The only thing I ever remember about Air Force balls—those resplendent, gag-worthy snore-fests that I only attend because my rank compels me to—is her. The first year I didn't know her very well, but she wore red and spent most of the night with a physical therapist from the Academy; I tried to ignore the vague resentment that clouded my eyes whenever I looked at them. The next year she had the flu and begged out of it, and the next she wore a blue low-cut number with diamond earrings—"From a friend," she remarked with a mischievous smile. I spent the rest of the evening trying to drown my jealously in champagne.
Then there was last year. The last Air Force ball I could spend savoring her from afar, watching her svelte form glide across the dance floor with men who, unknowingly, were far luckier than I would ever be.
Your life is quickly becoming a list of "lasts," O'Neill, I chide myself.
A year, give or take a few days, before Daniel and I stood atop Cheyenne Mountain watching the demise of Colorado Springs, we had been somehow compelled to attend the annual officer's Christmas ball. The general mundane parade of proud officers and their eye-candy waves droned merrily along. This time she was wearing black, long, flowing, and airy, so that as she walked towards me I could occasionally see the outline of a leg or the curve of a breast. Yes, these parties were painful to me in more than one way.
So we—Carter, Daniel, and I (somehow Teal'c always managed to escape)-- did our best to avoid the inane chitchat and pleasantries that come with these shindigs. Somehow, when you've saved the world from utter annihilation a few times, social propriety doesn't seem so important; we had earned our right to be anti-social.
"Colonel, Major, Dr. Jackson," said Hammond as he joined our little circle. "I see all of your annual kicking and screaming did you no good."
"What are you talking about General?" I quipped. "There's nothing I love more than spending my Saturday nights with stuffy old generals and their equally entertaining speeches—present company excluded, of course."
"Of course," George replied with a grin.
"As opposed to all the other fascinating things you normally do on Saturday nights," Carter mumbled. She added a "sir" quickly and took a sip of her champagne.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Also, people here." I paused and glanced around for effect. "Always assume I'm so much smarter than I really am."
Carter gave a short laugh and opened her mouth to speak. And then--
And then she was gone.
Something rustles in the bushes behind us.
"Oh, sirs, there you are," says Siler as he emerges from the milky darkness. "General Hammond has requested your presence. The President is about to arrive. He wants a word."
"If Hammond thinks I'm gonna waste my time with that sissy-ass, sonuva—"
Daniel cuts me off with, "We're coming."
We follow Siler and climb down one of the emergency portals back into the bowels of the mountain. Technically, the long, vertical ladder corridors are only supposed to be used in dire circumstances, but I've never been one for technicalities like that.
The base is taut. Worried faces speak of too many hours on the phone, too many nights without family members, too many bad cups of coffee. It's rumored that Cheyenne Mountain will be the first of Aliki's targets should the worst happen.
"Don't they know that Aliki has nothing to gain by bombing us?" Janet had asked a week ago. In the melee of the evacuation, her car had been stolen, and I had made the perilous journey through the chaotic city to retrieve her. She hadn't left the base since. "Cheyenne Mountain is designed to withstand a nuclear attack. It's one of the safest locations on Earth right now."
"Aliki's nuts. He'd kill everyone in the city just to make a point."
"Yeah, I guess if I was one of these people with three kids and a dog and minivan, I'd send them out of town too. If Cassie was still…" Her voice caught, and we didn't speak for the rest of the trip. Cassie's fate, like that of Teal'c, was better left unsaid, if just to escape its terrible implications.
When we enter the briefing room, he's already there, flanked by a typical assortment of advisors, lackeys, and Secret Service.
"There's no need to salute, Colonel," he remarks dryly, seeing me remain defiantly stationary in his presence. "I understand that you've all had a rough time lately." His skin is leathery and tan, his blond hair quickly fading to a salt-and-pepper collage, his suit tidy and expensive. There's something about his Beach Boy appearance that revolts me.
"Yeah, trying to fix your mistakes certainly is a hard day's work."
"Colonel! Despite our differences in foreign policy, I am still your Commander-in-Chief."
"And I still don't give a damn! You see that?" I gesture wildly out the window to the large, empty space formerly occupied by the Gate. "That, despite all of your self-righteous babbling, isn't the cause of all this. We could have taken Aliki if you hadn't caved into all of his demands!"
"Aliki is far more technically advanced than us. When he called us on the Stargate Program, it was either disclose everything to him or let him take it by force. I couldn't risk the lives of the entire country to maintain some lofty principle of never bowing to terrorist pressure."
"So you gave him the Gate, and all of our alien technology, all of our files and gate addresses?" Daniel adds, leaning towards him, eyes blazing, hair unkempt, arms gesturing wildly . "You handed a madman the keys to the universe."
"Not to mention Teal'c and Cassandra Fraiser," I continue.
Throughout our confrontation with the POTUS, George remains silent, allowing us to trade volleys back and forth. Like always, he's in his dress blues and looks alert, like a bald bulldog ready to pounce. Despite his short and stocky stature, he always had a proud presence. It was this dignified courage that enabled him to run the program so smoothly. Recent events have taken their toll; lines on his face seem more pronounced and he appears…. short.
When President Jance suffered a fatal heart attack nearly a year ago, Ethan Carver—your typical politician, schmarmy, Harvard-educated, better at making pancakes and kissing babies than actually doing something useful—gained control of the west wing. Jance had been Hammond's closest ally, but Carver was far less magnanimous with the general. He never approved of the Stargate Program, and his first act of office was to severely curb our activities. When, in March, Aliki announced he knew of the Gate and demanded control of the entire program, Carver was more than willing to comply. Hammond had tried to talk some sense into him, but Carver was adamant: the Stargate had nearly led us to death a thousand times before, and it was doing it again. This time, we could easily pacify the threat.
"About Teal'c and Cassandra Fraiser… you know we tried our best not to give into that demand."
Once Washington had turned over the Stargate to Aliki, they signed a treaty saying there would be no further hostilities as long as Aliki possessed all "artifacts, information, and technology gained from or directly related to the Stargate Program." Once he found out, however, that two aliens were living in the United States, he demanded they be delivered to him. In a surprising display of backbone, Washington refused. The two countries argued for a while until Aliki decided to state who was really in charge of the situation. His already bloated Iran, having recently overtaken nearby Iraq and Syria, bombed a US army base in Saudi Arabia. The point was made, and Cassie and Teal'c were ordered to be extradited to Iran.
"Of course, you made it a lot harder on yourselves," Carver remarked thoughtfully.
"You didn't really think that we were just going to let you have them, did you?"
"Cassandra made an admirable attempt to escape into South America, but we caught her in Belize. She also did a good job of hiding your involvement in it."
That had been in July. We hadn't heard from her since.
"You have no evidence to prove that," barked Hammond.
"No, of course not; if we did, you would all be in prison." Carver smirks, and I resist the urge to shove his head further up his ass. "Of course, the last time we saw Teal'c we were chasing him through a high-security complex. The building he was in exploded. No one could have survived that. Aliki wasn't too happy to hear that he had died."
"What high-security facility was this?" Hammond asks for the gazillionth time. Details on Teal'c's demise were few: he had successfully been on the lam for a few months, fueled by credit cards and forged ID papers, when, for some reason, the dénouement of his journey came at some top-secret military base. Everyone refused to tell us where or why, despite our best efforts.
Carver smiles again, displaying two rows of too-sparkly, too-white teeth. I glance around at his entourage, wondering how they could survive being around the man 24/7. "Classified."
"Mr. President, I'm assuming you didn't ask us to be here to have this lively little debate," Daniel says.
For the first time that day, Carver looses his self-satisfied aura and gains one of grave reflection. "I've come here, quite reluctantly, for your help. Trust me, Colonel O'Neill and Dr. Jackson, when I say that this truly is a last resort. I ask that you at least hear me out; not for my sake, but for everyone else on the planet.
"As you know, Aliki seized control of Iran in a military coup about 18 months ago. To be quite honest, at first we thought he was just another insane Islamic fundamentalist dictator to add to our list of thorns in our side. Then he told the state department that he knew of the Stargate's existence; naturally, we said we had no idea what he was talking about, hoping he wouldn't call our bluff. The rest is history: he announced to the international community at the United Nations that we had been concealing the existence of aliens from them for years. Outrage followed.
"At the same time, our operatives inside Iran learned that Aliki had somehow developed new weapons technology that was vastly beyond our own capabilities. We had no idea how they got these missiles—we only knew that they could quickly overcome ours. Iran was our own Gould, except more powerful and right next door. We knew that in the case of war, we would lose.
"Iran knew this too, so we acquiesced to all their demands: the Gate, Teal'c and Cassandra Fraiser, evacuating all of our foreign military bases, practically handing over Turkey, Azerbaijan, and Armenia to them. They asked and asked and we gave and gave until we couldn't give them what they wanted."
"That brings us to today…" Daniel whispers absently. The entire room is subdued into deep though. Nothing stirs.
"Yes. As you all know, for a few months there was a slight détente between us and Iran. They had everything they demanded, and we weren't yet engaged in a full out war. Then last week Aliki called me directly and issued his final request."
It had come at this year's Air Force Christmas Ball, the first one without Carter. Although it was held to try to normalize the tense situation and instill some shred of holiday cheer in a weary military population, it still felt awkward and strained. We had been there when the call came. Aliki wanted something else, something we couldn't deliver. Daniel and I had rushed back to Cheyenne Mountain. Although we had nothing to do—what's an SG team to do with no Stargate?—we remained on base as the crisis intensified. Daniel is still wearing his suit, with his pilfered bottle of Schnapps tucked neatly inside his jacket.
"Despite our protestations that Major Carter had mysteriously disappeared a year ago, Aliki demanded her presence, belligerently saying that she was here on earth."
"But she's not!" exclaims Daniel. "She… vanished last year. No one knows what happened to her."
"I know that, but Aliki didn't believe me. He threatened to bomb us; we begged him not to. Our intel indicates that he intends to launch an offensive against us possibly tomorrow. There seemed no hope for the situation when, this morning, the White House switchboard received a call in ancient Gould. We need you to translate it, Dr. Jackson. We can't get a hold of any of the other archaeologists from the SGC."
"Sure," agrees Daniel, his contempt for Carver giving way to scholarly interest. One of the president's aids hands him a cassette player. Daniel presses play and we all listen to the choppy barks of Gould. Then he plays it again, and begins to translate.
Daniel Jackson and Jack O'Neill must be at the following coordinates at 2200 hours Mountain Time December 23. Use the tempus flectere only as needed. Compliance with these instructions is imperative. Not complying will aid Aliki and result in the death of Major Carter. 77 degrees 51 minutes S, 166 degrees 45 minutes E.
Silence occupies the room. I try to stifle the thoughts boiling in my head. She's alive, she's alive, she's alive… I don't let myself even being to hope.
"What is this tempus flectere?" Hammond asks.
"And how does this caller expect us to travel through time?" adds Carver.
"Roughly translated, tempus flectere means to "twist time" in Latin. And I have no idea, although we have done it before," Daniel replies.
"This tempus flectere—its an artifact. A few archaeologists found it several months ago at a dig Area 51 bought it off of them, as it was very similar to a project they were working on.," says one of Carver's faceless aids.
"Where was this dig?" demands Daniel.
"What kind of project?" I ask.
"Classified."
"But you have it?" Daniel says.
"Yes. Its at Area 51."
"Airman, find out where those coordinates are located," Hammond orders the SF stationed at the briefing room door.
"What did your scientists discover about this artifact?"
"Nothing, other than it has a vague Latin inscription on it: Quiamque tenet tempum tenet orbis terrarum."
"Whoever controls time controls the whole world…" Daniel's voice fades dramatically into a meager whisper.
"Sir,"
reports the SF, "those coordinates are right next to the McMurdo
research station in Antarctica."
"McMurdo? Antarctica? We've
been there before." I can't help but exclaim.
"Seems like an awfully big coincidence," murmurs Daniel.
"So Mr. President, what would you like us to do?" Hammond is weary. It echoes in his flat tone. He has almost surrendered to the deep night. Almost.
"I want you two to meet with whoever this is, see what they know, see if you can find Major Carter."
"Of course, that would require going back in time." Hammond protests.
"Sir, the inscription on the artifact at Area 51 leads me to believe that it might have something to do with time travel. If we could harness its power—"
I'm sick of the enthusiasm in Daniel's voice. "Carver, do you seriously expect me to go on some wild goose chase to find a member of my team only to turn her over to you so you could trade her to Aliki?"
"Colonel, I understand you're still upset that I wouldn't allow you to conduct an intensive search for Major Carter after her disappearance last year, but we both know there's more at stake here than your pride."
"Jack," Daniel mumbles, "this could be our only chance to find Sam. If we can—"
"I
know, Daniel, I know."
"Not to mention the message said that
if we did not comply we would be aiding Aliki…" Hammond offers.
A thousand thoughts trample one another as they race through my mind. The alternative is to wait around in this dismal concrete bunker, expecting the wild heat and insidious aftershock of a nuclear attack. You're safer here then anywhere else, O'Neill… then I think of her, alive, waiting for our help. I think of Teal'c, who died for his freedom. Cassie, a child betrayed by the world she sought refuge in. Hammond, who broke so many rules to give us the chance to explore through the Gate. And me, who had the misery of watching everything he loved, collapse.
"Fine, we'll do it Carver. But know that you've brought this upon yourself."
"Your objections have been noted Colonel."
"And I'm not doing this for you. Its not my job to fix your mistakes. I'm doing this for my team. They shouldn't have to suffer because of you. And if somehow we survive the attack tomorrow, I intend to make sure that your name goes down in the history books as the bastard who almost led us to nuclear war."
Carver's smug smirk returns. "And you're gonna go down as the valiant hero who saved us all."
"No, I don't want any of that. I just want to save my team and live freely without paying for your politics."
Hammond surveys us—a look of admiration, of regret, of goodbye. "I'll arrange for your transportation to Area 51 immediately. Good luck gentlemen. Get packing."
Whew, tired now. So there it is. Give reviews and I'll give more chapters.