II.


One-hundred microts is time enough for everything to change forever.

One-hundred microts ago, John Crichton was still in the Uncharted Territories, and life was still his own weird and twisted version of "normal", and all of his worst fears for his planet were a distant and impossible bad dream: Earth subdued and humiliated, humanity conquered and enslaved, the planet's surface devastated from orbit by the power of a single Peacekeeper light cruiser. Millions dead, the rest powerless to stop it. John Crichton powerless to stop it.

John Crichton hell-bent on revenge, a thought that sickens and terrifies him, repulses him for its similarity to Scorpius, even though John knows that it's what would happen if those worst fears of his should ever come to pass.

But now there's a ship bearing down on them, and everything is different. It's gray and boxy and ugly, definitely a human construct, and John Crichton doubts very much that it can put up a real fight, but damned if his species isn't going to go down swinging. Humanity: fuck yeah.

The ship is actually a little bigger than the Conquistador, with two flight-pods on either flank that probably carry shuttlecraft or maybe even fighters. Scorpius stares at this ship, perplexed and intrigued, always calculating. "Scan that ship," he orders.

The officer manning the scanners stammers, "I—we can't, sir. Our scans aren't penetrating its defense screen."

Defense screen—singular. Scorpius doesn't miss that detail. "Raise our screens," he says, the tiniest hint of panic in his voice.

One-hundred microts ago, Scorpius had still been prepared to underestimate the Humans, even after they re-opened a sealed wormhole in their upper atmosphere; even after having known John frelling Crichton.

Out in space, two overlapping force-fields of angry red light form a twin bubble around the cruiser-explorer. Gaps exist in both energy-screens, but the dual arrangement ensures that no one section of the ship's hull is ever exposed to danger for more than a fraction of a microt.

Then, without warning, a beam of white-hot energy, or maybe it's plasma, lances forth from the angular gray Earth-ship. It strikes the Conquistador square on the bow, and both defense-screens dissolve like so much wet tissue-paper.

On the Peacekeeper ship's command deck, ordinarily disciplined officers verge on panic. Sparks fly and controls short out. The whole bridge rocks to and fro, and Lt. Gallara nearly pitches over the railing—it's Aeryn Sun who catches her.

Scorpius grips the rail and steadies himself. "Signal that ship!" he roars, his voice taking on a distinctly Scarran tone.

One of the Sebaceans down on the deck holds a headset up to his ear with one hand and grips the comms console firmly with the other. "Incoming transmission!" he announces.

The forward viewport ripples for a quarter of a microt; then the image of the Earth and its lone gray defender of a battleship are replaced by an interior view of that selfsame ship, a bridge with a command chair standing about a foot above the rest of the deck and maybe half a dozen humans in blue jumpsuits manning various duty-stations. The jumpsuits all have patches indicating flags from various nations, branches of military service (mostly Air Force), and a symbol on every shoulder that looks like a cross between a capital lambda and the Ångström symbol: ʌ̊.

Sitting in the chair is a man who bears an uncanny resemblance to our own John Crichton. His patches indicate the U.S. Air Force, a colonel no less. He speaks with easy authority: like he's been at this a while. "This is Colonel Cameron Mitchell, temporarily in command of the Earth Ship Odyssey. You have violated Earth space; stand down and prepare to—holy crap on a cracker! John!?"

At the same time, Crichton grins wider than Aeryn has seen him grin since their daughters were born. "CAM!? Ha-hah!" he laughs aloud. Suddenly, everything isn't just different—it's better than he could have possibly imagined.

Aeryn regards this human with the confident military bearing and Crichton-like good looks and asks, "John, who is this man?"

"He's my cousin from Kansas!" exclaims Crichton, still laughing. And so it is—Cameron Mitchell, the son of John's mother's sister and a farmer from Kansas. An Air Force pilot with colonel's bars (just like his Uncle Jack, the famous astronaut). The one who didn't go for NASA or IASA or any other space agency… at least not at first. Cam, who used to go fishing with John and Livvy at Sawyer's Mill when they were kids, and was better than either of them at digging up nightcrawlers and baiting hooks.

On the bridge of the Odyssey, Colonel Mitchell orders his boat's weapons to stand down. He looks at John Crichton and Aeryn Sun—famous faces down on Earth, anyone would recognize them anywhere even after eight years' absence—and also at the ghoulish white figure in the black S&M suit standing next to them. Cam can't help but wonder what his deal is. "So… John. Long time, no see. What's goin' on?"

"Man, it's a long story," says Crichton. "Hey, how're—" he freezes, almost reluctant to ask the question. It's not that he doesn't want to talk about it in front of Scorpius and all the Peacekeepers, he doesn't give two shits about what they think; it's that it's been eight freaking years, and who knows what might've happened in the meantime. "How's my—?"

"Uncle Jack is fine," says Cam, answering the unasked question. "Just saw him at the annual Crichton family fourth of July barbecue three weeks ago."

John heaves a sigh and slumps against the railing of the command platform, visibly relieved. His dad is still alive. Getting up there in the years without a doubt, but still kicking, thank God.

"Guess I'm gonna have to get him on the horn here, huh?" says Cam.

"Guess so," says John. "Might want to call the President while you're at it."

Mitchell raises an eyebrow. "Emergency?"

"Diplomacy," answers Aeryn Sun in accented, unpracticed English. "The Peacekeepers want to negotiate… something. Apparently I'm the ambassador."

That's a new one for Cam. "'Apparently'?"

"Did we mention the long story?" says Crichton.

Scorpius has watched this whole exchange with cool detachment, observing everything, saying nothing. The reasons for this are many and practical: he does not want to interrupt the familial rapport, especially if he can use it to his advantage; he is beyond curious about the humans and this mysterious, mighty battleship of theirs; and he wonders whether they would even understand him if he were to speak. He knows that the Humans do not have translator microbes, or at least they didn't have them eight cycles ago, and his own small command of English, gleaned from his interactions with Crichton, may not be sufficient for the precision niceties of diplomacy.

Mitchell answers Crichton by eyeballing Scorpius and asks, "Friend of yours?"

Still Scorpius stares, silent and menacing. He wants to speak; Crichton can only guess at whatever machinations hold him back. "No, not really," he says at last. "But he's here." Something about that last, tired utterance speaks of finality; inevitability; doom.

"All right, well—hang tight," says Cameron. He knows and John knows what must come next: bureaucracy. Red tape. Questions and paranoia and security measures. John doesn't blame his people for this—especially not now.

He has questions too. A whole hell of a lot of 'em.


Scorpius leaves Lt. Gallara in charge of the Conquistador for the duration of their short excursion over to the Odyssey. He no longer needs his attaché to double as a nurse, not since Sikozu upgraded his cooling-rod system all those cycles ago. Now he can go for well over a solar day without having to replace any rods.

Sub-Officer Nalu pilots the Marauder carrying Scorpius, John, and Aeryn. Most of the trip is made in silence, until the Marauder comes close to the Odyssey's starboard-side flight-pod. The massive blast-doors slowly grind their way open, while at the same time a flash of soft yellow indicates a force-field appearing in the gap to prevent the flight-deck's exposure to hard vacuum. The jagged, tooth-like seam between the doors widens, and now the Peacekeepers can see that flight-deck, where there are six primitive-looking fighter-craft, like atmospheric jet-planes modified to fly in space, docked between painted lines on the floor. Techs and other personnel move about, carrying out their duties—looking so very Sebacean that to the Peacekeepers on the Marauder, only the colors of the uniforms are unfamiliar.

Scorpius finally breaks the silence. "A curious design choice," he muses aloud. John can't tell whether he's talking about the fighters or the cruiser-carrier or what. He still doesn't much care; he's just wondering how his species finally managed to pull all of this together in so short a time.

Aeryn Sun wonders the same. She leans over to John in her usual, protective way and whispers, "Is this… our reality?"

Scorpius hears her anyway and perks up, turns his head: he wants to know John's take on things.

"Doesn't matter," says Crichton simply.

"What do you mean, it doesn't matter?" says Aeryn.

"We exited a wormhole," says Crichton. "And we didn't travel back in time. So this is our reality, from now on. Hell, we've been back and forth so many times now that if we changed something…" Crichton is suddenly weary. He doesn't want to do this anymore. He's getting too old for this shit. "Look, just… keep your eyes peeled for, um, inconsistencies. The first 'wrong thing' you see, let me know."

Now the Marauder is passing through the force-field—there's only a slight shudder, as the small drop-ship is now flying through an air-pressurized hangar instead of empty space. Aeryn tilts her head towards the front of the Marauder, the forward viewport showing the flight-deck of the Earth ship, and says, "It's going to be hard to beat that."

"Yep," says Crichton resignedly.

Scorpius silently agrees. But he also knows a Human aphorism which has served him well for the past eight cycles or so: if you cannot beat them, join them.


Two Air Force MPs in cammo and carrying FN-P90s escort John, Aeryn, and Scorpius into a spartan gray conference-room aboard the Odyssey. Colonel Mitchell is already seated there, along with three other humans: a wiry bespectacled man with short-cropped hair and the stubbly beginnings of a full beard; and two tough- and intelligent-looking women in black tank-tops, one with short blonde hair and bright inquisitive eyes, and the other with long black hair that looks altogether too much like Aeryn's would if it were done up in pigtails.

Crichton pauses at the door and stares at this woman. He thinks for a moment that she really does look an awful lot like Aeryn. Then the strange woman blows a huge pink bubble with the bubble-gum she's chewing and lets the sticky mass explode all over her face. With a wide grin, she licks the gum back into her mouth and resumes chewing, loudly. That more or less dispels the illusion totally.

Cameron Mitchell stands up from his seat at the head of the table, but before he can greet the visitors, he mumbles, "Vala, could you not, please?"

With a petulant pout, the woman with the chewing gum pulls the wad out of her mouth and flicks it into the corner of the conference-room.

Mitchell rolls his eyes and turns back to John. "I s'pose introductions are in order. Of course you know Colonel Sam Carter—"

"We've met," says John with a nod. "The IASA conference back in '96. And at Canaveral, last time I was on Earth."

"I'm flattered you remember," says Samantha Carter politely. She does not sound flattered.

"—and this is Dr. Daniel Jackson," continues Cameron. "He's our resident linguist and cultural expert."

Jackson nods. "Dr. Crichton. Good to finally meet you." He turns to greet Aeryn Sun as well, but thinks better of it: Aeryn isn't really paying attention. She has already sat herself down at the conference table, across from Vala Mal Doran. They are now staring at each other, Aeryn with the appraising eyes of a soldier or an assassin, Vala with the perceptive gaze of a grifter or a pickpocket sizing up a potential mark.

"And this," says Cameron, "is Vala Mal Doran. She's… uh…"

"Just here to observe," offers Vala. She gives John Crichton a leering look—and why not? He's a handsome, famous hero, a bona fide celebrity, and apparently the long-lost cousin of her dear friend and colleague Cameron. There could be possibilities here.

Vala's roving eyes earn her a stone cold death-glare from Aeryn Sun, whose hand once again drifts down to her still-empty holster. This makes Aeryn even more annoyed.

"Right," says John, pretending to be a little bit more clueless than he actually is. "I guess you all know who I am, and you remember Aeryn Sun," he clears his throat and looks pointedly at Vala, "we're married, by the way. And this cadaverous bastard here is called Scorpius. He's a bigwig with the Peacekeepers."

Scorpius has so far noted many interesting details. The mix of primitive and mind-blowingly advanced technologies married together in the construction of this ship. The fact that most of the Humans aboard, including the guards armed with slug-throwers, are unnerved by his appearance. And the fact that these four humans aren't rattled at all. They are, in a word, formidable.

"I am here," says Scorpius as he casually takes a seat at the table across from Mitchell, "to deliver a message to Earth from the Peacekeeper High Council, the Scarran Imperium, and the High Priesthood of the Eidelons. Do you speak on behalf of your planet?"

Cameron sizes up the menacing, Nosferatu-looking alien and says, "Nope, not really. We just want to get your side of the story, for starters. You'll meet the real diplomats and politicians later."

Scorpius notes that Colonel Mitchell has understood him perfectly, even though he has spoken in Sebacean rather than Crichton's language. He wonders: translator microbes? Something else? Well, it doesn't matter. They can communicate.

Which is good, thinks Scorpius, because that puts his second most powerful weapon—of course his intellect is his first—back at his disposal.

"This is to be an interrogation, then?" asks Scorpius.

"No. Just an informal meeting," says Dr. Jackson. "We have some questions. You probably do too."

Crichton finally takes a seat at the table, next to Aeryn and across from Daniel. "You bet your ass I do. Why'd you re-open the wormhole?"

The other humans in the room fall silent; only Vala manages not to look guilty, but then, that's probably because she has no idea what Crichton is talking about.

"Yeah… that was our bad," says Jackson. "It was kind of an accident."

"You accidentally re-opened the wormhole that John destroyed?" scoffs Aeryn. "How the frell did you manage that?"

Jackson looks from Carter to Mitchell—something holds him back. Mitchell tells him, "Need to know, Jackson."

"If Dr. Crichton can help us close it up again, I think he needs to know," says Carter. "We'll get the President to give him security clearance later."

Mitchell thinks for a moment, then relents and gives Jackson a subtle nod.

Jackson sighs. "All right. Well… a few months ago, we kind of used a wormhole to bring the Lost City of Atlantis back to Earth from another planet in the Pegasus Galaxy, so that we could stop an invasion of life-force-sucking aliens called the Wraith, who also come from the Pegasus Galaxy."

Crichton stares. "The lost city. Of Atlantis."

Carter finishes for him, "Was in another galaxy. And when we moved it here with an experimental wormhole drive, I'm pretty sure it weakened the local spacetime around the wormhole you closed back in '04. Kind of… tore everything open again. Took us a few months before we even noticed that it had happened."

By now, Scorpius is as intrigued as Crichton is incredulous. "Are you claiming that your species has harnessed wormhole technology—for intergalactic travel!?"

Samantha quirks an eyebrow and looks at Scorpius smugly. Here, she realizes, is another alien of some authority who has underestimated humanity. "I've been to two other galaxies myself, Pegasus and Ida. Daniel and Vala here have also been to the Caelum Galaxy, where the Ancients originally came from."

Daniel puts up a finger of protest and points out, "Actually, Vala's the only one of us who ever went there physically, I only had my consciousness projected into—" but his voice is very quickly drowned out when both Scorpius and Crichton stand up in surprise. "The Ancients?" echoes Scorpius; and Crichton asks, "How do you know about the Ancients!?"

"How do you?" asks Mitchell.

Crichton looks his cousin in the eye. "Met some. Out there. It was a while ago."

In that moment, Scorpius makes a calculated decision. He knows Crichton's reluctance all too well, and he knows exactly how much Crichton values his people. He thinks so little of them—and, because of this, despite this, he wants desperately to protect his fellow Humans from themselves. "The Ancients," says Scorpius, resuming his seat, "once downloaded all of their vast wormhole knowledge—into John Crichton's brain. Though he may deny it, I believe that he still possesses this knowledge, if only on a subconscious level."

Aeryn hisses something at Scorpius in Sebacean, so nasty that it doesn't translate. Jackson looks thoughtful, Carter looks surprised and elated and a little bit too eager, and Mitchell just looks hurt.

"You weren't gonna tell us that, were you?" asks Cam.

And John Crichton, with one of the bigger cats still left in his considerable bag suddenly let out, finds himself in a position that he never wanted to be in: having to justify himself and his decision to keep some things from his people, even his family, for their own good. "It's dangerous," he says simply.

"Help us make it less dangerous," says Carter.

"I… can't," says John. "The knowledge isn't mine to give away."

Mitchell rolls his eyes. "We've heard that before…"

Jackson holds up a hand to stop Mitchell—he wants to try another tactic. "You believe that if the Ancients were here right now, they wouldn't want you to share this technology with Earth."

"I know it for a fact," says Crichton. He glares at Jackson, who finds himself looking back into the eyes of a man speaking hard truth founded in harder experience.

Still, Daniel is never one to give up on his idealism. He turns to Carter and says, "I think it's time to tell him everything."

"Everything?" she asks, eyes wide.

Jackson nods.

Cater sighs and rises from the table. "All right. I'll talk to General O'Neill and the President." As she moves to leave the conference room, she pauses and says to Crichton, "Oh—and your father works for the I.O.A. now, so he already has full clearance. We'll get word to him that you're back and have him beamed up to the Odyssey in a jiffy."

Scorpius and Aeryn think nothing of this, and even Crichton misses it for about two-point-five seconds. "Wait—did she just say 'beamed'!?"


Sub-Officer Nalu had earlier been instructed to stay with the Marauder, but after the Human guards came to escort Scorpius, Commandant Sun, and John Crichton to go meet with the commander of the Human ship, the Kalish pilot was herself escorted to the Odyssey's commissary and offered refreshment. Since it was not her time of the cycle to feed, this was a pointless endeavor. Still, it offered her the chance to observe the Humans, to ingratiate herself with all the flirtatious males (there were rather more males than females serving aboard this vessel; how very unlike the Peacekeepers the Humans were in that regard), and perhaps to gather intelligence.

Scorpius appreciated underlings who took initiative.

Thus, her time in the commissary was spent talking, flirting, waiting, and concealing abject boredom; but not eating.

After a surprisingly short while, however, the ship-commander himself, Colonel Mitchell, now arrives, along with Scorpius, Sun, and Crichton, and two other humans. Both Mitchell and this other human male look rather like Crichton—this is to be expected, for a species that only inhabits one planet—but the human female accompanying them looks shockingly like Commandant Sun. That is… rather unexpected.

Quite unable to help herself, Sub-Officer Nalu stares, open-mouthed, at the pair of Commandant Aeryn Sun and Vala Mal Doran, who are still each giving the other the stink-eye when one thinks that the other isn't looking.

Scorpius approaches Nalu and says in a quiet, commanding voice, "Return with me to the Marauder and prepare for our immediate departure. I must send a communiqué back through the wormhole, in person."

Crichton, making no bones about the fact that everyone in the room can still hear Scorpius, stands next to his cousin and says loudly, "We'll stay here for a bit, if you don't mind."

"Of course," says Scorpius diplomatically. "Take all the time you need to… catch up." He nods at Aeryn—"Commandant." Then he and Nalu depart (escorted, of course, by a pair of silent Human guards).

"'Commandant'?" echoes Mitchell, once Scorpius is gone.

"Not like Stalag 13," says Crichton. "It's more like a bad translation of 'Commodore'."

"Still, heck of a promotion," says Mitchell. "Since it was 'Officer Ex-Peacekeeper Aeryn Sun' the last time you were here."

"Things changed," says Aeryn. "Long story."

"Yeah, no kidding," says Cam. He indicates Aeryn's hand. "Is that Aunt Leslie's ring?"

"Dad gave it to me when I left," says John. He then points between Aeryn and himself and says, "We got hitched during the—" Crichton pauses, realizing that he can't just say "the War", because that wouldn't meaning anything to his fellow Earthlings.

"—During the Battle of Qujaga," supplies Aeryn. "At the height of the Peacekeeper–Scarran War, nearly eight cycles ago."

"Damn," says Mitchell, shaking his head. A small smile forms on his face. "Kids?"

"Three," affirms John. "Boy and two girls. Deke is eight; Katy and Zhaan are five."

"'Zhaan'," says Daniel, cutting into the conversation. He and Carter have both retrieved trays of food and sat down nearby. "That's an interesting name. Is it Sebacean?"

"Delvian," says Aeryn.

"It's another long story," says Crichton.

"You seem to be full of those," says Cam.

Crichton stares out the window at the curvature of the Earth—he can just make out the coast of Australia from here. "Pot. Kettle."

"Fair enough," says Cam. He motions for everyone to get comfortable and sits. "Who wants to start? Jackson, you've been here from the beginning—"

"I figured you were going to say something like that," Daniel mutters. "All right, well… it all started back in 1995, the first time I met Dr. Catherine Langford…"


Jackson spends the next two hours bringing Crichton and Aeryn up to speed on the secret history of Earth and its many, many, many contacts with extraterrestrial life down through the millennia—but especially over the course of the last decade and change. He talks about the Ancients, and the Asgard, and the Goa'uld, and the Tok'ra, and the Replicators, and the Wraith, and the Ori. He tells them about the Stargate, the first mission to Abydos, and Jack O'Neill (a colonel back then). Ra, Apophis, Hathor, Setesh, Heru'ur, Sokar, Nirti, Lord Yu, Anubis. Osiris—a sore subject, to be sure, but not as sore as Sha're. He tells them of Skaara and Kasuf. Of Teal'c and Bra'tac and Chulak and the Jaffa. General Hammond, General Carter (and Selmak, of course), and General Landry.

He talks about the Ancients—Heliopolis, "meaning of life type stuff". When Crichton mentions that the Ancients he knew were either bug people or creepy wormhole-aliens, Jackson gets very excited for a moment and shows Crichton some writing—four examples, from Heliopolis, those being Alteran, Asgard, Nox, and Furling. The Furling inscriptions, Crichton recognizes right away, because the wormhole equations in his brain are written in those very same dots and squiggles. He discovers then and there that his Ancients are properly known as Furlings, and Jackson and Carter likewise discover that it must have been the Furlings who originally provided the wormhole technology used by their Ancients, the humanlike Alterans, when they originally built the Stargates. Mitchell and Vala discover to their disappointment that the Furlings are not and never were furry, or even the least bit cute.

Carter at one point mentions that the same solar flare storm back in 1999 that sent John Crichton to the far side of the galaxy also messed with their wormholes at the SGC—and that SG-1 got sent back to the year 1969 by a solar flare at roughly the same time. Maybe it was even the exact same flare—which wouldn't be terribly important, but was kind of funny think about, and it drives home the point for Crichton that on the very day he had his accident, the SGC had already been in operation for a full two years. It's Carter's way of saying that they kind of know what they're doing—that her wormhole knowledge might be on par with Crichton's, and she's earned it the old-fashioned way.

To say nothing of Radek Zelenka, who figured out the Ancient wormhole drive that moved Atlantis back to Earth (and accidentally tore Crichton's closed wormhole all the way open again), or Rodney McKay, who helped design the McKay-Carter Gate Bridge between Milky Way and Pegasus.

Carter also takes over the story, briefly, to talk in more detail about the fight with Anubis and the quest for the Eye of Ra and the year that Daniel spent dead (or ascended), with Jonas Quinn of Langara holding his position on SG-1. That was 2003 into 2004, the distraction that kept the SGC entirely occupied during the months that Sikozu Shanu was communicating with Earth from aboard Moya, and then the months that John Crichton and Aeryn Sun and Ka D'Argo and Chiana and Dominar Rygel XVI and Utu-Noranti Pralatong spent on Earth, being heroic and alien and generally world-famous and also terrifying and causing mass hysteria and changing everything about humanity's place in the cosmos forever.

To the personnel of the SGC, who had much more pressing matters to deal with at the time, it was a minor nuisance. An irritant. And, ever since then, a fantastically useful source of plausible deniability, so that they could continue their massive government cover-up until the day when they deemed that the world was ready to know the truth—or until the cover-up became so impractical that full disclosure was inevitable and imminent, and they needed to get out ahead of any press leaks.

Mitchell talks about Inauguration Day in January of 2005, roughly a year after Crichton's visit home, and about piloting an F-302 in the dogfight over Antarctica with Anubis's Death Gliders. Getting shot down, months of physical therapy. His posting to SG-1 afterwards, a small reward well-earned for heroics performed in the line of duty. Crichton detects a hint of bitterness in his cousin's voice when he talks about this experience.

Crichton and Aeryn hear a great deal about Stargates and ascended beings, the Ori and their worshipers, Priors and Doci and crusading knights, of higher planes of pure energy and perfect thought. It's only then that John Crichton starts to open up to them about the dangers of wormholes, time travel and unrealized realities, Einstein and the "Ancients"—members of that mysterious species, "heavily modified" to exist in our physical realm, and their great fear of the fact that wormholes can reach theirs. About how the "biologics" of our universe are infinitely more aggressive than they are. Carter elucidates the difference between Crichton's wormholes, bigger than starships, floating in space—Einstein-Rosen-Podolsky bridges, she calls them—and the Stargates' wormholes, barely bigger than an atomic nucleus, so small that matter has to be demolecularized and compressed into a data-stream to be sent through, and even then the matter-stream can only pass through the wormhole one way—extreme Kerr singularities, torus-shaped in four dimensions and 150 femtometers across, and you never even think about their being there because the shimmery blue "event horizon" of the 'gate itself is amazing and beautiful and kind of dangerous (but not as dangerous as the unstable vortex that goes "kawoosh!"—and suddenly both Crichton and Aeryn are rather eager to see the "kawoosh" for themselves).

And then Vala brings the story to a close by joking about how awful and primitive the Earth people's first ship, the Prometheus was, and what an easy time she had of stealing it right out from underneath her darling Daniel's nose, at least for a while, until he stole it back from her. How the Prometheus was lost in the war with the Ori, but now Earth has the mighty Daedalus class ships, the envy of the civilized galaxy—Apollo and Korolev and Sun Tzu and General George Hammond, and this ship, the most important one of all, because the Odyssey carries within it the legacy of the Asgard and all the technology that makes humans the Fifth Race of the Great Alliance. Intergalactic hyperdrives and phased-plasma beams and impenetrable shields and power-sources undreamed of by any save the Ancients themselves.

This is when Crichton at last begins to understand: he needs a wormhole to get home, but home has had ships that can come to him, quite literally for years. Hell, they probably don't even need his help—they probably don't even need him to close the wormhole for them. Carter is a genius, and McKay is a genius, and Zelenka is a genius, and they're just Earth's top three. His planet really could muster up the brainpower if it needed to; his help would just make everything that much easier on them, and maybe just a little less prone to massive catastrophe to boot.

They're not really depending on the Great John Crichton to get the job done; they're just asking him to speed the process along and minimize the risks. And that's the most liberating thought that he's had this entire time.

But then, that—good timing, as always—is when Colonel Jack Crichton appears inside the Odyssey's mess hall in a flash of white light and to the hum of an Asgard transporter.