Chapter Twenty-Nine
He could feel the difference through the deck plates and the thick worn soles of his combat boots. It was the feeling you had when you sat at the light, foot massaging the gas pedal, listening to the engine's purr ratchet up into a growl as your hand twitched on the gear shift, eyes glued to the lowest lamp on the traffic light to catch the tiniest flicker of green. Mitchell wasn't surprised that it took him this way – after all the jets, all the flight experience he'd had in the Air Force before he'd even heard of something called a Stargate, and all the strange ships he'd been on since then, the best comparison he could come up with was the memory of the full-body vibration he'd feel sitting behind the wheel of his dad's T-bird. Maybe it was the sensation of reserved power, of the knowledge of what the engines could do when you finally let them loose. Maybe it was the anticipation, or the way the licking he was gonna get for taking the car when he got home just sort of hovered there in the back of his mind. No, he shook himself mentally. This time it was the gut-clenching fear about whether or not this particular mission was going to end up with SG-1 losing far more than they found.
The frustration ate at him. He was so damn tired of being caught wrong-footed, of missions blowing up in his face, of losing good men and women. Within the past few months they'd seen more casualties than during some of the heaviest Goa'uld fighting during the previous nine years – the sheer destruction the Ori so casually handed out when they slid through the Super Gate was still etched into his mind's eye, as were the bloody faces of the dead. And it never let up. With one hand whatever powers still watching over them gave them back Vala, gave them tantalizing hints about an Ancient weapon that would protect them from their foes, and handed them a jaw-dropping victory over an Ori and Wraith ship, and with the other it led good men to their deaths in an unending sleep, erased Vala's memories, and wiped out the heart and soul of the Jaffa nation. This galactic chase after Ancient hints and portents made his fingers itch with the need to shoot something, to bring some of the Ori's devastation back to them with a vengeance, but no matter how they searched, no matter how much blood, sweat, and tears Jackson put into it, they just couldn't win. And now this. Another wrong move, another time they blasted off with guns blazing in exactly the wrong direction. God, he how he longed for a simple target.
"You sure you want to have this discussion here, Colonel?" Emerson's voice pulled him from his thoughts and Cam raised his head to focus on the Odyssey's commander, sitting stiffly in the big chair on the bridge of his vessel as he stared at the young leader of SG-1. Without moving his gaze Mitchell knew that Marks was frowning, mouth open slightly in shock at the latest command, willing to take the risk of a little non-verbal questioning of the orders of a superior officer because of his long history with this program, a risk that the other bridge crew didn't adopt as they kept their heads down, eyes on their instruments. Unfortunately, Marks' commanding officer felt no such hesitation in voicing his doubts.
"This isn't a discussion, Colonel," Mitchell stated simply, knowing that his silver oak leaves were no match for Emerson's birds in most situations, but that his role as leader of Earth's flagship team trumped rank this time. And after the revelations in the science lab during the past few hours he just didn't have the tact or patience left to convince the Odyssey's commander of anything. No. No more discussions, no more explanations. There was a time for briefings and conferences, but this was not one of them. SG-1 had made its decision. It was time for Emerson, Marks, and the rest of the crew to deal with it.
Cam stood, hands safely tucked into his pants pockets with his back to the viewscreen. Both Teal'c and Sam had offered to come with him – for very different reasons. Sam wanted to explain, to show Emerson the energy readings, the chemical analyses that had connected all the dots for the brilliant scientist and set them on this course – a course at definite right angles to military logic. She hadn't even begun to look at the data collected on the Jaffa world until they'd already traveled hours too far in the wrong direction and she wanted – needed – to do the whole science song and dance for the waiting audience on the bridge. It's what she did. And the funny thing was he knew Emerson would buy it. This squint-eyed who's-in-charge-here standoff wouldn't be happening if he let her haul her laptop up here and make like a professor. But what Mitchell didn't need right now was a dry, analytical evaluation of pros and cons, even less than he wanted reminding of his own less than awe-inspiring stature among the other commanders of the SGC. It wasn't just the ship's vibrations getting to him, shuddering through his bones, shooting his adrenaline levels through the roof. A good commander could feel when a mission was reaching the do or die stage, when all of the options were gone and you went with your gut. The brainpower he had access to within SG-1 was the best in the world, but right now it was gut-time.
He didn't let Teal'c come along for reasons that were much more personal. Muscle. Cam didn't want the crew of the Odyssey to think he needed some large Jaffa muscle to back his play with their commander. Teal'c was daunting when he didn't take it upon himself to loom threateningly; that eyebrow clearly communicated his willingness to disembowel the hopeless officer who even considered arguing with him or his. Yeah, his. When 250+ pounds of alien warrior was in the room, the whole chain of command thing pretty much unraveled, closed its eyes, and huddled on the floor.
No. No looming, no technical lecture. It was time for command, for action. Thank God. And since this mission was all about getting Jackson – a member of SG-1 – his team – out of the hands of one of the last remaining galactic bad-asses, that command decision was Mitchell's. Emerson wasn't a bad guy. He'd never questioned Mitchell's command before, not even in the aftermath of the Ori invasion when the team had been adamant about Jackson's survival although the only thing left of the Korolev had been fragments floating in space. And Cam knew that the bird colonel wasn't really questioning it now – he'd come around, he'd become convinced. Mitchell was just not of a mind to slow down and offer that explanation. Not now.
"Colonel, we don't have time for this. Adjust your course accordingly. When we make contact with the SGC I'll be glad to explain my decision to General Landry and yourself. But every minute we waste standing here bumping dog-tags is one we won't have on the other end." All of the tension that had been building up since he found out that Vala and Jackson were overdue with their check-in was about ready to come pouring out all over Emerson, Marks, and anyone else who just happened to be standing between him and getting Jackson back before it was too late. He waited, hoping the colonel would back down and acknowledge that Mitchell might know what he was doing with over a year of SG-1 leadership behind him. The ice in Emerson's eyes told him, at this rate, he'd be waiting until there was a curling tournament in that hot place reserved for bad little airmen before there was any kind of slack given here.
Okay – not going to just take my word for it. I'm not Jack O'Neill. But it would be O'Neill who would happily fry Mitchell's ass if Jackson came back from this mission with another set of nightmares piling up behind those blue eyes. If he came back.He braced himself. "Look, SG-1 believes that this is the best plan, that changing course now will get us to Jackson that much sooner." Sooner, but still probably not soon enough. Losing Jackson in any way was not an option, and if the price of getting to him before Ba'al and the sarcophagus robbed him of his soul was Mitchell's pride, then so be it. "You want to talk to Colonel Carter and the others? Hash this over good, decide whether or not to go along?" He nodded his head. "I can live with that." The steel crept into his voice and he knew that the heat of his glance could scorch flesh. "But Jackson can't." He pointed one finger at the deck. "And I'm telling you as the leader of SG-1, to turn this ship the hell around. Now."
Mitchell saw the blood leave Marks' face as he lowered his eyes and concentrated pointedly on his instruments. Colonel Paul Emerson leaned forward, one elbow resting on his knee, chin in his hand. The silence drew out too long, but the rising warmth in the officer's glance told Mitchell that Emerson understood – he could feel it, too. This was what hope felt like: the sudden clench of muscles, the feel of the blood flowing through your veins, like the pressure that ramped up to power a runner's last minute surge to victory. With absolutely no earthly, logical reason to hang this sudden optimism on, Emerson was with him. Cam couldn't help a twitch of his lips at the colonel's restraint as he casually turned to his right to give the order.
"Enter the new heading Mr. Marks. Take us back to the Jaffa planet with all possible speed."
"Yes, sir."
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
"An advisor to the mighty and a prophet of great worth and power, Myrddin lived long and his influence swept across the entire land. Kings pursued his wisdom, meddlers in secret arts his learning, and those who claimed Myrddin as friend and fellow knew the respect and reverence of their allies as well as the fear and dread of their enemies. Bard, lawgiver, worker of magic, Myrddin knew the hearts of men and possessed the knowledge of the celestial spheres.
"At such a time as this, when the people clung to the fraying peace of the land among jealous warlords and petty princes, Myrddin made his home in Dyved, living openly, sharing his gifts with those who sought his presence. But as those who studied the lines of force of the earth or the moving of planets among the stars could foretell bad crops or a killing frost, the ones who watched the sage saw his unease and were troubled. And as the seasons turned, man's peace was broken, and Peredur, King of the Venedotians, pleaded for the wise man's help.
"His enemy, Guernolus of Gwendoleu, gathered against him with strength of arms and stealth and cunning, slaughtering the humble people of the land who stood between him and his bloody ambition. The land itself groaned in horror at their violence and betrayal and Peredur knelt in the dust before the wise man and pled for Myrddin's counsel, for a way to end the bloodshed.
"The face of the prophet was as stone as he listened to the pleas of the once proud King, and bent his hearing to the outcry of the people and the weeping of nature around him. 'There must be an end,' he whispered, he who had seen no such end to wars and strife within his long lifetime. Myrddin swept away to his secret place within the wood and Peredur lamented, clasping himself to the earth and shedding great tears of grief. But, in an instant, the prophet returned with his tools and devices, and helping the King to rise, bade him lead the sage to battle once again.
"The armies met, savage and unrestrained even under the guiding hand of the scholar. Rydderch of Cymru agreed to join his forces to those of Peredur in deference to his brother-in-law, Myrddin, and met them in the field. At the Battle of Arfderydd the land grew black beneath the burning sky, and the cries of the wounded and dying smote the heart of the prophet even as his own plots and devices brought death to the invaders. When his eyes fell on the now sightless eyes of the three young brothers of Peredur lying as carrion beneath the beaks of the crows he railed against the very heavens and called upon the powers of the air to aid him in his despair. With a whirlwind, the sage was taken up before the eyes of friend and foe alike and, in a flash, he was gone.
"Time passed and many forgot the wisdom and generosity of Myrddin, but word came to Rydderch through Morgan Le Fay that the sage was not lost, but wandered instead among the wilds where he might find peace once again. In simplicity he drifted in the lost places, far from the battles and struggles that ate at his soul, cared for by nature herself as he sought release from his burdens of guilt. And the kings of the land grew hopeful that the wisest of them all would one day return to lead them away from violence and into a peaceful future.
"But even as the sage wandered, his mind free from conflict and toil, his heart was turned again and again to those he had left behind. The powers of nature soothed his restless spirit, bringing balm to comfort the raging passions within the great man and drawing him at last to Islands of Fortune where all was in readiness to receive him. Only there might he lay down his labors and rest. And for a time, he was content.
"Myrddin knew in the hollow of his bones that the lives of men prospered not in his absence, that death stalked the land which had become his home, and he lamented his helplessness to bring them aid, but a great lassitude of mind and body stilled even his powerful essence, and he wandered, dim and distant, among the foreign worlds that had been prepared for him. As the years passed he forgot himself and those who waited desperately for his return, until one day, at last, the falling of a fiery leaf caught up in a sudden windstorm caught at his sight and, laughing wildly, he was reminded of the great forests of Dyved where he had dwelt so happily as advisor to kings and peasants both.
"At once his heart quailed within him and he raised his eyes to the heavens. 'What have you done?' Myrddin cried, sickened by his betrayal of his adopted home and how he had so easily cast them off to the tender mercies of great evil. 'I must return, I must give them the tools that I have crafted to ease their way and find their future.' But the wind replied, 'No. You have done enough. Rest.' But Myrddin would not rest and made to leave the sanctuary in which he had been trapped, struggling against the very peace that he hoped to bring to those who awaited him. His wildness returned and the firmness of his resolve did rise to inflame his spirit.
"Those powers which had answered his tormented cries at the Battle of Arfderydd, which had prepared a place of serenity to comfort his battered spirit, held him close and drew him once again to springs of peace to free his mind from worry. At his refusal to partake of the healing waters Morgan Le Fay appeared before his eyes, her face stern and baleful. Her beauty split the skies with light but he did not tremble, knowing himself to be her equal. She did warn the sage that there could be no healing to the land as long as Myrddin dwelt therein and shared his wisdom with the one side or the other – that his heart for the people would lead only to more violence and death. And Myrddin wept at her words.
"Raising his eyes to the skies he surrendered up his instruments and devices, his contrivances and tools, his wisdom and foreknowledge, and laid his future in her hands. Morgan buried the vehicles of Myrddin's perception beneath the peaceful Spring of Barenton and placed her hand upon his heart in blessing. The gentleness of her gesture touched the sage's spirit and he looked upon her for one last time. 'Rest, Myrddin,' she murmured as the stillness of the waters crept over his limbs. 'All is not lost. Thy time shall come once again when one is found…'"
"'…when one is found…' Surely the story does not end there, Daniel."
Daniel Jackson reached out to grasp the goblet that sat at the edge of his work table, wincing at the tremors that made the water shake and splash, sending drops to shower the papers beneath. Another hand curled around his, steadying him, and he raised his eyes to the bent head of Ba'al's First Prime where he stood at his side, the bright light of triumph in his dark eyes. Daniel forced himself to stillness, his own gaze steadier than his hands, until the Jaffa released him and let him bring the cool liquid to his dry mouth. No. The story didn't end there, but storytime was over – he couldn't, he wouldn't say those words. He drained the goblet and set it back in its place before turning to face the knowing smile on the thin figure behind him.
"The story goes on, but you already know the relevant parts." He tried to keep his focus on Ba'al's face, but it was difficult. The Goa'uld had taken to standing behind him as he worked, leaning his elbows casually on the lid of the sarcophagus as if it were just another piece of furniture. The thing haunted Daniel's thoughts, awake or asleep, and even though Ba'al never once suggested he return to it, the hunger for its effects burned along his nerves. He could taste the yearning in the back of his throat and closed his eyes to savor it for just a moment. His chest rose and fell quickly and he opened his mouth, stuttering in his haste to concentrate on anything but his need. "It - It's a version of the 'Wild Man of the Woods' story that is found in Geoffrey's Vita Merlini, or Life of Merlin written in the 10th century." He licked at the last of the moisture that remained on his lips only to find the refilled goblet thrust before his face again. His eyes shifted for an instant to the disgustingly devoted First Prime that shadowed his each and every movement aboard the Goa'uld ship. Two days with Thellesan acting as his shadow. Or was it three? Damn. He'd lost track again.
He drank. What had he been saying? Oh, right. "It's the story of Merlin's involvement in one of the "Futile Battles" and his descent into madness at the carnage. Studies of the myths surrounding Merlin have turned up tales from this period when Merlin lived either in an untamed forest or with Morgan Le Fay and her husband, where he seemed to surface into sanity at times, only to prophesy some future horror that sent him back to madness. The legend says he was eventually healed at the Spring of Barenton, and actually used that same blessed water later to heal another madman, Maeldin. After this healing Merlin supposedly gave up his mantle of prophecy to Morgan and retired." He frowned down at the empty glass in his hand for a moment, a feeling of dread curling through his stomach. Raising his eyes to Ba'al's again he saw the amusement there and felt his mouth tighten. "But I've already told you all this, haven't I?"
The Goa'uld's laughter would have brought him off his chair in reaction, but two large hands on his shoulders held him in place and Daniel slumped back as he realized that this little scene had played itself out before as well. Weariness settled over him and he let the goblet fall from numb fingers to smash against the metal decking. He watched the splinters of glass explode, some catching against the thick material of his pants, some raining coldly against his bare feet. He tilted his chin in curiosity and lifted his right foot before slamming it down quickly on the razor-sharp fragments, grinding his heel into the shrapnel until he felt the pain burn away his confusion as the deep red of his blood spread into a pool at his feet.
With a stifled Goa'uld curse, Ba'al shot up, all humor gone from a face twisted in anger. "Stop it!" he barked, but it was Daniel's turn to laugh. The hands on his shoulders swept his chair backwards away from the tantalizing shards and Thellesan knelt, gripping his ankle tightly in both hands before Daniel could ram his heel against the deck again to grind the fragments further into his flesh. He let his head fall back as he savored the insistent throbbing that was laced with an intermittent brighter pain as the Jaffa pulled pieces of glass from the sensitive pad of his foot. He'd already explained the translation of the Ancient text he'd found on Bren-Nek-Mok and Daniel abruptly knew that he'd been free with enough other information to send the Goa'uld's ha'tak off in the right direction to follow Merlin's centuries old trail. Somewhere in the distance he heard Ba'al send one of his guards off for the hand-held healing device and he closed his eyes to try to keep a hold on his thoughts for just a little longer.
He had been in the sarcophagus again – remembered opening his eyes to see Thellesan's feral grin more than once. The anger that simmered just beneath the surface flared and then, just as quickly, fell away, leaving him with a familiar feeling of emptiness. It was fine. It didn't matter. He just had to find the weapon. That much he remembered. He had to make it right, make the words true, fix it, fix himself. Suddenly there were tears in his eyes and he blinked rapidly, shame heating his cheeks, and he threw his arms over his face refusing to let them see him this way. He clenched his teeth against the sobs that threatened to loose themselves from his throat. No. No.
Daniel returned to awareness as the tell-tale tingling in his foot began and the beloved pain started to recede. Dammit. He needed the pain to focus. He sat up and tried to drag his leg from the Jaffa's tight grip, but Thellesan merely looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and locked one hand around his ankle while placing the other palm stiffly on Daniel's thigh to press his leg into the seat beneath him. Daniel felt his lips stretch across his teeth and levered his left foot to rest against the First Prime's chest where he squatted awkwardly before him. Ba'al was focused on steadying the healing device over Daniel's self-inflicted injuries, one hand red with his blood where he held onto the archaeologist's foot. He tensed his muscles to begin to push.
"I would not." Thellesan's voice breathed a warning and Daniel hesitated, his eyes narrowing.
"Then get your hands the hell off of me," he snarled back.
The Jaffa slowly raised both eyebrows and relaxed the hand against Daniel's thigh, letting it rest there for a moment, searing his skin through the soft material of his black pants before snatching it out of the way. "Of course," he murmured.
The glow of the healing device vanished and Ba'al sat back on his haunches allowing Daniel's foot to fall to the floor. He shook his head from side to side as he caught the human's eye. "Now look at the mess you've made, Daniel," he sighed. "Perhaps we should all take a break before we arrive." The Goa'uld let his gaze flick between the Taur'i and the Jaffa as he drew the device from his hand. "A bath, a hot meal, and a change of clothes should help you put everything into its proper perspective, my dear scholar." Ba'al smirked. "You needn't remind me how excited you are anticipating the retrieval of Merlin's weapon, or what lengths you'd go to in order to acquire it. I can honestly say that I cannot wait to see you follow through on those single-minded desires we've spoken about during the past few days. We've only a few hours left to wait." He rose to his feet and held out one hand as if to help the human up. "I'll just let Thellesan accompany you to your quarters and make sure you have everything you need, shall I?"
Ignoring the gesture, Daniel placed both feet flat on the floor and pushed himself up, disappointed to feel that no pain remained. "Keep your damned Jaffa," Daniel spit, "I can find my own way." He took a few steps towards the door but paused, turning. "I'll find it," he stated coldly, his voice teetering between determination and hysteria, and Ba'al had no difficulty keeping up with the rapid change of subject. "I have to find it." Daniel stumbled into the corridor, trailing the arrogant First Prime in his wake.
"Oh, I know you do," Ba'al replied to the empty air.
