Stargate: Genesis
Written By: The Ascended Ancient
Chapter VIII: "The Retreat"

On the surface of P4X-337, Captain Daryl Reynolds ran towards the Stargate with the rest of the assault team. With half their numbers gunned down by friendly fire, they figured it'd probably be best to get off this planet. Overhead, the dark clouds parted, revealing a massive starfield. As the clouds faded, the light from the stars illuminated the Stargate. Just as they began to approach it, a sheet of that silvery substance rose up from the ground and wrapped itself around the gate. Another sheet did the same for the DHD. They were cut off.

Reacting quickly, Daryl spun around, shouldering his M-4-GL and looking for the enemy. He didn't have to look long. Three... things were heading their way.

The creatures were tall, probably about a foot or two taller than an average human, though they looked more like centaurs than humans. The upper torso was very human-like, ending in a large bulge at the 'waist'. From this bulge came three, spider-like legs, that were spread out like a tripod.

Their heads were somewhat bird-like, with yellow eyes and a sharp, curved beak. Their arms were long and thin, and their hands were quite different. One had four long, sharp fingers, whereas the other one ended in some sort of nozzle. And they were all that same silvery color that every one of the enemy's creations seemed to be.

Before he could shout out a warning, the three creatures raised their nozzle arms, and small bursts of golden plasma shot out of them. Before anyone could react, these plasma bursts were flying all around them. Several soldiers went down almost immediately.

Reacting quickly, Daryl aimed his M-4 at one of the creatures and fired. But the bullets only made small dents in the thing, dents that were quickly repaired. Daryl then flipped a switch on his weapon, arming the grenade launcher, and fired. The grenade hit the creature with a loud explosion, and when the smoke cleared, he saw the thing on the ground, its midsection torn in two.

But the other two kept coming. Gunfire from the troops slowed them down, but they kept coming. Looking around frantically, Daryl spied a nearby crater out of the corner of his eye.

"Everyone, fall back to that crater!" he ordered. "Grab the wounded and fall back!"

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Major Joshua Gordon flew his F-302 at the head of the fighter formation. He was a veteran pilot, with over one hundred hours of flight time at the helm of one of these fighters. His copilot, Captain Gary Daniels, had almost as much as him. Together, they made for a dangerous combination.

Flying straight for them were about five-dozen cone-shaped objects, most likely fighters. Even though he only had two dozen 302s with him, Gordon was confidant he could win this.

"Squadron One, form up on me," he ordered into his headset. "Squadron Two, back us up. Squadrons Three and Four, hold back and wait for my signal to engage." A chorus of the word 'Copy' greeted his orders.

Ahead of him, a dozen enemy fighters broke off and headed his way while the rest held back.

They're trying to fight fair, Josh thought. Their mistake.

He armed his railguns and waited for his shot. Then he opened fire.

His shots tore through the enemy ships, causing them to explode into clouds of debris. A piece of the debris struck his starboard wing, but it was just debris...

The next thing he knew, an explosion rocked his ship. Looking out the cockpit window, he saw that his starboard wing was gone. Eyes widening in fear, he spun his ship around towards the rest of his squadron. What he saw nearly made his heart stop.

The debris from the enemy fighters acted like mines. Each one that collided with a 302 exploded, taking a huge chunk of the ship with it. Within moments, the eleven ships he'd brought with him were destroyed.

"All fighters," he said frantically, addressing the other two squadrons, "fall back to the cruisers!" But it was too late. The remaining enemy fighters had used the small battle as a diversion, keeping the pilots occupied while they moved around to flank them.

His pilots never stood a chance. The enemy was on them in moments, plasma blasts tearing apart the 302s as if they were made of paper.

Anger filled the major, and he pushed his engines to the max. As he approached the enemy fighters, he fired all six of his missiles. Then he turned his ship hard and fled the explosions. He didn't want to get hit by any more of those debris bombs.

Despite his attack, he saw that only a handful of the enemy fighters had been destroyed. The rest, it seemed, were after him. He bobbed and weaved and juked, but the plasma blasts kept on coming. Suddenly, his ship shuddered, then he felt frozen, the air sucked away from him as he flew out through space.

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On the bridge of the Prometheus, Cameron Mitchell just stared out the forward viewport in shock. All the F-302s had been destroyed, while only a handful of enemy fighters had suffered the same fate.

"Enemy fighter craft coming around!" his sensor officer said.

"Target them with the railguns and fire!" Mitchell ordered, determined to make his fallen pilots' sacrifice meaningful.

In space, both massive, BC-303s unleashed a barrage of blue energy at the approaching, conical-shaped fighters. The fighters were torn apart, their debris exploding harmlessly on the cruisers' shields.

"All fighters eliminated, sir," the sensor officer said.

"Helm," Cameron ordered, "set a course for that cruiser."

"Yes, sir," the helm officer replied. With a slight hum, the Prometheus's engines came alive as it shot forward. The Byzantium followed them.

The vessel they were heading towards was oddly shaped. It was a long, flat cruiser, with three, arcing arms that ended in sharp points. Overall, it didn't look very dangerous, but then again, neither did the fighters.

"As soon as we're in range," Mitchell said, "hit that thing with everything we've got."

"Yes, sir," the weapons officer said.

"Sir!" the helm officer cried. "It's headed right for us." Looking out the forward viewport, Colonel Mitchell could see that he was right. The enemy cruiser was picking up speed and heading in their direction.

"Tell the Byzantium to move away from us," Mitchell commanded. "We'll try to catch it between us and hit it from both sides."

In space, the two battlecruisers moved apart, leaving ample room for the enemy ship to fly between them. And it did, flying down that corridor between the two ships and heading straight for the Byzantium. Even as it began to fire on its target, both BC-303s were already hitting it with everything they had. Railguns, missiles, nukes, the whole armory was being emptied into this ship. Within moments, the enemy's shields were down, and the shots were hitting the hull. But whatever damage they may have done was instantly repaired. There seemed to be no stopping this thing.

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Back on the surface, Captain Reynolds struggled to organize his troops in some sort of defensive formation. More than half the surviving members of the team were badly wounded, and everyone had been hurt in some way. Reynolds himself was nursing his left shoulder, which took a plasma blast dead-on. He held his rifle in his right hand, using the rim of the crater they were taking cover in to support it. Even so, all he and his men could do was slow these creatures down. The one he'd hit with a grenade had long since gotten up, fully repaired, and rejoined the fight.

To his left was Donald O'Connor. For a politician, the guy could really fight. He unloaded his MP-5 into the creatures like a man possessed, making every shot count as much as he could. If only his accuracy could actually accomplish something.

Then, it hit him. Those creatures that attacked the colony, the messed-up wolf things, they healed quickly too. And they were killed by...

Quickly, Daryl pulled out his Zat and aimed it at one of the tripod creatures. He fired three times, and all three shots hit... and the creature was still standing. Daryl felt his heart sink. They were all in big trouble.

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Standing in his fortress, Jeremy Spalding felt the urge to laugh as he felt one of his minions take the full blast of one of those Zat Guns. He had long since gotten his hands on one of them and recalibrated all his technology to be immune to that particular weapon. Oh, things were going very well for him.

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In space, the enemy cruiser continued to hit the Byzantium with everything it had. In return, both BC-303s hit the unshielded vessel with everything in their own armories, but any damage they did was rapidly healed.

On the bridge of the Prometheus, Colonel Mitchell stared out at the horror scene before him. Already, the Byzantium's shields were beginning to buckle.

"Byzantium, break off!" Mitchell ordered, but he was too late. The massive vessel's shields failed, and it was torn apart by enemy fire. Cameron just stared out at the explosion in shock. They'd lost one of their ships, and had done no damage to the enemy.

"Break off the attack," Mitchell ordered, knowing that they couldn't do anything else. "Try and contact the ground troops. Let them know we're bugging out."

"Yes, sir," the comm officer replied.

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On the surface of P4X-337, Captain Reynolds' radio came to life.

"Major Hailey," Colonel Mitchell said. "Major Hailey, please respond."

"This is Captain Reynolds," Daryl said into his radio. "Major Hailey is down. We're under heavy fire, and the Stargate is cut off!"

"Understood," Mitchell replied. "We'll move into position to beam you up."

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"Move back into orbit!" Mitchell ordered. "We'll beam them aboard and get our asses into hyperspace."

"Yes, sir," the helm officer replied.

The massive warship swung around and flew back towards the planet. The enemy vessel spun around and was right on their tail, firing large blasts of orange plasma at them.

The Prometheus rocked from each impact, but the ship held together.

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On the surface, the tripods were just a few feet away from where the S.G.C. soldiers were taking cover when the soldiers were enveloped in a bright, white light. Then they were gone.

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On the bridge of the Prometheus, sparks flew from several consoles as enemy weapons fire began to take its toll.

"Ground troops are aboard," came an engineer's voice over the comm.

"Get us out of here! Mitchell ordered.

"Engaging hyperdrive," the helmsman said.

Ahead of the Prometheus, a hyperspace window opened up. The engines flared for a moment, and then the ship was gone.

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In the heart of his fortress, Jeremy Spalding sensed the Earth vessel leave with a twinge of disappointment. In a way, he wanted to decimate them all here. But maybe allowing them to leave would be the better decision. This way, their people would hear in detail what he was capable of. Then, maybe their fear would make them more vulnerable when he finally came for them.

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Aboard the Prometheus, the survivors of the ground team were rushed to the infirmary. All were wounded in some way, and all needed treatment. But the worst thing of all was the number of survivors. Out of the twenty-four people who had started out on the team, only nine had survived.

Colonel Mitchell walked through the infirmary, staring at the wounded in sadness. They had really screwed up this time. So many people had lost their lives, and they had barely made a dent in the enemy's plans. This mission was a complete debacle. Now, all they could hope to do was get back to Earth and have time to lick their wounds.

"Sir," a young engineer called out. "We have a problem."

"What is it?" Cameron asked.

"The hyperdrive was damaged during the battle," the young officer replied. "We're not in any danger right now, but in about half an hour, the engines will overload." Cameron sighed.

"All right, lieutenant," he said. "Keep us in hyperspace as long as possible. As soon as the engines reach critical, drop us out."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied before turning around and walking back to engineering.

Thirty minutes, Cameron thought sadly. We're at least two hours away from Earth. Thirty minutes isn't nearly enough to get us there. Cameron set his jaw. He would get them home. Somehow, some way, he'd get them home.

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Thirty minutes later, the Prometheus dropped out of hyperspace. They were nowhere near an inhabited planet, and definitely nowhere near Earth. They were stranded, stuck in deep space. The only thing they could do was activate their distress beacon and hope for the best.

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"Unscheduled off-world activation!" the gate controller cried out. General Landry raced from his office down the stairs to the control room just before the Stargate activated.

"Receiving IDC, sir," the sergeant told him. "It's the Jaffa."

"Open the Iris," Landry ordered. The large, metal spiral-shaped barrier in front of the Earth Stargate spun as it opened, allowing several Jaffa carrying stretchers to walk through. On the stretchers are S.G.C. personnel. Landry quickly raced from the control room into the gate room.

"What happened here?" he asked.

"Yesterday, one of our ships detected a distress signal from the Prometheus," a deep voice said from behind Landry. The general turned around to find Teal'c standing on the embarkation ramp.

"Teal'c," Landry greeted. "What brings you here."

"I desired to bring news of this personally, General Landry," Teal'c replied.

"Of course," Hank replied. "We can discuss this in my office."

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Landry listened in stunned silence as Teal'c repeated what Colonel Mitchell and Captain Reynolds had told him. Apparently, the mission to P4X-337 had been a complete disaster. Most of the ground troops were dead, and one of the warships had been destroyed. Little to no damage had been done to the enemy.

"I offered to bring Colonel Mitchell and his crew back to Earth while we towed the Prometheus," Teal'c said, "but he wished to remain with the ship."

"I see," General Landry said slowly.

"General Landry," Teal'c continued, "this Jeremy Spalding represents a grave threat to the entire galaxy. I have come here to inform you of the fate of your mission, but I must now return to Dakara. The High Council must be convinced to take military action against him."

"I'm not sure how much good military action is going to do against this guy," Landry replied.

"Nevertheless," Teal'c told him, "we must do something." Landry nodded slowly, hoping that 'something' would be enough.

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In the infirmary, Captain Daryl Reynolds sat at the bedside of Colonel Leslie Crawford, a sling supporting his wounded arm. It'd been a week since she had been wounded, and she hadn't left that bed since. Already she'd been hooked up to an IV and a feeding tube, but the doctors said that she didn't have a chance.

As Daryl sat by her side, he felt so totally helpless. His close friend and comrade was dying, and there was nothing he could do. He wished they'd spent more time together while she was healthy. He wished...

Suddenly, she stirred. A groan escaped her lips, followed by a gag. She immediately reached up and pulled the feeding tube out.

"Leslie," Daryl whispered, to shocked for words. Leslie pulled the IV and most of the sensors off of her and sat up in bed. She turned to face Daryl, and an evil smile crept across her face when she saw him.

"Hi, Daryl," she said gleefully before grabbing him by the neck and throwing him across the room.

End of Chapter VIII