, yellow, ragged and moldering. “Looks like no one’s been home for a while,” said Daniel.
“Yeah.” O’Neill’s voice again. “But where’d they all go? And why does this place feel like a damned cemetery? ” The colonel walked into view, facing the camera. “Ok, kids. This place is giving me the creeps—six hours and we’re outta here.”
Another cut, and this time they were outside, the sun’s harsh reflection turning the snow vibrant white, the image bouncing with the rhythm of Daniel’s footsteps. Up ahead stood O’Neill, staring down into a deep gouge in the landscape. “Daniel, get over here.”
And then came the grimmest sight of all. A human skeleton lay half buried in snow, its skull punctured with two round holes; George Hammond knew bullet wounds when he saw them.
“Oh my God.” Major Carter’s voice echoed his own shock.
Hands appeared once more, Daniel’s and Teal’c’s, clearing away the snow that covered the rest of the skeleton. The sunlight glinted on a small object wedged into the packed snow and Daniel pulled it free, a flat metal disc with a holographic image of a sharp eyed woman of middle years. Next to the picture was printed a name. Dr M Caluim.
Then the camera drew back as Daniel stood, taking in a sickening scene. Strewn around him lay bones and skulls, the detritus of a massacre.
O’Neill spoke again, his voice leaden. “I guess now we know where everyone went.” The viewscreen cut to black.
“It was a grave, sir,” said Daniel from the other end of the table. “A mass grave.”
“Not even a grave,” O’Neill chipped in. “These folks haven’t been buried; they’ve just been left to rot.”
Daniel’s mouth tightened. “And we found ID tags on all of the human remains.”
Hammond frowned and was silent a moment, trying to comprehend what he had just witnessed. “Do we have any idea why this happened?”
O’Neill shrugged. “The only thing we know for certain is that it wasn’t the Goa’uld. Those wounds were the result of good, old-fashioned bullets.” His gaze dropped to the black box at the center of the table. “But I’d bet a few bucks that it’s got something to do with that. And not because it plays PGA Tour.”
“Well, it’s a mystery easily solved. We have a gate address, don’t we?”
“All due respect, General,” O’Neill said, “I think we’re looking at a dead end. Literally. Whatever this shield was, whatever it was meant to do, it was important enough to kill over. Going after it is too big of a risk.”
“Too big of a risk?” Hammond stared at him, surprise mingling with a queasy unease. This was not the Jack O’Neill he knew; this was someone else talking.
“Are you serious, Jack?” Jackson jumped in before Hammond could continue. “This shield could protect Earth from a Goa’uld attack!”
“Could, Daniel. But probably won’t.” O’Neill leaned back in his seat, all but putting his boots up on the table. If it was designed to convey nonchalance, it failed. He looked like a coiled spring. “We’ve been through this,” he said, flicking his fingers toward the device with a dismissive gesture. “And you said it yourself; this thing is two hundred years old. Whatever it was designed to fix is long gone.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Two hundred years, Daniel! Call it an educated guess.”
“I have never heard of this Sciath Dé, nor any device known as a ‘Shield of the Gods’,” Teal’c volunteered, eyeing both O’Neill and Daniel. “However, if such a technology were to exist, it would be worth risking much to recover.”
Fingertips drumming on the desk, O’Neill scowled. Anxious, very anxious.
Hammond glanced at Major Carter who was carefully keeping her gaze fixed on the alien device and looking at none of her team mates. That in itself was unusual. “Major,” he said, “what’s your opinion?”
She started, almost as if she’d been daydreaming. Impossible, of course. Or would have been, if SG-1 hadn’t just returned to duty after having their minds altered by the so-called memory-stamp on P3R-118. Dr. Fraiser had been less than thrilled when she’d passed them fit for duty, and her confidential report was still sitting on his desk with its stark advice fresh in his mind:
It is the recommendation of the CMO that, once deployed to the field, all members of SG-1 be kept under close psychological observation for an initial period of ninety days, in order to ensure early identification of potential fractures in ego integrity resulting from the memory stamp.
“Sorry, sir,” Carter said. “I was… Um, I think I agree with the colonel.”
“Oh, of course,” Daniel snapped. “Of course you agree with the colonel.”
She stared at him. “What does that mean?”
He shook his head, brow furrowed. “Noth
ing. Sorry. I wasn’t—” Then, taking a breath, Daniel leaned forward. “General, think about it. Sciath Dé—‘Shield of the Gods’. If it means what we think it means…”
“If,” O’Neill cut in. “You can’t even get the name straight. Shield of the Gods, or Shield from the Gods? Big difference. For all we know it’s some snakehead device designed to screw with anyone who touches it.”
“Daniel,” Carter said, “whatever it is, this device is pretty old. It may never have worked. In fact, the way it was just left on the planet implies that neither it nor the shield were ever even deployed.”
“Does it?” Daniel shuffled the papers in front of him, stabbing his fingers at a line of text. “Or does it imply that whoever killed these people didn’t want the shield to work?”
“Who cares?” O’Neill flung up his arms, letting his chair drop forward with a thump. “If it didn’t work then, whoever they were, they all died two hundred years ago! So either way, putting our asses on the line to chase this thing down is a colossal waste of time.”
“Okay, first, that is a huge assumption. Second, if their planet is facing a catastrophe then maybe we can—”
“Oh, here we go…”
“—maybe we can help them.”
O’Neill looked at him, flat and angry. “Why?”
“Why…?” Daniel blinked. “Because we can?”
“No. We can’t. We can’t save every goddamn people we stumble across, Daniel!”
“Why not?”
“Because…” He ran out of words. “Damn it, Daniel, you know why not.”
The room sank into a chilly silence. George eyed them both, took in their taut, angry faces, and with a troubled sensation realized that he didn’t recognize either man. “I don’t know what I’m seeing here, SG-1,” he said, “but I sure as hell don’t want to see it again in my briefing room.”
At least Dr. Jackson had the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry, General.”
But O’Neill remained as bullish as ever. “You’re not seriously going to send us after a bunch of two hundred year old refugees from who the hell knows what kind of disaster?”