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Stargate 2069
By The Eye of Ra
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Summary: Ra takes the gate with him when he abandons Earth. The Stargate program never exists, and so Earth continues in not-so-blissful ignorance until 2069, when a mysterious ring is found, buried deep beneath Antarctica. No shields, phasers or warp.
Regarding canon: this story is a mix of movie-canon and TV-canon. I have taken elements of both, plus a generous slice of my own imagination. Many story elements from the TV series will not exist here, or will exist in an adjusted form. By the same measure, I have deviated in some places from movie-canon (e.g. Abydos is not in another galaxy, as it was in the movie).
Disclaimer: Stargate does not belong to me, and I do not intend to use Stargate intellectual property for profit. I make no money from this story. However, the author reserves all rights to original characters, locations and plot elements.
Thanks: Thanks goes to the Spacebattles forums for criticising this work during development, and bouncing ideas at me. Particular thanks goes to: Unintended Consequences (this list will no doubt expand as time goes by).
A note on formatting: designed to be read in 1/2 paragraph format.
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Chapter One: The Bottom Line
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The space elevator was not designed for comfort. Little more than a tin can, the entire carriage was bare metal, unadorned and undecorated, and the viewing gallery was no different. Its sole occupant didn't care. Who would? The Earth loomed beneath him, mesmerising in its beauty. It wasn't his first time in space - nor his second - but Wyatt always appreciated the view.
"Sir, the captain says we'll be arriving soon," said the attendant, floating up through the hatch into the dark of the gallery. She was a pretty thing, blonde and skinny from all that Zero-G, and Wyatt wondered what kind of money she made. Surely more than your average flight attendant, to make such a lonely job worth it.
He never voiced the question. He simply nodded once and turned back to the window - a tiny slit of nanofiber glass standing between him and the cold of space.
"Deceleration in two minutes," said a woman's voice over the PA system.
The lights came on and the Earth vanished, replaced with his own reflection. He was handsome in the way most men are when they wear a well-fitted suit - attractive, yet unremarkable. If a stranger were to guess, they would think him a young accountant, or a lawyer. Yet there was something else to him, something beneath the businesslike exterior. Something almost military. It might have been that his blond hair was cropped close, or maybe it was that his once-blue eyes were a dark grey - a telltale sign of the bionic implants he carried, courtesy of North Atlantic Petroleum.
Wanting one last look, Wyatt accessed his Sight and shopped the reflection out. Below, North America glittered in the dark, veins of nuclear light stretching out from the bright coasts into the heartlands. South America lay almost entirely in shadow. Their own fault for shutting down their nuclear reactors after the Falklands Incident. Oh, their solar panels worked fine - during the day. But they lacked the USA's expensive batteries to save that power for the night. It was all they could do to keep the hospitals turned on.
"Sir?" said the attendant. "It would be best if you returned to your seat for deceleration."
"Of course," he said, pushing off from the wall over to the hatch. He reached it quickly, which might have surprised the billions whose closest contact with space was via Hollywood. In the movies, zero-G happened in slow motion.
Wyatt used the rungs of the ladder to steer himself down through the hatch, back into the small passenger area. It, like the viewing gallery, was empty, though it was designed for twenty. Hard metal seats were arranged in four rows with no armrests, like a classroom without desks. Wyatt took the seat closest to the cockpit door. It didn't really matter. He didn't exist.
All computer records of his journey would read "no passengers". Like most elevator operations, this carriage was carrying only cargo. Wyatt was a ghost. There would be no official record of his presence at Counterweight station that day - there couldn't be. To bypass the FSA checks as he had was highly illegal. If he got humped, North Atlantic Petroleum would deny they ever knew him, and no contract existed to say he was in their employ. He would be nothing but a criminal, a stowaway amongst several tons of supplies for NAP mining ships.
But Wyatt wouldn't get caught. He was, if nothing else, very good at what he did.
A sound like the clank of a giant gear echoed through the carriage, and it jolted without warning into deceleration, forcing Wyatt forward. Only the belt crossed tightly over his chest prevented him from going flying. There were no windows in this section, and Wyatt could only guess at their position, but eventually the force slackened and he slumped back into his seat. More sounds followed: an electrical whine; a deep rumble like a bass drum, jolting the carriage once more; a hiss of air.
And then Wyatt pushed the belt buckle and stood. He was alone - the attendant was still in the cockpit. Good. She wouldn't say anything - she was bought and paid for, just as he himself was - but it was better for her to see him as little as possible. Time for the boring part.
"Espionage is ninety-nine percent boredom, one percent luck." That's what he'd been told on the first day of training, and it had turned out to be mostly accurate.
Wyatt floated over to the hatch which led below and reoriented himself. There was no up and down here, in zero-G. Below became up, and suddenly Wyatt felt like he was reaching up to the ceiling, not down to the floor. He turned the wheel on the hatch door and opened it, letting the rush of cold air wash over him. No heating in the cargo area - it was an unnecessary cost. At least this time there's air, he thought.
He glanced around to get his bearings. The hold was one long room, maybe a hundred metres high. It was full of metal crates, held in place with netting and straps, and a ladder extended up along the wall into the darkness above.
Wyatt closed the hatch behind him, plunging the hold into darkness, and switched to augmented vision. Even without heating the crates around him glowed with infra-red radiation - enough to guide him through the long, dark hold. But he was looking for something more specific. He unzipped the kangaroo-like pocket on the front of his flight suit and pulled out a tiny ultraviolet torch, no bigger than his thumb. He squeezed the torch and it activated, filling the room with light - thanks to his bionic eyes.
But there was one box which didn't light up. Coated in a special layer of paint, designed to absorb ultraviolet light, one box remained black. Wyatt smiled. Using the rungs of the ladder to navigate, he floated up to the box and found the lid unsealed. He got into the box and closed the lid. He only just fit inside - it certainly wasn't comfortable. His back was to the bottom of the crate, his legs pulled up to his chest.
He waited a long time. An hour passed, but eventually he heard voices.
"Okay then boys and girls, let's try to do this quickly," said an American man with a gruff voice. "We've got two hundred and thirty five boxes to shift and I wanna to catch the Packer's game. What've we got, Brian?"
"Let's see..." said another voice - also American - and there was a pause. "They're all for the NAP wearhouse, so that's simple enough."
"We attached?" said the first man.
"Yeah, I had Control do it as soon as they arrived," said Brian.
"Good man," said the first again. "Alright people! Just get 'em in and dump 'em! We'll sort 'em out tomorrow!"
And with surprising speed, the crew of Counterweight station started emptying the hold. They weren't NAP employees, these. They weren't any corporation's employees. They were the permanent crew of the station, working for NASA. After all, it was technically NASA's station. NAP and all the companies like it were just renting space there.
Soon enough Wyatt felt his box move. Meant to be protein bars, he had made sure the size of the box would match the volume of protein required to come to 75 kilograms - his mass. The unfortunate side effect was the cramped conditions - protein bars were rather more dense than human beings. Wyatt grimaced, but bore it out. It could've been worse - he could have been able to get cramp.
His box settled, and half an hour later everything went quiet. He waited an extra twenty minutes before leaving the box. Ninety-nine percent boredom.
When the twenty minutes were up he didn't kick the lid off and launch himself from the box, as he wished. He did it slowly, silently. He lifted the lid carefully, and darkness met him on the other side. Good. That means no-one's here. He floated out of the box with a small push, and activated his ultraviolet torch. He was in a large warehouse - heated, this time. All the crates from the elevator were there, stuck to the magnetic floor. A large pressure-sealed door led to the station proper, but he needed something first.
An industrial printer sat in the corner of the warehouse, a huge machine the size of a van. Many of the boxes brought up with Wyatt would contain the raw materials necessary to make it work. He walked over to it and tapped the screen on its side. He possessed a dozen different NAP identities; he used one to log in. New, he selected, launching the CAD program, before interfacing with the machine directly.
Ten minutes later the fabrication was done. He didn't save his file for the same reason he hadn't used a template: there could be no trace. He reached into the compartment next to the screen and pulled it out: a small pistol, made of a composite resin. It was chemical ignition, unfortunately - printers couldn't yet do the precision work necessary for rail guns, nor could they be made with printable materials. Retro would have to do.
He kept the gun out as he walked to the door. He rarely had to use force - indeed, the use of force was anathema to secrecy - but he had been informed that success in this venture was of the utmost importance. He didn't intend to fail.
He turned the wheel and opened the door, leading to a long, straight corridor. Just like the carriage which brought him up the elevator, Counterweight station was free of all adornment. It was functional, grey and utterly without character. With one exception: windows. The corridor through which he floated had many of them, looking out into space, just like the viewing gallery of the carriage. As he passed them, he could glimpse parts of the station.
The station had two main components: a central cylinder, where it met the elevator, and a large rotating outer ring, lined with solar panels like sails. From the central column four long corridors stretched, leading to large warehouses. It was from one of those warehouses Wyatt had just exited. The rest of the central column was taken up with the elevator junction, various other docking ports for ships, and the backup nuclear reactor. All of it zero-G. None of it of interest to Wyatt.
It was the rotating ring which housed offices for some of the richest corporations in the world. Every company involved in space had to operate from Counterweight - at least until the Chinese finished their elevator. And so every one of those companies had some sort of presence there. NAP - one of the largest corporations in the world, born of a merger of Exxon Mobil and BP - had several offices and workshops designed to coordinate and maintain their fleet. But that wasn't Wyatt's destination either.
The door led to a sharply curving corridor. He pulled up a map of the station and overlayed it. Right. I need to go up, he said, looking at the wall in front of him, the neural integrated processor in his temple modelling the structure beyond and projecting it on his vision. He reactivated his infra-red and enhanced his hearing. He did not want to get caught.
He moved as quietly as he could, launching from wall to wall like a pinball, commanding his prosthetic limbs to minimise the noise of contact. He didn't have time for complete silence. There were only two hours to get back to the carriage, before it departed for the surface once more.
He made his way up to the next level and entered another corridor, jutting out from the side of the station. This one, he knew, was exactly four hundred and sixty-eight meters long. It led to the outer ring. Here goes nothing, he thought. He would be completely exposed in the shaft - if anyone entered from either end, they'd see him immediately, and there was nowhere to hide.
With that in mind, Wyatt pushed off with enough force to frustrate Health and Safety officers everywhere. With his legs, he could manage quite the push when he needed. He shot down the tube, perfectly straight, and flipped in the air so that his feet faced his destination. His mind flipped, and now he was falling down a vertical tube, not along one. Wyatt wasn't stupid. He'd read Ender's Game, and a half dozen top secret USAF reports on space combat besides. The gate is down.
The door at the other end was an airlock. Wyatt entered and closed the door behind him. It was a small room, just about big enough for two men. The window before him showed the ring rotating slowly: one rotation a minute. In actual fact, the airlock didn't attach to the ring - it was several centimetres short. It was an interesting engineering problem: how to access a continuously rotating ring, without stopping it?
Wyatt typed a code into the keypad - provided for him by NAP - and pressed the green button. A countdown appeared on a screen: 5, 4, 3, 2...
The airlock lurched forward, detaching from the main station and latching onto a door on the ring. Gravity kicked in immediately, and Wyatt was thrown face first at the door in front of him: now the floor. He caught himself just in time, landing in a press-up position.
"Smart," he muttered. Should've anticipated that. Still, it was nice to feel his weight again. There was a certain helplessness to zero-G that Wyatt hated. He opened the door and dropped down into the corridor below, landing in a crouch, keeping his pistol out. The corridor was deserted. He'd timed it well: all the staff would be in the commissary watching the game.
He consulted his map and chose a direction. The AsterX control room was to be found at number 11. It was unguarded, but locked. No matter. Wyatt had come prepared. Access iris settings, he thought. A transparent menu popped up before his eyes. Appearance. Iris. Custom File. Open... asterx_ . Wyatt felt his eyes shift. It was painless, but not comfortable.
The camera scanned his eyes, confirming his false identity. Then he pulled a prosthetic finger from his pocket and used it to type a code into the pad and let it scan his eyes. The door clicked open.
Easy. He'd done the legwork. So many people underestimated the human element, these days. It was all about the internet now. No one appreciated the elegance of getting a man drunk at a bar and stealing his iris and thumb prints, nor the simplicity of leaving a memory card in the foyer of a building and just waiting for someone to pick it up and plug it in out of curiosity, letting the hidden trojan into their system.
Many of his peers would have tried to hack into this facility. They would have failed. That was why Wyatt was the best: he did things in person, physically. Non-networked target, completely off the grid? No problem.
Wyatt's feet hit carpet as he entered the office. AsterX liked to treat its employees well. The desk dominating the centre of the office was real wood, the chair behind it real leather. There were actual paper books on bookcases, and an original Richter framed above the window.
Wyatt took the seat behind the desk and activated the worktop embedded in the wood. The surface of the desk shimmered into a computer desktop.
Username: . Another iris scan, another fingerprint, another password, and he was in. He activated the wireless memory in his fingertip. New device detected, the computer said. He gave his password and they connected.
First things first. He accessed the memory and executed the file there. It installed a mole. Rather more than a trojan, Wyatt had written the mole himself. It was designed specifically for computers not connected to the net.
No computer was isolated - not really. Eventually, someone would connect memory to the AsterX computer, just as he had, and each time they did the mole would copy itself - and a record of the computer's activity - onto that memory. And then, in time, that memory would return to the surface, and would be connected to another computer - one that was connected to the internet. There, the mole would commandeer the internet connection and transmit the data back to NAP.
The mole installed, Wyatt opened their file system. Time to see what you've been hiding, he thought. He started transferring files en masse - the analysts could work through them later. He only had a petabyte of space available, so would need to be selective. He browsed through the file libraries, looking for the information he had been sent for. AsterX had put in a bid for mining rights on an asteroid NAP had previously considered dead rock: massive, but spectral analysis showed no evidence of rare earth minerals, nor precious metals. AsterX knew something and they were trying to keep it quiet. Naturally, NAP wanted to find out.
He found it hidden beneath a maze of folders. XN64867, the folder read. It contained several text reports, and numerous spectral analyses. Wyatt copied the lot, then opened one. Asteroid XN64867, explored on March 14, 2069 by the ship AMS Ventriloquist, captained by Mr Harvey Rogers... blah blah blah... previously considered unpromising... blah blah blah... And there it was:
...an unknown supermassive element was discovered in the third sample... not a compound... never encountered before in this solar system...
Wyatt's eyes widened. A new element! How was that even possible? An element, stable in the long term, more massive than any of those currently known? Wyatt had only taken a few physics classes during his time at Cambridge, but that was enough to know it verged on the impossible. He opened the second report and skimmed it.
… further analysis of the samples brought back to Earth by Mr Rogers has confirmed his initial findings. Further, unknown to Mr Rogers, our team in San Francisco has been able to confirm that this is the very same element as that composing the device found by H2O in Antarctica, now codenamed PROJECT STARGATE by the US military.
Wyatt frowned, and opened the search. Stargate, he thought. A single file appeared. It was plain text. He copied it, then read it. And then he read it again. He put down his gun and leaned back in the chair, before grinning.
I am definitely getting a bonus this year.
- Stargate 2069 -
"Yes, Wyatt! Man on!"
Wyatt kicked; the ball flew right into the box. Perfectly on target. Jakkers caught it with his chest, let it fall to his feet, and shot - wide. The ball bounced off a floodlight, the whistle blew. Goal kick. Wyatt started jogging backwards, away from the keeper.
Sometimes Wyatt wondered if he should feel guilty for playing with these people. His prosthetics gave him a distinct advantage: he could run faster than them, and for longer too, thanks for his myocardial implant. He could kick the ball harder, and with greater accuracy. He would be banned in any competitive sport. But here, at Dulwich sports centre? No one did medical checks here. No one knew his legs were robotic.
But that very ignobility kept any guilt in check. It was a pick-up game. The result wasn't significant, so what did it matter that he was technically cheating? He was there to have fun - to relax and unwind after a job. To feel the wind whip past his face, to hear the thud of boot and ball.
He'd returned to London three days ago and had yet to hear from NAP. No doubt the information he had delivered was causing a stir. He could only imagine the frantic activity: the emergency board meetings, the briefings, the campaign donations slipping into senatorial pockets even now.
But he was out of it all. Though NAP owned him body and soul, the nature of his work dictated a certain distance. He was like a consultant, a freelancer. He had no desk in NAP offices, nor an official title. He had but one contact, and he never saw their face.
The game ended 3-1. Wyatt had scored one of them and set up the other two. He shook the other team's hands and returned to the locker room.
"Any plans for tonight?" said Jack "Jakkers" Williams as Wyatt put on his socks. He was several years younger than Wyatt, but a lot taller. He looked like he should've been playing basketball, not football.
"I'd almost forgotten," said Wyatt. Tonight was Guy Fawkes night. "I'm meeting with some old friends in Covent Garden. You interested?" It wasn't a genuine invitation of course - just polite.
"A bit out of my way," said Jakkers, "and I've got work tomorrow, more's the pity. I'm surprised you don't - what kind of accountant are you, taking all this time off?"
"The kind with lots of holiday, clearly," said Wyatt, evading the issue. Lies were a daily part of his life. To everyone who knew him, he was an accountant working in NAP's London headquarters. One who happened to travel a lot.
"Well, I'm off," said Jakkers, hefting his bag and walking to the door. "Catch you next week?"
"Sure," said Wyatt, completely unsure. He could be a month without another job, or he could be off to China the next day. He never knew.
After fixing his tie he returned to the car park. His BMW was the only car there - not many used cars these days, especially in cities. The car was completely symmetrical, back to front. Low roofed, sleek and red with tinted windows, the chassis clung to the large black wheels. The double doors swung open as he approached, revealing a black leather interior: two sofas at either end of the car facing inwards, with a circular coffee table in the centre.
He'd paid almost a million pounds for it. It was a luxury few could afford, and Wyatt loved it. He got in and the doors closed behind him with less of a sound and more of a sudden silence. The interior was an air-conditioned cocoon of comfort and tranquility.
"Covent Garden," he said, and the car moved off with the crunch of gravel - the only sound to indicate that it was moving. A miracle of German engineering, the BMW was capable of travelling at 450 kph without a sound - and without disturbing your drink. "Music," Wyatt said, accessing the car's computer. The crystal clear sound of strings filled the cabin as the prediction algorithm chose Bach's third cello suite - one of Wyatt's favourites. But not today. "No," he said, waving his hand, and the music stopped. "I'm going out. Something modern - with a beat."
Bach became The Singularity's latest hit, a mix of thumping bass and high frequencies. Half the song was out of the range of unmodified ears. "Drinks," Wyatt said, and the surface of the table retracted to reveal a selection of bottles. He poured himself a scotch and leaned back.
The car sped through the traffic, weaving through the slower cars. Lights blurred by as he crossed the river, the high-rise skyline of London briefly in full view. All told, it took less than fifteen minutes to reach Russell Street - the cobbled pedestrian road leading to the old market square. Wyatt got out, ignoring the looks his car attracted, and walked towards the square. The BMW drove away without him, off to find a place to park.
Covent Garden was a large cobbled square, the edges lined with charming restaurants and bars, peaking out from between neo-classical columns. At one time, long before Wyatt had been born, there had been a market there. All that remained of that time was the Victorian shopping arcade in the centre of the square, preserved as close to its original state as possible. The glass was just that: glass, and there were no screens to order from. You had proper waiters here.
Wyatt handed the doorgirl his jacket and entered The Office. It was a small place - as most were in Covent Garden. Long and thin, decked out in wood, the bar was on one side, booths on the other.
"James!" cried a girl at the far end of the room, and a small cheer went up the booth. Wyatt grinned and made his way over.
"Evening all," he said, greeting the girl who'd called him - Sarah - with a kiss on the cheek. She was short and pretty, with mousy brown hair and a surprisingly curvy figure for her petite frame.
Like his own, her eyes were a dull grey. His group of friends were all comfortably middle class, so implants were common among them - though Wyatt doubted any of them were quite so infested with technology as his own body was. Nor were they likely to share many of the special features paid for by NAP dollars. Implants of the quality Wyatt possessed were normally exclusive to billionaires.
"Wyatt," said posh Charles, shaking his hand firmly. Charles was a keg of a man, broad chested and tall. He'd played rugby, back in uni, and he'd kept fit. "It's been a while."
"Too long," said Wyatt, making the rounds, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. "But you know how it is."
"Where was it this time, James?" said Sarah, still standing up. Wyatt noticed she was a bit shaky on her legs. Been at the wine for a while. "Japan? Korea? Iran?"
"Venezuela," he said, lying through his teeth. The group winced.
"Good thing you didn't get kidnapped, this time," joked Simon, a guy with large ears and too much hair gel. "I know I don't have enough money for a ransom." Wyatt laughed with the others - Simon was a real corporate accountant, and very rich indeed.
A waitress walked over - tall, athletic, Latina, her little black dress clung to her closely. "A drink, sir?" she said with accented English. Hopefully not from Venezuela, thought Wyatt.
"Let's see," he said, pausing to call up the bar's menu. "A vodka martini, please. Easy on the olives."
"Shaken, not stirred?" joked Sarah. "You always did like those Bond movies."
Had he been younger, Wyatt might have blushed at the gentle tease. He and Sarah had lived together, for a time, and she knew how much he'd obsessed over those movies as a teenager. But his student days were long gone.
"Shaken, not stirred," he said to the waitress, flashing Sarah a grin. The waitress looked confused, but Sarah laughed.
"Yes, sir," she said, and returned to the bar.
"So Wyatt, what took you to Venezuela?" said Simon.
"Rumours," he said, taking a seat. He had to be careful with Simon - the guy knew his stuff. In fact, none of his friends could be called stupid - they'd all gone to Cambridge together, after all. But he wasn't nervous. He knew his cover, and it all checked out. "Apparently what remains of the Venezuelan government are planning to cut all corporation taxes to try to attract some kind of investment in the country."
"A bit late for that, isn't it?" said Charles. He worked for the Commonwealth Bank. "Fifty years of nationalisation policies don't get reversed overnight."
"True," said Wyatt, and his drink arrived. He took a sip and let it slip down. Lovely. "But we're interested mostly in the potential for funneling revenues through, rather than setting up operations. Not that there's any potential for operations - there's nothing of value left."
Charles snorted.
"That's not quite true," said Sarah, joining the conversation. "Venezuela protected their part of the Amazon, unlike all their neighbours. They've got the highest level of biodiversity in the world."
"When you can turn biodiversity into profit, come back to me," said Simon, earning a laugh from Charles. Wyatt privately agreed. As much as he loved Sarah, she was extremely idealistic. She'd never learnt to face up to the geopolitical reality: their parents and grandparents had fucked them over, and now it was everyone for themselves.
"You never know," said Sarah, "there could be a cure for rabies B in there for all we know."
"People have been making that argument for a hundred years," said Simon, "and yet here we are: Venezuela's the poorest country in the world, and Brazil's in the G10."
Beep beep, chimed a sound only Wyatt could hear, and a wave flashed before his eyes.
Report in ASAP - Black.
Wyatt sighed, and knocked back his drink.
"Woah!" said Sarah.
"It's gonna be one of those evenings, is it?" said Charles with a grin, and he signalled the waitress.
"I'm afraid not," said Wyatt, and he stood up. Bill, he thought, and he paid with a glance. "Unfortunately, something has come up. I'll see you all soon, no doubt."
"Already?" said Sarah, looking at him glumly. In that moment Wyatt wondered if she suspected. She knew him better than anyone, after all. But in the end, it didn't matter. Suspicions or not, he had to go. NAP owned him for forty three more years. To quit before was unthinkable. All that technology within him - that was NAP-owned technology. Forty three more years and he'd leave body mods and all, with a tidy golden wave to set him up for life.
Until then, he was theirs.
He called his car and returned to his Southwark flat. Up on the seventeenth floor, it was large and airy, with an open plan living area. It was clear, however, that very little living took place there: there was no clutter on the glass furniture, nor on the steel kitchen surfaces. It looked like it hadn't been touched since the day he moved in.
Wyatt headed for the study as soon as he entered. It was a small room, as empty as the main hall. His desk was made entirely of glass. He sat at it and activated the worktop.
Beep beep. Incoming call - Mr Black. He accepted it - audio only, as always.
"Wyatt," said a voice, clearly distorted to avoid identification. "You've outdone yourself this time, you know that?"
Wyatt leaned back in his leather chair with a satisfied smile. Finally! While it was annoying to leave his friends, he'd been dying to know NAP's response for days.
"I get the job done," he said.
"That you do," said Mr Black, "which is why we've another for you."
Wyatt sat forward. Another job, so soon? "Oh?" he said.
"Tickets to Las Vegas," said Mr Black, and a message appeared in his mail. An e-ticket to Las Vegas, leaving from London in four days. "Once there you are to make your way to the Yucca Mountain complex. It's a -"
"USAF base, I know," said Wyatt, sucking in his breath. "I am to infiltrate the Stargate project, then?" That was a tall order, even for him. It was likely among the best protected places in the world.
"Infiltrate?" said Black, with something of a laugh. "Not infiltrate, no. We've got you a job there."
Wyatt's eyes widened. "How on Earth did you manage that?" he said.
"Oh, the usual," said Black, "a few timely donations. A few reminders that NAP commands over three million votes in swing states."
"Very well. What's the job?"
"You're not going to believe it," said Black, and there was a tone of smugness in his voice.
"They've figured out what the device does, I take it," said Wyatt. They wouldn't be sending him otherwise.
The report he'd read had been clear: a mysterious device had been found in Antarctica amidst ruins marked with Egyptian hieroglyphs. Not only was it in completely the wrong place, the device was highly advanced technology. So advanced, in fact, that H2O's scientists had been completely dumbfounded. No one knew what it did. Until now.
"I'm sending you the full details now," said Black, and another message appeared in his inbox. "Short version: there are two gates. One here, on Earth. The other... somewhere else. We don't know yet. You enter a seven-symbol password and the gate opens, allowing - we think - instant transportation."
Wyatt leaned back, stunned. It completely uprooted known history. It was... unbelievable. "So our civilisation is the second to develop on Earth," he said, thinking out loud. "And the one that came before was much more advanced than our own."
"Makes you think, doesn't it?" said Black.
"Huh?"
"Well, if another, more advanced civilisation could be wiped out without a trace, it could happen to us too," Black said.
Wyatt nodded, though Black couldn't see. "Good thing we have all those time capsules," he joked. "The civilisation which replaces us will have an ample supply of drawings made by our schoolchildren."
Black snorted, but returned to business. "Meanwhile, this civilisation has left us the Stargate."
"They've activated the device?" asked Wyatt, skimming the documentation Black had sent.
"Correct," said Black. "The Stargate was found with another device, which you use to enter the password."
"Trial and error?"
"Not quite," said Black, just as Wyatt came to the relevant part.
"Ah, I see," he said, "they found the password... in Egypt."
"Indeed," said Black, "there appears to be some connection between Ancient Egyptian civilisation and what the scientists are calling the precursors. One of the many things to be explored by the team which is going through the gate."
Wyatt paused, joining the dots. "I see," he said. In spite of himself, excitement bubbled deep in his stomach. He was to go through the Stargate. It was insane. It was amazing. He was to be a part of history. "We have no idea where the Stargate leads?"
"No," said Black. "The gate outputs an enormous amount of data, but we've yet to be able to interpret it. The computer language is unlike anything we've developed - the hardware too. Some kind of optical computing."
"An unmanned probe, then," said Wyatt. It was the logical next step.
"Planned for next week," said Black.
"Why the delay?"
"The moment the Stargate was activated, H2O's lawyers moved in," Black said. Of course. Such a find has huge potential for profit. "They've reached an agreement. The US government is now renting the Stargate from a new subsidiary of H2O called Nut Holdings."
Nut, Wyatt searched. She was the Egyptian god of the sky. How dramatic.
"Very well," said Wyatt. "I'm to go through the Stargate. Objectives?"
"You will be working as part of a large team of scientists and military personnel. Officially, you are there to perform a mining survey."
"A mining survey?" said Wyatt, "I'm no geologist. Perhaps you would be better served by -"
"You have an education in the physical sciences, do you not?"
"The physical and information sciences, yes," said Wyatt, "but I'm more of a jack of all trades. I don't possess the expertise needed to perform a survey."
"Luckily, we have anticipated this," said Black. "I am sending you a full briefing to bring you up to speed on the relevant geophysics."
Wyatt opened the message and whistled. "Looks like I have some homework to do. So, why me?" He was under no illusions. If they wanted a geologist they would have gone elsewhere.
"As I said, you are officially there to perform mining surveys," said Black. "Unofficially, you are to keep an eye out for potential profitable enterprise. NAP is keen to not let our competitors beat us to the punch on this one."
"Priority?" said Wyatt, nodding.
"One," said Black. Lethal force permitted. "I am sending you another file. It contains a full briefing."
Wyatt opened it and skimmed. It was rather long, and extremely speculative. Right at the top: retrieve a sample of Element 327 - the element AsterX had got their hands on.
"Do you have any questions?" said Black after a pause.
"No," sad Wyatt, quickly planning the next four days. It would be like cramming for finals all over again. "I shall get started immediately."
"Good," said Black. "You know how to reach me if you have further questions. Good night, Wyatt."
The call ended. Wyatt didn't leave the study for many hours.