(I've got one but you're not gonna like it! It'll take us to 1929!)

(Well, we don't have much of a choice, do we? Just do it and get over here, Sam!)

That was when Sam died. Jackson was already dead.

(Teal'c! Cover me!)

It was awkward; his arrival through the Stargate scared the crap out of some bedouins camped near Dr. Langford's archaeological dig but he's just glad the solar flare sent him to the Egyptian gate rather than the Antarctic gate. Worse, he could've arrived a few days ago, before they'd dug up the one in Egypt. That would've been a fast end to the mission.

His name is Lt. Colonel Cameron Mitchell, formerly the leader of Stargate Command's team SG-1. His mission is to lie low for the next ten years and intercept the Goa'uld System Lord Ba'al before Ba'al destroys history as Mitchell remembers it. By the time he makes his way from Africa to Newfoundland to Boston, the Great Depression is full on and Mitchell blends in easily with the great unwashed masses.

He considers trying to earn a berth on the Achilles as soon as he arrives, but Sam was right - Cameron is a real life grandfather paradox waiting to happen. His grandfather is captain of the Achilles.

For income, he works around the harbor when anybody's hiring, otherwise he takes odd jobs in the city for room and board. One day, as he's cleaning the floors in a soup kitchen, a society lady enters.

"Good day, ma'am," he greets her cheerfully. Something about her seems vaguely familiar. "Father O'Brien is in the back. If you like, I can tell him you're here."

With a twinkle in her eye, she dismisses his offer, strolling past him. "Actually, I'm here to see you, Mr. Kirk."

"Excuse me? I'm sorry, ma'am, I believe you have me confused with someone else."

"Do I?" she turns back toward him gracefully. "Tell me then, what is your name, sir?"

"Cameron." She cocks her head waiting. He adds, "Shafton. Cameron Shafton."

Slowly, langorously, she repeats it, "Cameron Shafton. Interesting. Did you know that the thirteenth century artisan Al-Jazari used camshafts in the engineering of his water clocks?"

He laughs politely. "No, I did not. That's very interesting."

She winks, "Maybe you can win a bar bet with that sometime."

Mindful that Prohibition has only been abolished a few years, he answers, "I'm not much for drink, ma'am."

"Not even a beer? Oh, and I was so hoping you'd join me for one."

He indicates the mop and his own attire, "That's a kindly offer, Miss...?"

She extends a gloved hand, "Evans."

"Miss Evans," he wipes his hand on his dungarees before taking her hand with a slight bow, "but a fellow like myself is surely no company for a fine lady such as yourself."

"Why you flatter me, Mr. Shafton. I can't fathom why you would prefer to sit through a preacher's evening fire-and-brimstone sermon eating cold beans again rather than having a hot meal, perhaps a glass of port by a warm fire, enjoying witty repartee about...clocks. And the future."

"The future?" He puts on a puzzled expression. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Miss Evans, and I really should..."

"Call me Ville, please. I'm talking about your future, Mr. Shafton. I'm talking about a job more suitable for someone with your talents."

"A job?" He ponders where he knows that name from. "What sort of job?"

She raps her handbag against his chest, "That's the spirit. I'll send a car for you 'round about 6 o'clock. See you then, Cameron." Approaching the door, she looks back at him, "I really am looking forward to it."

To himself, Mitchell mutters, "Now that is one weird chick."

When he asks Father O'Brien about the visitor, the priest crosses himself. "Aye, she's one of them Luna Foundation people."

"Luna Foundation?"

"Oh and sure they help with the poor and homeless but I don't hold with 'em. There's something just ain't roight about 'em."

Knowing he shouldn't get involved, Mitchell's curiosity gets the better of him. He racks his brain for every history course he's taken and book he's read. When it comes to history, he's very careful. Ville Evans - the name was itching in the back of his mind something awful.

The car is a 1923 Rolls-Royce Springfield Silver Ghost Oxford Tourer. Mitchell recognises the model from the Blackhawk Auto Museum in Danville, California where he saw it as a child. The driver takes him to a house on Louisburg Square in Beacon Hill ñ one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Boston.

"I am seriously underdressed," he murmurs to himself as the valet opened the car door.

"Welcome to the Luna Foundation, sir. Right this way." None of the servants give him a second look, as if people like him were chauffuered and welcomed here everyday. A maid shows him the way to the "salon" where a small group of people were gathered for pre-dinner cocktails.

"Cameron! I am delighted you could make time for me. Come, come!" She takes him around the room and introduces him to everyone. "And last, but certainly not least, this is Emory Witherspoon. Em is the Director of the Luna Foundation's Boston house."

Mitchell shakes the man's hand then liberates a glass from a tray of drinks presented by a serving maid. He listens to the socialite chatter and wonders what the hell he's doing here. The surroundings are embarrassingly lavish - antiques, art, even a suit of armour in the damn corner.

Dinner proves to be surprisingly informal - the men removed their jackets - and the talk more interesting, including some discussion of Dr. Langford's excavation in Cairo.

"Curious artifacts."

"A stone ring?"

"The Cairo House has yet to identify the type of stone used. It may even be some sort of metal."

"The fossils found underneath are most curious. Have you seen the photographs yet?"

Fortunately (or maybe not), the conversation moves into other equally odd topics - poltergeists, seances and demons. He thinks maybe Father O'Brien was right to shun these people.

After the coffee and cognac, Ville slips her arm though his and steers him into the hallway. "Emory has kindly donated his private office for our discussion."

"Discussion? Really?" He walks into the office - more like a study - while she locks the door. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Why, of course, sir." She seats herself, "I wouldn't dream of taking advantage of you, Colonel Mitchell."

He continues studying the momentos on the walls and the desk. "Sorry, what?" he asks as if he hasn't heard. "Oh," he chuckles, "I'm not in the Army, ma'am."

"Of course not. You're in a branch of service that won't be enacted by Congress until after the next war, say, another 10 to 15 years. And your last assignment, another fifty years after that. Am I right?" She waits patiently while he considers how best to deflect her.

"You really think there's gonna be a war? The Germans aren't just posturing?"

"Mitchell, you know what's about to happen. What are you doing here?" she persists.

He laughs in protest, "I think you must have me confused with a Captain Mitchell. People say we look a little bit alike."

She loses her patience with him and stands abruptly. "Mitchell, Cameron, Lt. Colonel, United States Air Force. Recruited for Stargate Command to test fly the prototype of the F302. Flew in the battle against Anubis over Antartica. Last assignment - SG-1. Just so you don't think I'm a flake, I served briefly with SG-1 under General Hammond's command and I know that he would never send SG-1 back in time unless it was damned important, son, so you tell me right now - what the hell are you doing in 1936?"

Mitchell remembers his academy days and what it felt like to be bawled out by his instructors. He resists the temptation to salute. Instead, he walks toward the window, thinking furiously.

"Sounds like a great script for one of them new moving pictures. This, ah, what did you call it, Stargate command? What did you say the leader's name was?"

"General George Hammond. He's from Texas."

He ventures, "I heard he retired."

"Then I guess Jack is in charge. He's crazy enough to try something like this. Or did he finally retire, too?"

He lowers his voice, putting steel into it, "Alright, who are you and how do you know what you know?"

Ville stares at him incredulously. Sighing, she says, "My code name is Ville. Have you never read the file, man?"

His expression turns to one of surprise. "I knew that name sounded familiar! Of course, I read all the mission files, as soon as they gave me command."

"You're leading SG-1?" she says doubtfully.

"Hey!"

"I meant, why not Sam?"

"She turned it down, went to Area 51." Then Mitchell hits a wall emotionally and backs away from her. "Sam is dead. Jackson is dead. Teal'c stayed behind to cover me; he's probably dead, too. I'm the only one who made it through."

Stunned Ville sits down again. "Oh, my god." She's been through one Daniel Jackson's death already. Gently, she presses him to answer her question, "What is the mission, Cameron? Why now?"

"The timeline's been altered. Unless I fix it, the Goa'uld are gonna arrive in about seventy years and Earth will have no defenses because in 1939, Ba'al is going to sink a ship, Achilles, transporting the Stargate from Egypt. Langford can't afford a recovery attempt. Roosevelt figures whatever it is, it's safer at the bottom of the Atlantic. He has other things on his mind."

"Ramping up production to take America into the war."

"In this timeline's future, the Air Force doesn't see any point to recovering the gate either until the 11th hour arrives. We put together a plan but it went south so we had to improvise. The closest Sam could get us...me...was 1929."

"I'm sorry, Cam." Ville closes her eyes and sends up an earnest prayer for his team - his Sam, Daniel & Teal'c. "You have no support or back-up. Even if you're successful, you'll still have a life in this timeline to live out."

"What're you talking about? Everything should go back to the way it was."

"If you're successful, yes, it will. But you, right here, right now, will still be living in your own past. You'll still be out of time. And still dangerous."

"I'll succeed. For Carter, Jackson, Teal'c, hell, even Valla."

"Who?"

"Never mind. It's a simple ambush and I have the element of surprise. As for history, I've been laying low since 1929. Don't worry about me."

She shakes her head. "Let me help you. The Luna Foundation is a front for a secret society. We can provide you with cover, take you out of mainstream society, minimise your impact on history."

"You want me to go ghostbusting with your friends out there?" he asks skeptically.

"We have resources, connections all over the world. We can make sure you get on Achilles when the time is right."

"This isn't my first covert mission," he says firmly. "I've spent the last seven years preparing for it. It'll go off. Trust me."

"It's not a matter of trust. What are you going to do after the mission?" She sounds as if she already knows what he's thinking.

"I'm still considering options," he answers evasively.

"I can't allow you to run free in history. For instance, joining an infantry outfit, getting youself killed in Europe? Your training itself is an anomaly. Suppose you save someone that was meant to die? Or kill someone who was supposed to survive to kill someone else? You'd endanger the timeline you're trying to fix."

He gripes, "Suppose I kill the butterfly that was going to flap its wings and cause the hurricane that destroyed Galveston?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Galveston has already happened."

"I know that," he snaps, "My point is, I'm already here and I plan to make as little difference as to be no difference at all in the grand scheme of things. Other than killing Ba'al and a few Jaffa and dumping their bodies in the icy North Atlantic." He walks to the door, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be going. Thanks for dinner."

"Mitchell." His shoulders sag heavily. She tells him, "When you need someone to talk to, you can find me here."

He stares at her a moment longer than he meant to. "Thanks."

The next time she sees him is four years later, early 1940, in Boston Harbor. Achilles was originally scheduled to arrive home two weeks ago. Instead she'd been diverted to the Naval shipyard in Norfolk.

Rumours were flying. The ship's appearance, finally, at the docks adds fuel to the flames; she has a huge steel patch welded in place with shiny new rivets on her starboard stern just above the waterline.

Each version of the Achilles story is sensationalised and championed by a different newspaper of the day : she'd been boarded by privateers; had hit an iceberg; been torpedoed by a German U-Boat. One paper, claiming to have an anonymous source amoung the crew, reports a witness to the events disappearing right off the ship. Another paper claims that according to its anonymous crew member, the Navy removed a certain cargo in Norfolk. Wild speculation about said cargo erupts.

Ville takes in his demeanor and appearance - the lines on his face, a well-worn pea coat, slightly fraying cable sweater and a light beard. Quietly she says, "You look tired." He merely nods and allows her to lead him to the car.

The car arrives back at the Boston House without its passengers.