Coming to the Web on the 27th May this year is something I've been working on for more than a year now with the invaluable assistance of Joe B1451, Falling Dragon, Zylimbron25 and Sage Harper: Stargate: XT-1. XT-1 is an AU fic in which things go…very differently from canon. Below follows a teaser formed of brief clips of the first episode of the XT-1 series, The Gateway Opens. Enjoy!

"We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go

Always a little further: it may be

Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,

Beyond that angry or that glimmering sea.

from The Golden Journey to Samarkand by James Elroy Flecker

(These lines are engraved on the memorial clock tower at the

headquarters of 22 Special Air Service Regiment in Hereford.

Also engraved on the tower are the names of all members

of the Regiment killed in training or in action.)

Stargate: XT-1 Teaser

Boots pounding, the platoon thundered down the corridor, speed taking priority over stealth. Captain Robert Trentford waved off Corporal Sachs' squad toward the steps leading to the control room, and signalled for Corporal Stockbridge to take his section to circle around and secure the other blast door.

Such reports as had reached the guard station had been vague: intruders in the Gateroom, shots fired, personnel down. Numbers, equipment, hell, even species – all unknown.

Trentford was relatively young, having graduated with honours from Sandhurst only five years previously and swiftly risen up the rank ladder. It was a tradition in his family that at least one man from each generation serve his country as an officer and a gentleman, although the Great War had wiped out sixteen men and boys by the name of Trentford in the trenches and left only one, Robert's great-grandfather, to continue the family line.

For his part, Robert was optimistic and rather enjoying his service, even despite the fact that he was currently stuck with the night shift guard detail. It was, in his opinion, unfortunate that the Black Watch hadn't been posted to the Gulf during the war and thus he had yet to prove himself in combat, but there was always the chance that he could get himself assigned to a United Nations peacekeeping task force in the future. And he seemed to have a golden opportunity today. Lieutenant McIntyre, the commander of Eight Platoon, had been hospitalised after an attack of appendicitis, and three other members of the platoon, including Sergeant Lennox, were on leave, necessitating Trentford, the company's second in command, to stand in as the platoon's Officer Commanding.

SA80s ready and Trentford at their head, Corporal McAllen's squad reached the easternmost blast door. At Trentford's curt hand signals, two troopers raced to the far side of the door. Carrying the squad's L86 Light Support Weapon variant of the SA80, Private Dalgliesh was the first in through the blast door, McAllen only a step behind him and Trentford with two more troopers backing them up. Across the hangar, Stockbridge's squad was breeching the other blast door.

An energy blast tore through McAllen's body armour, throwing him to the floor. Dalgliesh dove for cover behind a desk, overturned in the scientists' haste to leave the hangar, and came up firing. Trentford joined him, assessing the situation as the blast shield came down in front of the control room. At least Sachs had things under some sort of control, then.

Nine hostiles, equipped with directed-energy weapons – Trentford's common sense insisted this couldn't be possible, but his training told him to simply accept the impossible for the time being and get on with more important things – and a bunch of engineers taking casualties. By the looks of things, there was someone in a donkey jacket and an engineer being manhandled by the trio at the back of the pack and there was a strange golden glow, but between the weapons fire and dodging for cover he could neither see nor hear what was going on properly.

Trentford keyed his radio. "Stockbridge! Hold your position and give us covering fire, as soon as we've got the casualties out of here Sachs can seal the place off!"

So saying, the captain opened fire as the second four-man 'brick' of the squad fired around the gaping blast door. Dalgliesh emptied his LSW into the nearest hostile without achieving much beyond scratching the armour's paint. Across the hangar, one of Stockbridge's troopers fell as a staff blast tore into his stomach, lifting him briefly off the ground and casting him against the wall behind him. Cursing richly in his native Glaswegian brogue, Dalgliesh slammed home a fresh box magazine and fired again, raking his fire lower this time. One of the intruders dropped as his legs were cut out from beneath him, a final burst catching him in the abdomen. Another energy blast caught Private Williams in the head, liquefying flesh and the bone beneath, grey gristle spilling from the grisly wound.

Trentford vaulted the desk and dove behind a stack of crates, poking the bullpup's muzzle through a small gap and opening fire. A volley of blasts caught one of Stockbridge's troopers in the midsection, sending him sprawling with a small fire burning in his gut. This was, without a doubt, the worst tactical situation Trentford could imagine. The enemy's armour was tough – not completely bulletproof, but it was hard-going finding a weak spot – his men were short of cover and to make matters even worse, the enemy had hostages.

The enemy troops switched their focus to McAllen's – to his – squad. Making the best use possible of the doorframe, the Black Watch troopers poured fire back at the intruders. Energy blasts caught two of them and hurled them out of Trentford's sight, then another punched through the desk Dalgliesh was behind, killing the support-weapon carrier.

Reloading, Trentford came up, aiming at the nearest intruder's abdomen/groin armour. The hostile dropped. He was distantly aware of two more of the hostiles dropping from fire from Stockbridge's squad. Trentford took aim again, drawing a bead on the sod in the gold armour with the frankly disturbing gold eyes who seemed to be in charge. The bullpup assault rifle kicked against his shoulder as he opened up on full auto, and the enemy leader shouted a curse, clutching at the growing crimson patch over his stomach and sagging, his guards immediately supporting him. Another of the intruders stepped between Trentford and his target, taking the last of the clip harmlessly on his breastplate. Swearing fiercely with frustration, Trentford dropped behind his crates again and set about reloading.

There came a swooshing noise that he realised must have been that Stargate thing the scientists were working on down here – he hadn't heard it dialling over the weapons fire. Glowering fiercely, the guy in the gold armour barked another command, sealing his helmet. His guards followed suit and took up the apparently unconscious bodies, and the trio vanished through the wormhole, carrying two unconscious forms with them. The last two intruders, outnumbered and outgunned, retreated slowly, firing steadily as they walked backwards up the ramp. Another of Stockbridge's men fell, howling like a banshee as he took a shot to the lower abdomen. With that, the enemy turned and stepped through the Stargate.

The wormhole flickered once, then twice, then died away.

Trentford slumped against the crates, keying his radio again and shouting in vain for medics. He had eight dead troopers for four of the enemy.

He had tasted combat, and its flavour was bitter with death.

The patrol's boots echoed noisily throughout the hangar as they first hit the metal mesh ramp. Then, exchanging glances, they accelerated.

By the time the patrol hit the glittering maelstrom of blue energy, they were at a run.

Sam found herself gasping, tumbling, falling through a live, twisting writhing tunnel of blue light. It was cold. She had never felt such cold, sinking icy fangs deep into her bones and not letting go. She couldn't see the others. She knew she had walked into something, but once in it she lost all sense of sight and touch. All she knew was that it was cold, bitter cold, and she was tumbling, falling endlessly. She was alone, she was dying, she was… Sam Carter screamed as she was pulled through the shimmering surface. She didn't mean to. She couldn't help it.

Thinking back on it later, she decided that if she couldn't hear herself scream, no one else could either.

It sounded good, anyway.

She had no idea how long she fell. She was reminded of a cartoon one of her buddies from college had scribbled during an especially dull study session: three men falling, screaming, labelled "Bottomless Pit." The second panel, labelled "Twenty Years Later," was the same three men, still falling. But now they were casually examining their fingernails, kicking back on nothingness.

She was reasonably sure it wasn't actually twenty years before she fell out of cold eternity and into somewhere else.

Her booted feet were thumping on stone steps. Sam slipped, lost her footing, and went down heavily, her bergen's weight adding to her momentum as she thumped and rolled her way off the steps and onto some very, very hard and grassy ground, completely disoriented and out of breath. Oh, great, her hip, butt and chest would be covered in bruises this time tomorrow. Somebody hissed a curse at her, and she felt herself being dragged upright by someone else, shoved forwards a few paces and flung down in front of some sort of object. Wonderful: even more bruises.

She was no longer in an artificially lighted cave in the guts of The Pit of RAF Benson, South Oxfordshire; she was outside, under waning crimson sunlight, and definitely somewhere else. Sam peered up at the sky, and her eyes widened with shock: the last time she'd seen two suns in a single sky, George Lucas had been responsible. But this was not a movie theatre, or if it was, someone forgot to clear up all the standing stones the SAS troopers were now crouched behind and using as cover.

The wormhole flickered once, then again, then vanished.

The calm of the night was shattered by a resounding thunderclap as the charges detonated.

Inside the cell, the prisoners were startled from their uneasy sleep as great chunks of stone blew inwards. Screaming and wailing, many ran to the barred gateway, or curled up into foetal positions, hoping their demise would be quick and painless.

Atop the ramparts above, one of the sentries raised a horn to his lips to sound the alarm. The sudden, sharp retort of a heavy-calibre rifle was the last sound he heard.

Deep in the treeline, Gareth grinned as he moved to his second target. Another cartridge slipped into the breach…loaded and cocked. Finger on the trigger now…taking up the slight pressure of resistance…

Out of the corner of his eye, Gareth glimpsed the yellow line of tracers as Scudder opened up with his gimpy, heard the rattling of 203s to either side of him as the others fired on their targets. He ignored them.

A gentle squeeze.

The louder crack of the L96 sounded over the noise of staff weapons firing blindly into the night.

Another alien soldier dropped out of sight behind the ramparts.

"Jaffa, kree! Shel'ne ko velna'ta shinni'a jhorblocks!"

Bra'tac grabbed a passing captain who was exhorting his company onwards toward the walls. "(What is happening!)" he demanded.

The captain turned towards his apparent assailant, a curse ready for whoever dared lay a hand upon him. It died upon his lips as he saw the glint of the golden tattoo of the First Prime, and immediately bowed his head in supplication. "(We are attacked, my lord!)"

"(By whom! Has Ba'al betrayed us?)"

"(I know not, Lord First Prime!)"

A sharp crack split the night, shortly followed by a scream. Bra'tac and the captain looked at each other, puzzled.

"(To the walls,)" Bra'tac quietly ordered the other Jaffa. The captain gratefully ran off in pursuit of his company.

Bra'tac snapped open his staff weapon, striding towards the walls at an almost leisurely pace. The last time he'd heard a sound like that crack, those weapons the warriors of the Tau'ri had used had created it.

Could they have come here, to the very heart of Apophis' realm, to free two of their own people? Were their strange warriors on Chulak, even now? Madness! It was suicide for them to come here.

But what if they don't know that? Bra'tac wondered.

This could well be the chance he had long dreamed of.

"Down!" Ash shouted over the steady whump-whump-whump of the alien fighter's strafing run. Its friend was turning back to begin another; he had to bag the first bastard now.

His thumb went sideways and down on the activation switch as he nestled his cheekbone on the conductance bar. He was instantly rewarded with the warbling screech of the launcher's seeker unit. The aircraft howled closer, shots creeping towards him.

Stuff this for a game of soldiers! he thought. The aircraft expanded in the inner ring of the sight… it was now in range. Ash punched the forward button with his left thumb, 'uncaging' the missile and giving the infrared seeker-head on the Stinger its first look at the heat radiating from whatever powered the enemy craft. The missile screamed its readiness to Ash. "Piss off!" the sergeant howled as he super-elevated his sight. The trigger jerked, almost as though pulled of its own accord.

The launcher bucked in his hands as the Stinger looped slightly upwards before dropping down to home on its target. Ash, determinedly gripping the launcher, flung himself into the treeline out of sight, landing heavily on Scudder. "Fuck off, ya dozy twat!" Scudder yelled and shoved him off as a thunderous explosion sounded, signalling the destruction of the fighter.

Ash punched the bag Scudder had slung over his back containing the spare missiles, and Scudder handed it over. "Cover me!" Ash yelled over the noise of the second aircraft screaming down on another strafing run. Scudder nodded as Ash dug out a loaded launch tube from the Allison bag, discarding the old tube and attaching the acquisition/guidance package swiftly. A quick twist removed the spent canister that had contained compressed gas, and Ash fitted a replacement.

The patrol had finally made it to the OP and Stinger cache. There was no sign yet of Ross or Froggy, and the alien fighters seemed incapable of precision strikes. That, or they just weren't used to hunting small groups. The patrol were now dug in among the trees along the ridge, overlooking the standing stone rings surrounding the Stargate. Scudder had his gimpy set up on its bipod. Sid Vicious had hold of and was extending the ammunition belt to minimise the risk of it getting kinked.

Half a dozen enemy troops emerged on the dirt trail: the gimpy snarled, spitting out spent shell casings from the ejection port and a tongue of flame from its muzzle as Scudder worked his aim back and forth, hosing them down. One enemy soldier managed to duck into cover, but had clearly never faced a heavy machinegun before; as the last of the alien's comrades on the trail fell, Scudder switched his aim and the 7.62mm rounds chewed their way through a rhododendron-like bush and the soldier sheltering behind it with ease. "Ye're ahl clear, man!" he shouted at Ash.

By now the second aircraft was halfway through its attack run, cannons spitting energy blasts until the aircraft reached the lowest point of its dive and snarled back up into the night sky. Ash stepped out of cover again, instinctively avoiding Scudder's line of fire.

The Stinger is unquestionably a very fine piece of battlefield equipment for infantrymen and this is an opinion that is relatively well known among militaries and popular fiction: however, what is less publicised is that while the weapon is of American manufacture, it was first used in battle by British troops.

Stingers first turned up in the armoury of the SAS in the Falklands War of 1982, when nobody really knew how to use them or what to do with them. A cross-decking helicopter accident before the San Carlos landings had cost the lives of twenty SAS troopers and support personnel, among them the regiment's only Stinger expert. After that, it had been more a case of "Here they are, get to grips with them." Some of the boys from D Squadron were sitting around behind their own lines a short while after the landings, having a brew-up, when over the horizon came a flight of Puccaras. One guy, popularly known as Kel, who'd been in the New Zealand SAS before joining D Squadron, had stood up and put the Stinger on his shoulder. It had been, according to the later testimony of his mates, like the kid in the old Fisher Price advert from the television: "How's this work then? What does this do?" Kel was pressing all the buttons to make the Stinger fire, which it obligingly did, whacking the aircraft straight up the tail. There'd been a huge explosion, the pilot had ejected, and the D Squadron guys had watched his parachute coming down as the Pucara exploded into the hillside. The sight had boosted morale no end, and Kel had been whooping with delight.

The story had not ended there. Two years or so later, D Squadron went over to Germany to the Stinger training centre run by the Americans. The training was in simulators because the weapon was so expensive. The American instructors only got to fire one a year at most, and had certainly never used the thing in a war.

"We've got this wonderful weapon," one of the instructors had beamed. "Any of you guys seen it before?"

Kel had put his hand up and the instructor had smirked, "In a simulator?"

"No," had come the blasé reply, "I shot down a jet with it."

That had wiped the smirk of the instructor's face pretty damned sharpish.

The tale was the stuff of regimental legend and Ash himself had just added to that legend; being the first SAS trooper to down extraterrestrial aircraft – or possibly spacecraft. Of this, Ash was oblivious as the Stinger chirped angrily in his hands and he tapped the trigger. But it would prove to be a source of amusement when down the pub with his mates later on in his life.

The missile deployed its manoeuvring fins, uncaring that Ash was leaping back into cover again, and these moved a few fractions of a millimetre in accordance to the orders generated by its computer brain – a microchip the size of a second-class stamp. The pilot never saw it coming, and the craft was reduced to a blazing airborne fireball.

Ash discarded the second launch tube, attaching the last fresh one before stuffing the Stinger back in its Allison bag. He slung the SAM across his back and grabbed his 203.

Apophis frowned. "(What of the disposition of Ra's forces?)"

"(Much of his fleet has been diverted to continue the attacks into Sokar's territory,)" said Ba'al. "(At least two thirds of Ra's armies are assigned to the campaign. Before I left Illonax, I received word that a great fleet of Ra's ships had begun an attack on Tartarus, and an army had made planetfall upon the surface of Netu.)"

Apophis nodded, and looked Ba'al squarely in the eye. For thousands of years, they had dedicated their lives and resources to destroying each other in their respective bids for power. But such was the way of the Goa'uld; indeed, there was a much-needed natural balance that arose from the conflict. If one Goa'uld were to rise in power above the rest then the balance would crumble and surely the Goa'uld would crumble along with it to leave only that one dominant Goa'uld to rule the entire galaxy.

And now, Ra looked set to be that Goa'uld. It was simply not possible to permit this.

"(Is this feasible?)"

Apophis was surprised by Ba'al's question. "(Can we stop Ra? Together, yes,)" he said.

Ba'al nodded, and proffered his hand. "(Then by all means,)" he said, smiling, "(let us discuss the nature of our…alliance.)"

Apophis solemnly grasped Ba'al's hand in a warrior's handshake, wrists clasped. This day would see the course of history change forever.

It was perhaps unfortunate that neither Goa'uld would get the chance to fully understand how this would become true.

The buildings of the Goa'uld nobility of Chulak, whilst for the most part simple, were cunningly constructed to provide a solid, dependable structure as well as presenting something of aesthetic value. Within the city, the noble houses of the Goa'uld formed an inner sanctum, around which the Jaffa had to make do with suitably humbler dwellings, constructed from simpler and more cheaply available materials.

The plaza was truly vast, its cobbled grounds now packed beyond capacity with human slaves and Jaffa alike. Before the crowd stood the great palace of their god. Many ranks of warriors of his Serpent Guard were at the steps and upon the ramparts.

Upon the wide stone balcony high above, various priests and lesser gods had gathered. A party of the High Priests themselves had arrived, shrouded in dark cloaks and hoods, ceremonial staffs in hand as they took up their positions in the pulpits that jutted out from the balcony. A Crystal of Farseeing was upon the central dais, which protruded from the balcony in the middle of the priests' pulpits. In the skies above, three of Apophis' mighty golden chariots hovered, a visible sign of the power of their god.

Across dozens of star systems, upon almost two hundred worlds, a silence descended upon the viewers of this historic occasion as their two great gods emerged from the palace and stepped onto the dais. They looked truly divine, as indeed they were, clad in armour, cloaks of fine silks about their shoulders.

Apophis opened his mouth to speak—

"SHAKE OUT!"

The unfamiliar words of the alien language were screamed by the High Priest to Apophis' left.

Robes and hoods were flung back. Staffs were discarded, and strange weapons were raised.

And then the balcony above erupted into the fire and the wrath of a godless people.

The first chapter will be posted on the 27th/28th of May under the TV Shows/Stargate SG-1 section. See you there!

Jack

Postscript: please note that speech in brackets denotes that a language other than English is being spoken. Speech in bold means that a Goa'uld is speaking.