NOTES: I've been asked about Ivan's identity. There are two, unnamed, white haired Russian men on Atlantis; Ivan's related to one of them. Thank you, PurpleYin, for betaing this.

DISCLAIMER: Stargate: Atlantis and all things associated with it belong to other people.

SPOILERS: through Siege, Part 1 for SGA, Covenant for SG1

RATING: K+


CLARITY

PART 3

IVAN

He said his name was "Ivan," that we'd chatted online. Claiming he'd found the tune I'd wanted to hear, he played a short piece of music. Within it were three of the five mystery noises from my brother's video. At first, it scared the hell out of me. It was physically impossible for anyone to have externally accessed that computer. So how did this person get those sounds, let alone find my mobile phone number? Of course, the people directly involved could always make live recordings. After my initial shock, however, I wondered, if they'd somehow broken into my room to gain entry to my computer with the audio, why not use all five?

Ivan kept his phraseology vague enough to mean nothing to someone unaware of the subtext, and the pattern of his speech soon reminded me of the first message from my reluctant Russian. When he asked about a friend of mine who'd recently traveled abroad, I told him I hadn't heard from "Chris" in months, then out of the blue, I received a message three weeks ago. He said he knew the feeling, that the same thing had happened to him. But what do you expect from people on a prolonged holiday? He bemoaned not being able to travel, himself, because if he could, he'd meet me at Coffee Cup to chat like we used to do. Maybe in one or two years he'd find the time to visit. Then he wished me well and hung up. The whole conversation lasted under three minutes.

I'd never heard of Coffee Cup, and after a thorough search, I found nothing with a similar name within a hundred miles. But Mocha Mug was a seedy little cafe located just south of uni and run by Iron Curtain immigrants. It was a crucial turning point. Ivan knew too much. I could either put myself in further jeopardy by following his lead, or I could give up. My mind was racing, both in fear and awe of the possibilities. Was it worth my life to uncover the truth about my brother's death? I rationalized that if Ivan was connected with the people my brother worked for, I was at risk no matter what I did, so I went.

I wasn't sure if Ivan's "one or two" meant the time of day or the time elapsed since the call, but I made it there in under an hour. It was a long, narrow shop with a bar along one wall and little booths along the other. The lone large table by the front window was manned by a burly quartet of laughing, smoking, coffee-drinking Russians who dressed and smelled as though they'd just come in from a hard night's fishing. It so captured the image of early twentieth century life that you'd never guess the place had any connection to the information age. I thought the few stares I drew were because my appearance suggests I'm not of European ancestry, but I later learned it was because I was neither a regular nor a Russian. When the salt and pepper haired man behind the counter asked for my order, I said Ivan had recommended trying what he usually drinks. At the mention of Ivan, the man broke into a big grin, offered me his hand and introduced himself as Viktor, but to just call him Vik. He'd said he'd been waiting for me and that any friend of Ivan's was a friend of Vik's.

Growing up in a big family, I wasn't used to keeping secrets. After nearly two months of searching and secrecy, after so much effort and many drawbacks, after having the most important thing in my life isolate me from my family, Vik's unconditional fellowship caused some previously hidden strain within me to snap. Without a shred of self-consciousness, I broke down right there in the middle of the little cafe. In moments, Vik was beside me. With a comforting arm around my shoulders and a soothing babble of half-English to console me, he led me to the back of the shop.

I've looked back on that morning and can only compare it to Alice's trip down the rabbit hole or perhaps Neo's choice of the red pill. Through a short hall, past the bathroom, up a narrow flight of stairs, the door opened to a hacker's heaven. From floor to ceiling, the long walls were covered in racks of every imaginable piece of computer equipment. The lighting was indirect and diffused to prevent glare. At both ends hummed refrigeration units to keep the plethora of equipment from overheating, and the walls, floors and ceiling were covered by a material that caused the room to be dead to nearly any kind of uninsulated signal.

Normally, several people use the room at any given time, but there was only one person then, a woman about my mother's age with a presence as commanding as Vik's was amiable and a shocking pair of white streaks at her temples that wound through her thick, jet black braid. She took one look at me and started a heated discussion with Vik. Whether due to my inclusion into their secret or my sniffling, pitiful state, they've never told me what that argument was about. All I could understand were the words Ivan, Gate and a few random computer terms. But eventually, Vik calmed her, and she introduced herself as Ursula. She offered me a tissue and a hot mug of milk tea, then sat me down in front of a terminal. After connecting to a private chat, she patted me on the shoulder and followed Vik downstairs.

In my daze, I just sat there, taking in my surroundings and sipping the exceptional tea. Then the cursor moved.

I: Hello, Nic. You need to be more careful. We can chat here in safety.

N: Who are you?

I: A friend of your brother's. He told me to keep an eye on you. He'd be proud of that firewall, but it can only do so much when your wire's been tapped.

N: Do you know what's happened to him?

I: Yes and no. I know he was recruited into a top secret multinational project, but my suspicions as to where he is may seem far-fetched to you. I'd like to bring you up to speed, if I may.

N: Just knowing I'm not insane helps.

I: You're not insane. Do you remember the incident with Alec Colson?

N: The businessman who showed us aliens are among us.

I: You find the possibility unlikely?

N: I'd never really thought about it.

I: How likely do you think it is that a meteor shower massive enough to completely destroy an entire US fleet could strike without anyone seeing it coming or causing any residual tsunami?

N: That never made sense to me.

I: If it wasn't a meteor shower, would anything keep the US government from hunting down and punishing those responsible?

N: It seems unlikely.

I: Yet there've been no reprisals.

N: It could have been a military experiment gone wrong.

I: And risk thousands of lives and billions in equipment? If they were capable of something that massive, then why aren't the other governments of the world up in arms about it?

N: Perhaps they are, in secret.

I: You think so?

N: I hadn't really thought about it.

I: Well, you think about it, research it and give me a decent argument how that might work next time.

N: Next time?

I: You've been at MM long enough to have enjoyed your tea. It's Friday. Do you have a bookbag or anything else that might suggest you're studying?

N: Got it.

I: You like the tea?

N: Yes.

I: It's Russian, you know. So, you'll be back?

N: With bells on.

I: That might be conspicuous.

N: How will I know when to come again?

I: I have your number, remember? Next time, I'll try to have the Czech join us.

N: THAT Czech? Why? Do you know

I: I know, but it's not her fault.

N: How is it not?

I: She's just like you, trying to find out what's happening to a loved one, but she doesn't have the kind of money and accessibility you do. Her government found her and decided to use her. Fortunately the British are a bit subtler; they've only jacked your line.

N: But I've done enough to rouse suspicion.

I: You have, but as far as they know, you haven't learned anything incriminating. We're going to keep them thinking that way. You can do that, right?

N: You make it sound as though that might be different from what I've been doing so far.

I: He mentioned you're too hard on yourself. Be proud. You've done remarkable work and made choices that would have sent meeker souls running.

N: If you say so.

I: I do. Besides, Ursula doesn't allow just anyone access to her inner sanctum. Have faith. We'll find him. Until next time.

N: Thank you.

I: My pleasure. Take care.

Thus began my double life. Grad student by day, international cyber spy by night. In many ways, it made my life easier to have a physical separation between my family life and my obsession. I still needed to maintain the illusion of my quest at home, but it was like having a boyfriend you never introduce to your parents. They might have preferred to be more involved, but they accepted the situation more gracefully than my earlier hermitage in my room. Despite the relief of a more tranquil home life and the thrill of uncovering bits of the big picture, the truth that drove me always lurked in the corners of my mind, casting a pall over each accomplishment.

Working for a Russian intelligence agency, Ivan had access to revealing information about a long list of events with questionable governmental explanations dating back years. As the evidence piled up, and my own research supported his findings, he convinced me Colson had been right, that there was an international conspiracy to hide the existence of something truly cosmic, a means of travel the likes of which is rarely seen in conventional science fiction. Instead of using ships, special Gates created by aliens and uncovered on Earth link us to Gates on other worlds. He referenced the television series Wormhole X-treme as an example. It didn't really catch on here, but I was able to download a few episodes. Ivan has never been certain if the show was produced to get the public comfortable with the idea or to make disavowing it easier.

His own government had once possessed such a Gate, which is why he believed my brother was no longer on Earth. The sounds in the video placed him near a Gate, but the background was nothing like what Cheyenne Mountain's underground bunkers, or any military facility that might house a Gate, should look like. There were images to back up his claims, but the most convincing of all was the picture of Ivan's white haired father wearing an outfit the same as my brother's. I'm still nowhere near mastering Russian, but to hear the voice of his father mention my brother's name, to know his words were full of praise, it hurt, but in a good way. It proved to me my brother's existence was not unacknowledged, and that meant more to me than I could have realized.

It was also rather persuasive to talk to Mary, the Czech. The poor woman barely got thirty seconds of video, but not only did her bespectacled beau have a variation of the same clothing, in the cleaned up background of her picture was a mysterious piece of technology Ivan is still trying to identify. And Mary was not the last. Slowly, Ivan added over a dozen people from around the world to our little gang, helping to connect us while keeping us under the radar of our respective governments.

Each story and video expanded our knowledge. There were five different backgrounds, some with glimpses into other rooms, which suggested the facility they were working in was fairly large. Their fields ranged all over the sciences as well as medicine and the military. Combined with the fact the same uniform appeared in four different variations, the implication was there must be many more people involved. In one person's video, a laptop revealed a symbol with a winged horse and the word Atlantis, a symbol we have yet to match with anything in our collectively known world.

Communing with the others was therapeutic and empowering, but despite all I learned from them, they could not help prove what I knew to be true. They couldn't tell me he was dead. I never told them about that aspect of my quest. Some cowardly part of me was afraid that, if they knew the true motivation that had begun my search, I might lose the respect and support of my surrogate family just as I had with my real one.

To this day, I'm hopelessly addicted to Russian Caravan tea. I think Ursula does it intentionally, the price she demands of all those who use her toys.

Leading two lives, digging through conspiracy websites, calling tabloid journalists, researching bizarre information, it's enough to make anyone question their sanity. Although they only saw bits and pieces of the whole of my anomalous existence, eventually my parents insisted I see a counselor. I went, but it was pointless. How could such a person help me? Aside from probably ending up in an asylum for admitting belief in what I knew, no words or medication could erase my obsession. Better to hire a priest to exorcise the vicious knowledge from my soul.

There was one small benefit from my attempt. I realized if I could just get someone else to confirm what I knew, I might find closure. I might break free.

And then they came.