SPOILERS!!!: Anything through the end of S7 is FAIR GAME. Also, there are small spoilers enclosed for S8. Nothing too plot-specific but just general facts. BEWARE… BWAHAHAHAHA!! Ahem. Now, I've got that out of my system.
A/N: Castling, adv.; Movement toward and exchange of position of the king and rook in a game of chess; the risking of an important piece in the defense of a vital one.
A/N 2: Okay, so I lied. Well, maybe 'lied' is too strong a word. Maybe… 'deluded'. There. That's better. I had intended to post this whole novella as a complete work. I also had intended to post it before the premiere of S8 of SG-1 as it takes place as a prologue to 'New Order'. Lo and behold, these turned out to be mutually exclusive goals. So, I decided to split the difference. This post constitutes about half the total work. Unfortunately, it's the half that has the slow-ish opening. Ah, well. Such is life. I'll post this now and the rest when (soon) I can put the finishing touches on. For now, I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think. I've tossed an original character in and his re-use will depend on what you think.
Running. That was how it started; running hard, running fast; faster than the wind, faster than any human ought to be able to go. This day had started out bad, gone to worse and straight through to hellish. It had started out as a simple sabotage mission. He and his team had landed fighters in broken formation ten clicks south of the most poorly located Goa'uld refinery in the galaxy. They had evaded detection easily and slipped into the refinery. They managed to reprogram the systems and bypass the safeguards designed to shield the ore from the electrostatic storms produced by this world's peculiar features: it had a Lilliputian magnetic field and orbited a star that had become a fantastic luminous blue variable; funny how he still managed to find the features of his native profession fascinating as he ran for his life. If they had done their job right, the static kicked up by the star-rise in twenty minutes would produce a spectacular explosion. Liquid naquadah tended not to react well to random energy discharges.
For now, he ran through the inky blackness of night, desperately trying to extract enough oxygen from this rock's thin atmosphere to complete his escape. They'd been made. He still wasn't sure if they had been waiting for them of if they simply had had horrible luck. But the point was, they bolted from the refinery with several jaffa detachments in pursuit. As bad as that was, he actually hadn't been worried (they'd been in worse spots) until the gliders showed up. He'd counted thirty, conservatively. Thank God, his team had made it back to their starfighters. Unfortunately that left him. The jaffa patrols had forced him to sneak through rougher terrain back to his F/A-23. The gray, exhausted looking rock made for a beautifully bleak, razor-sharp maze. By the time he was within range to punch in the remote preflight sequence, he managed to watch as a flight of gliders pounded his grounded ride into burning, acrid dust.
After a ten second shouting match with his second in command, he had paused long enough to watch five blue lights break away from this tired, lump of a planet and make for the safety of open space, back to the starship waiting nearby. They weren't happy about leaving him to fend for himself, but his team had followed orders and was away. That left a strictly second string choice: the stargate. It wasn't that far (geographically speaking), but it was hardly the ideal choice for this particular location. He had nothing against the devices. They were, in fact, tons of fun and usually very convenient. Unfortunately, this was the last place in the galaxy that someone might be inspired to use one—flying into the system by ship was enough of a challenge. The atmospheric discharges created by the star's evolutionary turn and the unusual frequency of CMEs meant that no one had used this gate for centuries: safely, that is. Or, so Tok'ra intelligence had said.
He pushed the reservation down. There was no longer any other option. At least he would get straight back to Earth, the SGC and home. He needed a long shower. Besides, Jack owed him a few beers and, after today, a poker night with the guys sounded like the perfect way to collect. The inky darkness enveloped him. The blackness and the blur of his speed made his eyes nearly useless (and that was saying something) for navigation. He closed them and stretched out his senses, allowing them alone to guide him. Truth be told, it was rare for him to have to even moderately tax a skill (especially speed) in this way; but it never hurt to do it occasionally to remember the feeling. He just didn't appreciate the need to run like this. He pushed harder, trying to stay ahead of the pattern of the al'kesh as they expanded their search radius away from the facility and toward the gate.
He didn't need to pump his arms, strictly speaking, but the habits of normal running translated pretty thoroughly to this mode of transportation. He opened his eyes and checked his watch, stilling it slightly—ten minutes to dawn. Crap. Why did he have to cut these things so damn close? If he didn't make the gate before dawn, then this little jog would be over really fast. He pressed the Velcro back over the watch crystal and self-consciously checked the weapon hanging over his left hip. He tried to concentrate on a more pleasant subject: lager, stout or ale? Yeah, this day had to end really soon. He let his senses flow out like warm clay, allowing their shape to be touched by the nearly featureless landscape, inhaling the vague odor of dust and desiccation. The timer on his watch vibrated once. Two minutes left. Finally, the gate came into view. Unfortunately, an al'kesh became visible over his right shoulder at the same time. At long last, he stumbled to a normal trot. The aftertaste of the exertion on his body and abilities hit hard—he felt the range of his senses decrease drastically as he momentarily recovered. He somehow managed to stagger to the DHD. Propping himself on the dusty dialing device, he heard the whine of engines in the distance as his watch vibrated twice. One minute. Shit.
Dial Kyle, dial. Kyle Rand punched in the address for home, listening as each chevron engaged; he pressed the activation key on the console. Nothing. Oh. Crap. Perfect. This day just kept going and going, like the Energizer Bunny from hell. His senses still dull, he had no clue how he was going to pull this off. Kyle closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The dull whine of the bomber's engines had changed pitch. It was moving straight for him now. He opened his eyes and began dialing again, saying a slow Hail Mary with each glyph.
Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee—Chevron 1
Blessed art Thou among Women and Blessed is the fruit of Thy Womb, Jesus—Chevron 2
Holy Mary Mother of God—Chevron 3
Pray for us Sinners—Chevron 4
Now…—Chevron 5
…and at the hour of Our Death—Chevron 6
Amen—Chevron 7
As his hand touched the activation key again, the star rose with a quiet, blue-tinted fury. The air began to hum and crackle and the gate leapt to life. The event horizon sputtered oddly, arced, flushed, collapsed and stabilized at last. Not the familiar pattern of sights and sounds. No time to worry about it now. Flipping his right wrist into view and, tearing a Velcro strap, revealed the blue translucent touch display of his wrist console; with it's built-in GDO. He quickly tapped his personal IDC into the device and his heart raced while he waited for the confirmation light to glow green. Kyle glanced over his shoulder and felt his hair stand on end. The soil began to warm dangerously. The ship's engines reached a fevered pitch as the vessel buzzed overhead. If only that was his real worry. As if to console him, he saw a white flash back closer to the terminator—in a direction he vaguely remembered as belonging to the refinery. With a lopsided smile, he glanced at the GDO. Green. Yes. Colorado Springs, here I come. Unfortunately, the star chose that moment to crest. Its full disk irradiating the planet, the static began to bounce in vicious, beautiful purple bolts. Time to go! He began to dash off the last few yards to the event horizon as the static began to arc off the gate and DHD and reach an amazing, dense fury. No—what was amazing was that the gate could take this punishment daily. Dammit, don't think—RUN. Nearly on top of the gate, the static arced through his right leg, dropping him and throwing him into a counter-clockwise spin. Fine. Be that way. He closed his eyes and, using his last bit of strength, willed himself to push off the ground and force his trajectory through the gate like the cork of a champagne bottle. Inches from the 'puddle,' he inhaled for the one word he would need on the other side. In that moment, he felt a dreadful turn in the pit of his stomach—the kind that meant that somewhere, something was very, very wrong.