TITLE: The End of Despair
AUTHOR: Flora
EMAIL: florastuart@yahoo.com, stt121us@yahoo.com
DATE: March 15, 2002
ARCHIVE: Will be archived at FanFiction.net,
Stargatefan.com, Heliopolis, anyone else just ask
CATEGORY: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
SPOILERS: Stargate the Movie, A Matter of Time, Solitudes
RATING: R for language, canon death of minor
character
SUMMARY:
"I won't be coming back.
There is a liberation in that thought, not hope
exactly. There is no hope left for me, not anymore.
More like a shadow of hope . . . or at least the end
of despair."
At the beginning of the movie, Jack is offered a way
to end his life with honor. What happens when he
changes his mind?
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the
property of Showtime/ Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret
Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written
this story for entertainment purposes only and no
money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright
infringement is intended. The original characters,
situations, and story are the property of the
author. Not to be archived without permission of the
author.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Part Four: of chickens, guns, and cigarette lighters. Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Constructive criticism eagerly accepted! J
"All right, Jackson, you're on."
He looked at me, blinked. "Me?"
Yeah. You. About time you showed us you're good for *something*, considering you can't make the Stargate work like you said you could. "You're the linguist. Try to talk to 'em."
He seemed to collect himself, gather his thoughts back from whatever faraway land they were currently wandering in, and took a step forward. I watched the natives, looking for any sign that they didn't like us, or were armed. Far as I could tell, they were digging, mining something, scattered piles of grayish rock standing out against the pale sand. So far they didn't seem hostile . . .
"Hi," Jackson started uncertainly, raising a hand and taking a few more steps toward one of the taller natives, a big, dark guy who just stared at him with no sign of comprehension.
*I* could've said *that*, commented the sarcastic voice in the back of my head.
Apparently the natives were a lot more impressed than I was. The big guy muttered something unintelligible-then yelled it out across the crowd that was gathering, still just as unintelligible, but suddenly they were dropping to the ground, falling to their knees and pressing their foreheads to the sand in a way that was uncomfortably similar to the way I remembered the Iraqis kneeling to pray.
Of course, it wasn't the same. This wasn't the Middle East, and unless I was going completely nuts these people couldn't be Muslims, and even if they were there was no way they'd be praying to Jackson. But it struck me all the same, uncanny and not at all welcome, so that for a minute I was seeing another group of worshippers on another world six years ago, and I could almost hear the call of the muezzin wavering in the heat. A high, eerie sound, one I always thought sounded more like a wail of despair than anything inspiring religious awe.
But every time they heard it they dropped just like these people were now, foreheads pressed to the ground, no matter what they were doing-eating, talking, saluting officers, kicking the shit out of me-they'd stop. For a little while. Five times a day, seven days a week, for four months. I had to shake my head to clear the sound from my mind, even though the only sound here and now was the wind.
Shove it, O'Neill, I ordered. Pull yourself together. No similarities here at all. I mean, come on, they're bowing to *Jackson*. How many Iraqis you know who'd be caught dead bowing to a guy like him?
I leaned toward him, without taking my eyes off the worshippers. "What the hell did you say to him?"
There's the clueless look again. "Nothing," he said.
Right. Okay, our linguist isn't going to be much help here. Maybe common sense will succeed where specialized knowledge failed. I lowered my gun, walking over to one of the kneeling natives.
He looked up at my footsteps, then lowered his head again, obviously scared. And I saw he was the same kid I'd seen through the binoculars, the kid who'd seen us first. I stood there, and after a minute he looked up again, very slowly.
And suddenly he wasn't an alien anymore, or a desert tribesman with an AK, or an Iraqi prison guard. I looked at him again and I wasn't seeing the dark hair, dark skin and eyes I remembered from hell in the Middle East. He was just a kid, maybe fourteen, and I was the alien. He was scared, and curious at the same time. Hell, I'd seen the same look in Charlie's eyes.
"Hey." I bent down, held his eyes, holding my hand out, palm open, in a universal gesture of peace and friendship. "Hey. It's okay," I told him, not really expecting him to understand me, but hoping the tone would be enough to reassure him I wasn't about to shoot him. He didn't seem convinced, just stared at my hand like he'd never seen anything like it. "It's okay, see?" I reached out, slowly clasped his hand, nodding. "It's okay."
We shook hands slowly like that, staring at each other, for a few seconds. Then without warning he tore his hand away with a cry, and took off running back toward the mine, shouting.
Shit. I stepped back, holding up my gun again, watching as he disappeared over a dune. Now is *not* the time, O'Neill. He's an unknown, who obviously doesn't trust you, and who's just run off presumably to get his friends. Who probably won't trust you any more than he does, and who may or may not be less scared and better armed.
Fortunately for all of us, the reinforcements turned out to be another one of those big animals, this one with some kind of carriage on top and a dignified old man in a funny headdress. Leader around here?
The worshippers all rose when he dismounted and came to greet Jackson, staying respectfully silent. He bowed and made some kind of speech which was undoubtedly very nice, but I couldn't understand a word and from the bemused expression on his face I guessed Jackson couldn't either.
If talking to them doesn't work, try chocolate? Hell, the local hairy animals seemed to like it . . .
I had no idea what "bunny way" meant, but it looked like the guy was happy so I wasn't going to complain. He gestured back toward the dunes behind him, looking at Jackson expectantly.
"He's inviting us to go with him," Jackson said.
Kawalsky's expression said he didn't exactly have absolute faith in Jackson's judgment. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because he's . . ." Jackson motioned with his arms just like the native guy had done, like it should be obvious. ". . . inviting us to go with him." A crowd was gathering now, murmurs spreading, but they didn't look hostile. Yet. I squinted in the direction the leader had pointed, but I couldn't see anything but sand and more sand. Jackson turned to me. "We were looking for signs of civilization, and obviously we've found it." He looked around at each of us, exasperated. "If you want me to get us home, this is our best shot."
Okay, he's got my attention.
"Colonel, he's right," Brown said. Kneeling on the ground, he was examining a pile of gray rocks. "This mineral they're mining-it's the same material as the Stargate."
A mineral not found on Earth . . . I looked at Jackson. So far he hadn't done anything on this trip I couldn't do, and I wasn't nearly as confident about getting the team home as he was. But we weren't going to get anywhere standing around here, and if there was even a chance I'd be able to send my men home safely, I'd take it.
"Kawalsky." I didn't turn, watched the horizon ahead. Coordinates marked on tablets, Jackson had said. He'd assumed they were here somewhere. The rest of us could only pray he knew what he was talking about. "Radio base camp, tell them to keep that area secured until we get back."
As an officer in the United States Air Force, I'd endured more than one diplomatic banquet over the years. But this one had to be the strangest of any ever inflicted on me.
And I'm not just talking about the aliens.
We walked for several hours, all the natives crowding around us, some of them reaching out to touch us, feeling the fabric of our uniforms and oohing and ahhing in soft voices. We came to what looked like nothing so much as the old Indian villages of the Southwest I'd seen in pictures, sand and mud buildings stacked on top of one another, and gates made of big logs standing open as we walked into a long hall hung with beads and animal skins. I looked around, trying to see if there was anything around here that might be Jackson's tablets, but I didn't see anything I recognized, and I probably wouldn't recognize what he needed if I saw it. That was his job.
So I let him watch for his "order of alignment", and went back to my own assignment. Which was assessing possible threats to Earth. Deciding if there was anything on this planet that would justify blowing up the Stargate. From what West had said, the Air Force didn't like the idea of the Stargate at all, and everybody at the Pentagon would much rather it be destroyed if there was the smallest hint of a threat to Earth. Better to be safe than sorry, he'd said. But the decision, in the end, would come down to me.
Of course, if I overreacted, there was no way I'd get accused of being paranoid, since I'd be dead anyway . . .
So far these people didn't seem to have much advanced technology. No weapons I'd seen, only transportation is by whatever those big smelly animals are that dragged Jackson here. Although I think you're *supposed* to ride on the back, not hang onto the harness and let it drag you. Though I could be wrong. Cultural differences and all that.
But then they were mining the same mineral that the Stargate was made of. Lots of it, too. A mineral used to make a piece of technology *way* more advanced than anything on Earth. There was obviously more to this culture than we'd seen so far, and much as I hated to admit it, Jackson was right. We needed to know more about these people.
"The eye of Ra." He was pointing at a big gold disc hanging from the ceiling, with a symbol like an eye carved in it. The natives were all bowing in its direction. "It's the Egyptian sun god," he explained. "They think he sent us here." His voice was puzzled, wondering. And suddenly I remembered where I saw that particular symbol before.
I reached out and held up the gold pendant he was wearing, the one Catherine Langford had worn when I first met her. "Yeah." And it all becomes clear. "Wonder what could've given them that idea."
A million years into the sky is Ra, sun god, sealed and buried for all time . . .
These people must have come from Earth, a long, long time ago. Which would explain why they'd copied the religion of ancient Egypt . . . about which I knew absolutely nothing, but then that was what Jackson was here for . . .
My radio was crackling, and I saw Brown was speaking into his. "Sir, I can't make this out . . ."
There was another squeal of static, what might have been a voice shouting, but I couldn't make out any words. It sounded like trouble.
"Ferretti, say again." I said it calmly, like if I could will the radio to be calm it might give me a clear transmission. No luck. Shit. I knew it was a bad idea to split up the team.
But there was no time to think about that now. There was a horn blowing somewhere, and they were all moving, herding us along with them, and the giant wooden doors to the compound were swinging shut.
And so we'd ended up sitting on the floor in a rough circle, as the natives brought out various dishes I wasn't sure I wanted to identify. Once it was obvious we weren't supposed to be the main course at this banquet or anything, I'd let myself relax, sort of. If Ferretti had any sense, he would've headed back for the pyramid before the sandstorm hit base camp. It wasn't that far.
But then, sandstorms can come on quickly, with little or no warning, from what I remembered from Iraq. And as far as I knew, Ferretti hadn't served in a desert before . . .
Give it a rest, O'Neill, I told myself. If you and Jackson don't find those tablets, you can't do anything for any of the team. Focus, dammit, focus on finding a way out of here.
Jackson was sitting there with a bemused look on his face, smiling and nodding at everybody, munching on something that looked like bread. Kawalsky and Brown sat stiffly, uncertain.
"Hey, Jackson." He looked over at Kawalsky. "I don't think we should eat any food here."
Jackson went right on munching. "I don't know, they might consider that an insult."
The place was large and open, with torches blazing from brackets in the walls. Over our heads, there were what looked like walkways made of logs, and curtains hanging from them. I wondered where they'd gotten the wood from. I hadn't seen any trees on this planet so far.
Somebody was bringing another dish over, setting it down between the old guy and Jackson and lifting the cloth to reveal . . . what looked like some kind of lizard, steam rising from the middle where it had been nearly cut in half.
Kawalsky's eyebrows went up as the old guy motioned to the platter. "Well, we don't want to offend them, now do we, Daniel?"
Jackson looked at him, then shrugged as he reached for the lizard, and pulled off a piece. Kawalsky and Brown were both watching with great interest as he chewed thoughtfully.
"Tastes like chicken," he said with a grin, looking around at us. "It's good." He turned to the old guy, who was watching expectantly. Jackson tapped a finger against his lips, then started flapping his arms and making chicken noises.
Okay. I'd been expected to do things I thought were pretty ridiculous at diplomatic events before, but this had to be the limit. These people had no idea what a chicken was, and it was obvious Jackson's attempt to-communicate?-wasn't accomplishing much, besides making the chief think we were not quite right in the head. Right now he was just nodding with an amused expression, not quite certain how to respond, but humoring this strange messenger from his god.
That was enough of that, I decided. Time to decide if there was any point in being here at all. "Jackson."
He looked up, and some of the impatience must have showed on my face, 'cause he stopped smiling.
"You said that was an Egyptian symbol." I jerked my head in the direction of the gold disk.
"Yes," he nodded. "The eye of Ra."
"So would it make sense that . . . if they know one Egyptian symbol . . ."
I watched as it clicked, and Jackson nodded slowly. "Yes." He got up. "Yes." Walking over to the chief, he knelt down in front of him and held out the pendant. It was about time, I thought. Now, if this guy actually knows Egyptian writing-but then how come he doesn't speak the language? I thought the mission reports said Jackson spoke ancient Egyptian-why anyone would spend so much time studying a language that had been dead even longer than Latin was beyond me, but that was a different story-but maybe this was a different dialect, and they used the same symbols. Or maybe they at least recognized enough of the symbols for Jackson to communicate what we needed to know. I didn't know anything about ancient languages, but as long as it got us to those tablets he needed, I wasn't gonna ask questions.
The old guy bowed and made some kind of sign with his hands as Jackson held out the pendant. Jackson waved his hands, then began to draw the same symbol in the sand at his feet.
Apparently this wasn't a good idea. The old guy looked agitated, rubbing out the lines with his foot, then jumping up and waving his arms, shouting. Jackson stood up, backed off, and the chief said something to the girl next to him and she ran out of the room.
Jackson looked at me. "It seems like writing is forbidden to them." He looked confused, curious, as he started back toward us.
He never made it. Halfway across the room, a group of old women converged on him, pulling at his arms and herding him toward the end of the hall. "They want me to go with them!" Ya think? Kawalsky was on his feet, and I was torn between not wanting be separated, and trying to be diplomatic. If it had been a bunch of armed men taking him away, that would've been different. But this . . . I wondered if there was a tactful way to say no, without speaking the language . . . "Should I stay?" he shouted, looking back over his shoulder at me. He didn't look scared, but then he probably wouldn't be scared even if they were armed and dangerous-looking. The idea that he might be in danger didn't seem to have occurred to him. "I'll go with them! I'll be fine . . ." His voice trailed off.
I motioned to Kawalsky to sit down. If Jackson wasn't back soon, we'd go looking for him, but for right now we'd already pissed off our hosts enough. I didn't like the situation, but I couldn't really think of an alternative. How much of a threat could a bunch of unarmed old women be? I had other things to worry about now.
It seems like writing is forbidden to them.
Yeah, I'd noticed that. The question was, forbidden by who? And why? And what happened to people who broke that rule?
It obviously wasn't the chief's rule, even though he seemed to be in charge of this particular compound. He hadn't looked angry, he'd looked-scared. Some kind of religious rule? Or was there another, higher leader on this planet? Someone who used the mineral these people mined? There were no traces of it here, but they were mining lots of it, and it had to go somewhere. Someone who didn't want these people to be educated. To keep them from wondering if they might be better off if they didn't have to work in the mines? To keep them from questioning his authority? I didn't like this situation. I didn't like it at all. If there was another, higher authority here, who'd found a reason to keep his people illiterate by force if necessary, he wasn't going to like strangers coming from another world, spreading new and maybe dangerous ideas.
We could be in deep shit here.
We had no idea what the political situation was on this planet, or anything at all about the natives except what we'd seen here. And we'd already broken one rule, and who knew what others we might run into? It would be too much to hope that this section of this planet was ruled by a humane and enlightened democracy, or that they would see my team as anything but alien invaders. The safest option for any ruler, most likely, would be to kill us all so we couldn't incite rebellion or bring our fellow aliens to threaten them.
We needed to find out what kind of society existed on this planet outside of this compound. Who they were, how they were governed, and what kind of technology they had. What they used the Stargate mineral for. And how they were likely to respond to the knowledge that another world existed on the other side of the Stargate.
I just might have found my reason to blow the warhead.
Jackson's been gone nearly two hours, now.
Brown said he saw him heading out the back of the hall with some girl, and I'm really hoping they're looking for the Stargate coordinates. 'Cause if not, we're going to have to have a serious discussion about priorities, here.
Not that Jackson really seems like the type to sneak off with a girl he barely knows and can't even communicate with for-other activities. And to be perfectly honest, I don't see him having much success if he tried. Although these people think he's a god . . .
When the feast was over, the chief led Brown and Kawalsky and me to a room off the main hall, with lots of bowing and hand gestures I didn't understand. Apparently we were supposed to sleep here tonight.
Not much by way of beds, but there were stone ledges along the walls to sit on, and folded blankets in a corner. Kawalsky and Brown were cleaning their weapons and checking their gear. I was bored, and worried, and at the moment I had nothing to do. Nothing to do but watch, and wait for Jackson to find whatever it was he was looking for.
I'll admit the man hadn't inspired me with a hell of a lot of confidence so far.
I sat down, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. When the flame appeared, there was a soft exclamation from the doorway, and I looked up to see that kid again. The one I'd scared before, when I tried to say hello. He was standing in the doorway, startled, probably wondering if now wasn't a good time to get the hell out of here.
"It's okay, it's just a lighter." He couldn't understand me, and in a place like this a shiny piece of metal that could catch fire like that probably looked like magic. I flipped it open, lit it, then shut it again. See? It's harmless.
He hesitated, then came a few steps into the room, watching me warily, but with a burning curiosity that was only too familiar. For some reason I couldn't explain, I tossed the lighter at him. He caught it, holding it up to his face with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open.
Yeah, amazing, isn't it? He looked at me.
"Go on," I said, miming flipping it open and lighting it. He stared at me, then looked at the lighter again, copying the motion very carefully. He jerked it away from his face when the flame ignited, staring at it, mesmerized. He said something, breathed one word, reverently.
"Yeah, it's pretty fabulous." I looked away, trying not to think how much the kid looked like Charlie. Give him lighter hair, blue eyes, make him a few years younger . . . that wide-eyed look was one that used to touch something deep inside me, something clean and innocent, the part of me that could share in my son's wonder at the world around us. A part of me that was all but dead, buried along with my family and my home and all the hope I'd ever had.
The kid wasn't Charlie, I reminded myself, as he reached out slowly for my pack of cigarettes. When I didn't move to stop him, he pulled one out of the box and studied it. Of course not. There was no way in hell I'd've sat here and taught my son how to smoke, even if he was as old as this kid. Sara would've had my head, if I'd even thought about it. I leaned back and shook the ash off my cigarette, the flicker of amusement dying quickly as the kid copied the motion exactly. Damn. Last thing I needed, this kid following me around, reminding me of everything I'd lost. I took a long drag, blew out the smoke slowly, couldn't help turning my head to watch him.
He brought the end close to the flame with an expression of infinite concentration. Images flashed in my mind, memories of happier times. Charlie learning to tie his shoes, his face focused just like this kid's was now. Standing with his feet apart, holding the bat over his shoulder, watching my arm as I drew back to throw the ball. The way his face split in that grin when I'd come home unexpected, unannounced, that Christmas Eve. Another time. Another life, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.
The kid leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, glancing at me with a faint smile, lounging artistically in the doorway. I couldn't bring myself to smile back.
He inhaled slowly, with that same intense concentration. Seconds passed, then he threw the cigarette on the ground, coughing, before rounding on me with an expression that needed no translation.
I'm guessing that's the local version of "Are you fucking nuts?!" I shook my head, crushing mine out and dropping it on the floor. "Yeah, you're right," I agreed. "It's pretty stupid."
There, I thought, now you probably just killed diplomatic relations. Nice move, O'Neill. The kid was holding out the lighter now.
I looked at it for a second. It's pretty stupid, I said again silently. Wasn't like I was going to be alive much longer to use the damn thing. I shook my head.
"Nah, keep it," I said. "It's yours."
He stared at me. I waved his hand away, and the confused look disappeared as his face lit up in this big grin. Like a little kid at Christmas. I sighed, turning away so he wouldn't see the look in my eyes.
I saw him come closer out of the corner of my eye, heard him murmur at something else amazing he'd found in the pile of my stuff lying next to me. Probably enough in my field pack to keep the kid amused for days-
"No!"
He jumped back a few feet, eyes wide and scared as I grabbed the MP-5 out of his hands. Dammit, he should be scared. It's not a *fucking* toy! He froze in the doorway for only a second, then turned and bolted like a deer.
"Dangerous!" Two steps brought me to the doorway, holding the gun over my head and shouting after him.
He didn't stop, didn't turn, wouldn't understand. Hell, Charlie spoke English and he didn't . . .
Kawalsky and Brown were looking at me, startled, and I ignored them. Jesus *Christ*. I sat down heavily, black metal suddenly cold as I laid the gun down next to me. Twenty years in the military, and the damn thing was practically an extension of my arm. So easy, it was so easy to forget how I'd been fascinated by that shape when I was younger, years before I'd ever seen what one could do to a human body. To this kid, my machine gun was like the damn lighter-oooh, look, here's a new toy, let's see what this one does! God . . .
I covered my eyes with one hand, shaking my head slowly, not caring for once what the other guys were thinking. Shit. Last thing I needed . . . How far away was this place from base camp and the Stargate? Damn, *there's* a thought I don't need right now. An MP-5 would look a lot like a cigarette lighter compared to what I'd got hidden in the basement of that pyramid. How far would the blast reach, when I set that thing off? I wasn't an expert on nukes, but I couldn't pretend a Mark III would just collapse the pyramid and leave the rest of the planet untouched. Here I was yelling at the kid for touching my gun, and all the while I was getting ready to blow a tactical nuclear warhead less than a few hours walk from here.
For some reason it was all so damn simple, sitting in West's office less than a week ago. Flick the little red switch, and everything will be over. No light at the end of the tunnel, not for me, but at least the tunnel had a fucking end at last. When did it all get so damn complicated?
AUTHOR: Flora
EMAIL: florastuart@yahoo.com, stt121us@yahoo.com
DATE: March 15, 2002
ARCHIVE: Will be archived at FanFiction.net,
Stargatefan.com, Heliopolis, anyone else just ask
CATEGORY: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
SPOILERS: Stargate the Movie, A Matter of Time, Solitudes
RATING: R for language, canon death of minor
character
SUMMARY:
"I won't be coming back.
There is a liberation in that thought, not hope
exactly. There is no hope left for me, not anymore.
More like a shadow of hope . . . or at least the end
of despair."
At the beginning of the movie, Jack is offered a way
to end his life with honor. What happens when he
changes his mind?
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the
property of Showtime/ Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret
Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written
this story for entertainment purposes only and no
money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright
infringement is intended. The original characters,
situations, and story are the property of the
author. Not to be archived without permission of the
author.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Part Four: of chickens, guns, and cigarette lighters. Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Constructive criticism eagerly accepted! J
"All right, Jackson, you're on."
He looked at me, blinked. "Me?"
Yeah. You. About time you showed us you're good for *something*, considering you can't make the Stargate work like you said you could. "You're the linguist. Try to talk to 'em."
He seemed to collect himself, gather his thoughts back from whatever faraway land they were currently wandering in, and took a step forward. I watched the natives, looking for any sign that they didn't like us, or were armed. Far as I could tell, they were digging, mining something, scattered piles of grayish rock standing out against the pale sand. So far they didn't seem hostile . . .
"Hi," Jackson started uncertainly, raising a hand and taking a few more steps toward one of the taller natives, a big, dark guy who just stared at him with no sign of comprehension.
*I* could've said *that*, commented the sarcastic voice in the back of my head.
Apparently the natives were a lot more impressed than I was. The big guy muttered something unintelligible-then yelled it out across the crowd that was gathering, still just as unintelligible, but suddenly they were dropping to the ground, falling to their knees and pressing their foreheads to the sand in a way that was uncomfortably similar to the way I remembered the Iraqis kneeling to pray.
Of course, it wasn't the same. This wasn't the Middle East, and unless I was going completely nuts these people couldn't be Muslims, and even if they were there was no way they'd be praying to Jackson. But it struck me all the same, uncanny and not at all welcome, so that for a minute I was seeing another group of worshippers on another world six years ago, and I could almost hear the call of the muezzin wavering in the heat. A high, eerie sound, one I always thought sounded more like a wail of despair than anything inspiring religious awe.
But every time they heard it they dropped just like these people were now, foreheads pressed to the ground, no matter what they were doing-eating, talking, saluting officers, kicking the shit out of me-they'd stop. For a little while. Five times a day, seven days a week, for four months. I had to shake my head to clear the sound from my mind, even though the only sound here and now was the wind.
Shove it, O'Neill, I ordered. Pull yourself together. No similarities here at all. I mean, come on, they're bowing to *Jackson*. How many Iraqis you know who'd be caught dead bowing to a guy like him?
I leaned toward him, without taking my eyes off the worshippers. "What the hell did you say to him?"
There's the clueless look again. "Nothing," he said.
Right. Okay, our linguist isn't going to be much help here. Maybe common sense will succeed where specialized knowledge failed. I lowered my gun, walking over to one of the kneeling natives.
He looked up at my footsteps, then lowered his head again, obviously scared. And I saw he was the same kid I'd seen through the binoculars, the kid who'd seen us first. I stood there, and after a minute he looked up again, very slowly.
And suddenly he wasn't an alien anymore, or a desert tribesman with an AK, or an Iraqi prison guard. I looked at him again and I wasn't seeing the dark hair, dark skin and eyes I remembered from hell in the Middle East. He was just a kid, maybe fourteen, and I was the alien. He was scared, and curious at the same time. Hell, I'd seen the same look in Charlie's eyes.
"Hey." I bent down, held his eyes, holding my hand out, palm open, in a universal gesture of peace and friendship. "Hey. It's okay," I told him, not really expecting him to understand me, but hoping the tone would be enough to reassure him I wasn't about to shoot him. He didn't seem convinced, just stared at my hand like he'd never seen anything like it. "It's okay, see?" I reached out, slowly clasped his hand, nodding. "It's okay."
We shook hands slowly like that, staring at each other, for a few seconds. Then without warning he tore his hand away with a cry, and took off running back toward the mine, shouting.
Shit. I stepped back, holding up my gun again, watching as he disappeared over a dune. Now is *not* the time, O'Neill. He's an unknown, who obviously doesn't trust you, and who's just run off presumably to get his friends. Who probably won't trust you any more than he does, and who may or may not be less scared and better armed.
Fortunately for all of us, the reinforcements turned out to be another one of those big animals, this one with some kind of carriage on top and a dignified old man in a funny headdress. Leader around here?
The worshippers all rose when he dismounted and came to greet Jackson, staying respectfully silent. He bowed and made some kind of speech which was undoubtedly very nice, but I couldn't understand a word and from the bemused expression on his face I guessed Jackson couldn't either.
If talking to them doesn't work, try chocolate? Hell, the local hairy animals seemed to like it . . .
I had no idea what "bunny way" meant, but it looked like the guy was happy so I wasn't going to complain. He gestured back toward the dunes behind him, looking at Jackson expectantly.
"He's inviting us to go with him," Jackson said.
Kawalsky's expression said he didn't exactly have absolute faith in Jackson's judgment. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because he's . . ." Jackson motioned with his arms just like the native guy had done, like it should be obvious. ". . . inviting us to go with him." A crowd was gathering now, murmurs spreading, but they didn't look hostile. Yet. I squinted in the direction the leader had pointed, but I couldn't see anything but sand and more sand. Jackson turned to me. "We were looking for signs of civilization, and obviously we've found it." He looked around at each of us, exasperated. "If you want me to get us home, this is our best shot."
Okay, he's got my attention.
"Colonel, he's right," Brown said. Kneeling on the ground, he was examining a pile of gray rocks. "This mineral they're mining-it's the same material as the Stargate."
A mineral not found on Earth . . . I looked at Jackson. So far he hadn't done anything on this trip I couldn't do, and I wasn't nearly as confident about getting the team home as he was. But we weren't going to get anywhere standing around here, and if there was even a chance I'd be able to send my men home safely, I'd take it.
"Kawalsky." I didn't turn, watched the horizon ahead. Coordinates marked on tablets, Jackson had said. He'd assumed they were here somewhere. The rest of us could only pray he knew what he was talking about. "Radio base camp, tell them to keep that area secured until we get back."
As an officer in the United States Air Force, I'd endured more than one diplomatic banquet over the years. But this one had to be the strangest of any ever inflicted on me.
And I'm not just talking about the aliens.
We walked for several hours, all the natives crowding around us, some of them reaching out to touch us, feeling the fabric of our uniforms and oohing and ahhing in soft voices. We came to what looked like nothing so much as the old Indian villages of the Southwest I'd seen in pictures, sand and mud buildings stacked on top of one another, and gates made of big logs standing open as we walked into a long hall hung with beads and animal skins. I looked around, trying to see if there was anything around here that might be Jackson's tablets, but I didn't see anything I recognized, and I probably wouldn't recognize what he needed if I saw it. That was his job.
So I let him watch for his "order of alignment", and went back to my own assignment. Which was assessing possible threats to Earth. Deciding if there was anything on this planet that would justify blowing up the Stargate. From what West had said, the Air Force didn't like the idea of the Stargate at all, and everybody at the Pentagon would much rather it be destroyed if there was the smallest hint of a threat to Earth. Better to be safe than sorry, he'd said. But the decision, in the end, would come down to me.
Of course, if I overreacted, there was no way I'd get accused of being paranoid, since I'd be dead anyway . . .
So far these people didn't seem to have much advanced technology. No weapons I'd seen, only transportation is by whatever those big smelly animals are that dragged Jackson here. Although I think you're *supposed* to ride on the back, not hang onto the harness and let it drag you. Though I could be wrong. Cultural differences and all that.
But then they were mining the same mineral that the Stargate was made of. Lots of it, too. A mineral used to make a piece of technology *way* more advanced than anything on Earth. There was obviously more to this culture than we'd seen so far, and much as I hated to admit it, Jackson was right. We needed to know more about these people.
"The eye of Ra." He was pointing at a big gold disc hanging from the ceiling, with a symbol like an eye carved in it. The natives were all bowing in its direction. "It's the Egyptian sun god," he explained. "They think he sent us here." His voice was puzzled, wondering. And suddenly I remembered where I saw that particular symbol before.
I reached out and held up the gold pendant he was wearing, the one Catherine Langford had worn when I first met her. "Yeah." And it all becomes clear. "Wonder what could've given them that idea."
A million years into the sky is Ra, sun god, sealed and buried for all time . . .
These people must have come from Earth, a long, long time ago. Which would explain why they'd copied the religion of ancient Egypt . . . about which I knew absolutely nothing, but then that was what Jackson was here for . . .
My radio was crackling, and I saw Brown was speaking into his. "Sir, I can't make this out . . ."
There was another squeal of static, what might have been a voice shouting, but I couldn't make out any words. It sounded like trouble.
"Ferretti, say again." I said it calmly, like if I could will the radio to be calm it might give me a clear transmission. No luck. Shit. I knew it was a bad idea to split up the team.
But there was no time to think about that now. There was a horn blowing somewhere, and they were all moving, herding us along with them, and the giant wooden doors to the compound were swinging shut.
And so we'd ended up sitting on the floor in a rough circle, as the natives brought out various dishes I wasn't sure I wanted to identify. Once it was obvious we weren't supposed to be the main course at this banquet or anything, I'd let myself relax, sort of. If Ferretti had any sense, he would've headed back for the pyramid before the sandstorm hit base camp. It wasn't that far.
But then, sandstorms can come on quickly, with little or no warning, from what I remembered from Iraq. And as far as I knew, Ferretti hadn't served in a desert before . . .
Give it a rest, O'Neill, I told myself. If you and Jackson don't find those tablets, you can't do anything for any of the team. Focus, dammit, focus on finding a way out of here.
Jackson was sitting there with a bemused look on his face, smiling and nodding at everybody, munching on something that looked like bread. Kawalsky and Brown sat stiffly, uncertain.
"Hey, Jackson." He looked over at Kawalsky. "I don't think we should eat any food here."
Jackson went right on munching. "I don't know, they might consider that an insult."
The place was large and open, with torches blazing from brackets in the walls. Over our heads, there were what looked like walkways made of logs, and curtains hanging from them. I wondered where they'd gotten the wood from. I hadn't seen any trees on this planet so far.
Somebody was bringing another dish over, setting it down between the old guy and Jackson and lifting the cloth to reveal . . . what looked like some kind of lizard, steam rising from the middle where it had been nearly cut in half.
Kawalsky's eyebrows went up as the old guy motioned to the platter. "Well, we don't want to offend them, now do we, Daniel?"
Jackson looked at him, then shrugged as he reached for the lizard, and pulled off a piece. Kawalsky and Brown were both watching with great interest as he chewed thoughtfully.
"Tastes like chicken," he said with a grin, looking around at us. "It's good." He turned to the old guy, who was watching expectantly. Jackson tapped a finger against his lips, then started flapping his arms and making chicken noises.
Okay. I'd been expected to do things I thought were pretty ridiculous at diplomatic events before, but this had to be the limit. These people had no idea what a chicken was, and it was obvious Jackson's attempt to-communicate?-wasn't accomplishing much, besides making the chief think we were not quite right in the head. Right now he was just nodding with an amused expression, not quite certain how to respond, but humoring this strange messenger from his god.
That was enough of that, I decided. Time to decide if there was any point in being here at all. "Jackson."
He looked up, and some of the impatience must have showed on my face, 'cause he stopped smiling.
"You said that was an Egyptian symbol." I jerked my head in the direction of the gold disk.
"Yes," he nodded. "The eye of Ra."
"So would it make sense that . . . if they know one Egyptian symbol . . ."
I watched as it clicked, and Jackson nodded slowly. "Yes." He got up. "Yes." Walking over to the chief, he knelt down in front of him and held out the pendant. It was about time, I thought. Now, if this guy actually knows Egyptian writing-but then how come he doesn't speak the language? I thought the mission reports said Jackson spoke ancient Egyptian-why anyone would spend so much time studying a language that had been dead even longer than Latin was beyond me, but that was a different story-but maybe this was a different dialect, and they used the same symbols. Or maybe they at least recognized enough of the symbols for Jackson to communicate what we needed to know. I didn't know anything about ancient languages, but as long as it got us to those tablets he needed, I wasn't gonna ask questions.
The old guy bowed and made some kind of sign with his hands as Jackson held out the pendant. Jackson waved his hands, then began to draw the same symbol in the sand at his feet.
Apparently this wasn't a good idea. The old guy looked agitated, rubbing out the lines with his foot, then jumping up and waving his arms, shouting. Jackson stood up, backed off, and the chief said something to the girl next to him and she ran out of the room.
Jackson looked at me. "It seems like writing is forbidden to them." He looked confused, curious, as he started back toward us.
He never made it. Halfway across the room, a group of old women converged on him, pulling at his arms and herding him toward the end of the hall. "They want me to go with them!" Ya think? Kawalsky was on his feet, and I was torn between not wanting be separated, and trying to be diplomatic. If it had been a bunch of armed men taking him away, that would've been different. But this . . . I wondered if there was a tactful way to say no, without speaking the language . . . "Should I stay?" he shouted, looking back over his shoulder at me. He didn't look scared, but then he probably wouldn't be scared even if they were armed and dangerous-looking. The idea that he might be in danger didn't seem to have occurred to him. "I'll go with them! I'll be fine . . ." His voice trailed off.
I motioned to Kawalsky to sit down. If Jackson wasn't back soon, we'd go looking for him, but for right now we'd already pissed off our hosts enough. I didn't like the situation, but I couldn't really think of an alternative. How much of a threat could a bunch of unarmed old women be? I had other things to worry about now.
It seems like writing is forbidden to them.
Yeah, I'd noticed that. The question was, forbidden by who? And why? And what happened to people who broke that rule?
It obviously wasn't the chief's rule, even though he seemed to be in charge of this particular compound. He hadn't looked angry, he'd looked-scared. Some kind of religious rule? Or was there another, higher leader on this planet? Someone who used the mineral these people mined? There were no traces of it here, but they were mining lots of it, and it had to go somewhere. Someone who didn't want these people to be educated. To keep them from wondering if they might be better off if they didn't have to work in the mines? To keep them from questioning his authority? I didn't like this situation. I didn't like it at all. If there was another, higher authority here, who'd found a reason to keep his people illiterate by force if necessary, he wasn't going to like strangers coming from another world, spreading new and maybe dangerous ideas.
We could be in deep shit here.
We had no idea what the political situation was on this planet, or anything at all about the natives except what we'd seen here. And we'd already broken one rule, and who knew what others we might run into? It would be too much to hope that this section of this planet was ruled by a humane and enlightened democracy, or that they would see my team as anything but alien invaders. The safest option for any ruler, most likely, would be to kill us all so we couldn't incite rebellion or bring our fellow aliens to threaten them.
We needed to find out what kind of society existed on this planet outside of this compound. Who they were, how they were governed, and what kind of technology they had. What they used the Stargate mineral for. And how they were likely to respond to the knowledge that another world existed on the other side of the Stargate.
I just might have found my reason to blow the warhead.
Jackson's been gone nearly two hours, now.
Brown said he saw him heading out the back of the hall with some girl, and I'm really hoping they're looking for the Stargate coordinates. 'Cause if not, we're going to have to have a serious discussion about priorities, here.
Not that Jackson really seems like the type to sneak off with a girl he barely knows and can't even communicate with for-other activities. And to be perfectly honest, I don't see him having much success if he tried. Although these people think he's a god . . .
When the feast was over, the chief led Brown and Kawalsky and me to a room off the main hall, with lots of bowing and hand gestures I didn't understand. Apparently we were supposed to sleep here tonight.
Not much by way of beds, but there were stone ledges along the walls to sit on, and folded blankets in a corner. Kawalsky and Brown were cleaning their weapons and checking their gear. I was bored, and worried, and at the moment I had nothing to do. Nothing to do but watch, and wait for Jackson to find whatever it was he was looking for.
I'll admit the man hadn't inspired me with a hell of a lot of confidence so far.
I sat down, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. When the flame appeared, there was a soft exclamation from the doorway, and I looked up to see that kid again. The one I'd scared before, when I tried to say hello. He was standing in the doorway, startled, probably wondering if now wasn't a good time to get the hell out of here.
"It's okay, it's just a lighter." He couldn't understand me, and in a place like this a shiny piece of metal that could catch fire like that probably looked like magic. I flipped it open, lit it, then shut it again. See? It's harmless.
He hesitated, then came a few steps into the room, watching me warily, but with a burning curiosity that was only too familiar. For some reason I couldn't explain, I tossed the lighter at him. He caught it, holding it up to his face with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open.
Yeah, amazing, isn't it? He looked at me.
"Go on," I said, miming flipping it open and lighting it. He stared at me, then looked at the lighter again, copying the motion very carefully. He jerked it away from his face when the flame ignited, staring at it, mesmerized. He said something, breathed one word, reverently.
"Yeah, it's pretty fabulous." I looked away, trying not to think how much the kid looked like Charlie. Give him lighter hair, blue eyes, make him a few years younger . . . that wide-eyed look was one that used to touch something deep inside me, something clean and innocent, the part of me that could share in my son's wonder at the world around us. A part of me that was all but dead, buried along with my family and my home and all the hope I'd ever had.
The kid wasn't Charlie, I reminded myself, as he reached out slowly for my pack of cigarettes. When I didn't move to stop him, he pulled one out of the box and studied it. Of course not. There was no way in hell I'd've sat here and taught my son how to smoke, even if he was as old as this kid. Sara would've had my head, if I'd even thought about it. I leaned back and shook the ash off my cigarette, the flicker of amusement dying quickly as the kid copied the motion exactly. Damn. Last thing I needed, this kid following me around, reminding me of everything I'd lost. I took a long drag, blew out the smoke slowly, couldn't help turning my head to watch him.
He brought the end close to the flame with an expression of infinite concentration. Images flashed in my mind, memories of happier times. Charlie learning to tie his shoes, his face focused just like this kid's was now. Standing with his feet apart, holding the bat over his shoulder, watching my arm as I drew back to throw the ball. The way his face split in that grin when I'd come home unexpected, unannounced, that Christmas Eve. Another time. Another life, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.
The kid leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, glancing at me with a faint smile, lounging artistically in the doorway. I couldn't bring myself to smile back.
He inhaled slowly, with that same intense concentration. Seconds passed, then he threw the cigarette on the ground, coughing, before rounding on me with an expression that needed no translation.
I'm guessing that's the local version of "Are you fucking nuts?!" I shook my head, crushing mine out and dropping it on the floor. "Yeah, you're right," I agreed. "It's pretty stupid."
There, I thought, now you probably just killed diplomatic relations. Nice move, O'Neill. The kid was holding out the lighter now.
I looked at it for a second. It's pretty stupid, I said again silently. Wasn't like I was going to be alive much longer to use the damn thing. I shook my head.
"Nah, keep it," I said. "It's yours."
He stared at me. I waved his hand away, and the confused look disappeared as his face lit up in this big grin. Like a little kid at Christmas. I sighed, turning away so he wouldn't see the look in my eyes.
I saw him come closer out of the corner of my eye, heard him murmur at something else amazing he'd found in the pile of my stuff lying next to me. Probably enough in my field pack to keep the kid amused for days-
"No!"
He jumped back a few feet, eyes wide and scared as I grabbed the MP-5 out of his hands. Dammit, he should be scared. It's not a *fucking* toy! He froze in the doorway for only a second, then turned and bolted like a deer.
"Dangerous!" Two steps brought me to the doorway, holding the gun over my head and shouting after him.
He didn't stop, didn't turn, wouldn't understand. Hell, Charlie spoke English and he didn't . . .
Kawalsky and Brown were looking at me, startled, and I ignored them. Jesus *Christ*. I sat down heavily, black metal suddenly cold as I laid the gun down next to me. Twenty years in the military, and the damn thing was practically an extension of my arm. So easy, it was so easy to forget how I'd been fascinated by that shape when I was younger, years before I'd ever seen what one could do to a human body. To this kid, my machine gun was like the damn lighter-oooh, look, here's a new toy, let's see what this one does! God . . .
I covered my eyes with one hand, shaking my head slowly, not caring for once what the other guys were thinking. Shit. Last thing I needed . . . How far away was this place from base camp and the Stargate? Damn, *there's* a thought I don't need right now. An MP-5 would look a lot like a cigarette lighter compared to what I'd got hidden in the basement of that pyramid. How far would the blast reach, when I set that thing off? I wasn't an expert on nukes, but I couldn't pretend a Mark III would just collapse the pyramid and leave the rest of the planet untouched. Here I was yelling at the kid for touching my gun, and all the while I was getting ready to blow a tactical nuclear warhead less than a few hours walk from here.
For some reason it was all so damn simple, sitting in West's office less than a week ago. Flick the little red switch, and everything will be over. No light at the end of the tunnel, not for me, but at least the tunnel had a fucking end at last. When did it all get so damn complicated?