Part Six: Good Neighbors


"Thanks, just checking," Jack answered the desk clerk to his inquiry about messages.

Jack finished signing in at the 'Mirage' hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada. The tropical motif in the complex did little to amuse him. The hotel itself was gorgeous. No detail had been spared to make it a show place suggesting a desert oasis. The lavish busy carpet directed the eyes forward. The lights and colors on the casino floor kept the eye moving laterally. The ceiling was tempered and toned to force the eye back level with the action of the gambling in the casino. Everything about the decorations was subtly constructed to draw the person in and keep him there. Getting in was easy. Getting out was more difficult. There were no straight lines making it simple to find the exit. But, the bellboy directed Jack to the bank of elevators past the casino and showed him how to use the key card to access the elevators. Security prevented casual strangers from accessing guest quarters. If you weren't a registered guest or with a registered guest, you weren't going up there.

Jack exited on his floor. The busy carpet along with the busy wallpaper made him a little dizzy. The endless patterns of trellis vines and stripes in greens, pinks, and yellows were enough to make anyone puke. But he made it to his room, which was nice enough. It had a view of the pool area. That was a sight to behold. Palms surrounded an enormous swimming pool with fake boulders forming a slide into the water for big and little kids. The bar area featured live music. Jack pulled back the curtains and looked around the room.

But no messages waited for him. No flashing light on the telephone indicated Ellie was waiting someplace lost and clueless. He half expected her to be late. His woman, yes, he was beginning to think of her that way, was alternately helpless and extremely competent. He just never knew which would be operating in any give situation. Frankly, it was charming, thought Jack. He smiled remembering how Christmas lights intrigued her. Then he remembered how she was so clueless as to wave at the men tailing them to the hardware store. But she managed to drive hundreds of miles yesterday to retrieve his ID and meet him to get him out of jail. Jail. That was one weird experience not to be repeated. No, something was off about this whole situation. And he had a bad feeling about her absence.

After checking with Amtrak, Jack learned the train didn't go to Las Vegas at all. The Southwest Chief stopped in Kingman, Arizona before crossing the Colorado River into California. At Kingman, a bus transfer accepted train travelers going to Las Vegas as part of the ticket. There was no way to know if she made it on the bus. And there had been no delays of either the bus or the train. Jack knew he put her on the train just after 7 pm yesterday. The train arrived at Kingman at 12:39 am. The bus departed at 12:55 am. So, the bus had arrived at 3:40 am. Where was she? Did she misunderstand and windup in Los Angeles at the end of the line? There was a bus service from LA to Las Vegas, but it would have arrived just after 4 pm. It was now 8 pm. As far as the Colonel knew, she had no cell phone, since she had never offered him the number, nor had he seen her with one. This was not a good sign. But she was ditzy. She could have strayed and gone to some other hotel by mistake. There was no way to know which one. There were so many. Las Vegas had dozens and dozens of hotels.

Jack decided to change and wait for her in the sports bar. He wasn't much of a gambler and so the sports bar was a great place to have a beer and watch a game without throwing a lot of money away. So, the silver haired officer did the logical thing any man would do. He left a message for her at the desk saying where he would be and went to have a beer. Jack sat in the sports bar for hours. The thought briefly occurred to him that she got confused and somehow switched trains to go back and try to get to Las Vegas, New Mexico. The ticket would have read Las Vegas, Nevada.

No, she wouldn't have over thought the problem to that extent, would she?

O'Neill was getting very worried. Ellie was not well versed in American life. She was a stranger. It was upsetting to realize she could be lost anywhere along 1500 miles of train track and bus route. Recriminations rattled around O'Neill's brain.

How couldI have left her there?I should have gone on the train with her and postponed the meeting. That meeting could have waited.

The colonel kicked himself thoroughly. He invited her to accompany him knowing she wouldn't fly. He knew she was generally clueless. He could have put her on the train in Denver. That route did go into Union Station in Las Vegas freaking NEVADA, NOT the one in New Mexico. For that matter, he could have taken it with her on military rates. Jack reminded himself that they could have driven the rest of the way from Gallup and arrived at 2 am in Las Vegas instead.

She would have been safe. No,I had to be a big shot and have a plane sent for me to get him to a scientific review meeting on time. What an asshole I am.

The police will not take a missing persons report until the missing person is gone twenty-four hours. The problem as Jack realized was the question of where to file the report. Should he file the report at the beginning of the trip in Gallup, New Mexico or in Kingman, Arizona, or Las Vegas, NEVADA or NEW MEXICO, or in Los Angeles, California and all points in between? Colonel O'Neill decided to ask the local police. From the room, Jack called the police. They told him to talk to the FBI since the matter crossed state lines. Great. He would never find her with them on the case. They had higher priorities than her. He had to make her a priority. But how? It was time to call in a few markers. The rest of the evening Jack was on the phone. But the time difference meant that most people back East had gone home. Nothing would happen before work the next morning. So O'Neill turned in. Staring up at the ceiling, sleep eluded him. He sat up and made arrangements to fly back to Kirtland, Air Force Base in Albuquerque.


Over 400 miles east of Las Vegas, Nevada, Old Begay awakened early in the morning. Lying in the morning chill under several blankets, he took in the rain smells. From outside the Hogan, the traditional Navajo dwelling, half in and half out of the ground, he could hear birds fluttering. Perhaps it was a raven, known as the Trickster. The scent of wet sage and pinion resin blew in through the partially open door. Somehow it had blown loose in the storm. He saw the eastern horizon just brightening behind the familiar shape of Mount Taylor some sixty miles away in New Mexico. Its real name was Reaches For The Sky. The mountain was one of the four sacred mountains, which marked the four corners of the Land of the People. He hoped the belagana woman had not died in the night. He did not want to abandon this site. No Navajo would ever live again in a Hogan where someone had died. Their ch'indii or spirit had to be set free. So a big hole would be poked in the side of the round earthen dwelling to let it out, and as a sign to others not to come in.

Old Begay reached over to check the pulse of the woman cursed for the skinwalkers. She still lived. He sighed in relief. This Hogan had been in the family for many generations. Water was close by. Grazing was not disputed. The Navajo tempered his happiness that morning because the Navajo Way or the Middle Way avoided all excesses. It was enough to have enjoyed the dawn over the mountain and the smells from the rain. But he was also glad the woman had not died. Slowly he rose and almost instinctually shuffled around her outstretched body. No Navajo will step over another human being. He ducked out the door and went for water to make the morning coffee. Today, the ones who practiced Datura would come for the woman. People involved in Datura were usually also involved in narcotics. He had to keep the woman alive until then. Otherwise, the Navajo wolves would have the witch work on him.


It was now or never. A tall blonde man crossed the dusty street in Albuquerque to the convenience store. The officer he wanted was crossing the parking lot. The blonde man hurried. Between the cars, the two men eyed each other. Jack warily assessed the man who made eye contact so boldly. He had just returned to Kirtland AF Base and had stopped to buy some gas.

"And what do you want?" Jack held himself loose ready to strike if necessary. But the rumpled figure kept his distance and made no sudden moves. Jack checked his back to make sure the gentleman in front of him was not a distraction for someone approaching from the rear. No one was around. "Ok. What?"

"Colonel O'Neill, we need to talk."

"About?"

"Dr. Ellie Thorsdaughter." That got Jack's attention.

"And you are?"

"Dr. Lars Svenson, her friend. A colleague actually." The square jawed muscular scientist considered the hostility in the officer's body language. It was scary enough just approaching a dangerous man, let alone this one. "Look, she's my friend, too. But there's more. Can we go somewhere and talk?"

"We are doing fine right here."

"No, we can't talk here. Please, you pick the place. But," the man drew in a breath and closed his eyes. " But, Colonel O'Neill, you should understand that we, that is I, know who you are. I know about the Stargate. I'm asking for your help."

"Don't know what you're talking about. If you'll excuse me," Jack clicked the alarm off his new Ford 350 pick up truck and opened the door to make his exit. Dr. Svenson moved swiftly to grab the door.

"Please, Colonel O'Neill, she's in trouble. For Ellie's sake." The man held the door open. Jack was ready to slam it shut on his hand. But something in the man's eyes begged him not to go.

"What makes you think she's in trouble?"

"Because we can't find her either. And because we know the Goa'uld are after her." Jack met the man's eyes and found no deceit in them. "She's an alien... I'm an alien. There, now you know." The man removed his hand from the truck door and stood back. Jack closed the door, thought about it, and rolled down the window.

"Get in."

Once his passenger was seated, Jack pulled out of the lot. No one spoke for many miles. Jack continued down Central Avenue into Old Town. The colonial plaza off San Felipe Street contained an adobe cathedral, a park in the central square, and many shops for the tourists who come searching for the old American Southwest. A few Indians peddle their wares, consisting mainly of turquoise and silver jewelry, painted ceramics, and woven wool blankets. Most of it is made in Hong Kong or SE Asia. The silver is prefabricated so that anyone can add whatever nugget of reconstituted turquoise or coral or mother of pearl chip will fit the space. With a pair of pliers, almost anyone is an artist.

Tourists will not buy real turquoise jewelry because they think the natural veins of copper, which are always present in American turquoise are ugly. So the real stuff is ground up to remove the copper then reconstituted by binding polymers to the dust along with some dye and a lacquer finish to make it shine. It is 'real' turquoise or at least real turquoise dust held together. Chip it, and you find out how much polymer is in it by the white color inside the 'stone.' Plenty of times, it's just plain plastic. So buying from street hawkers is a risk.

A shop in Gallup, New Mexico caters to the Indians to supply all the materials they need to finish a work of 'art.' In there, anyone can buy bars of silver etched or pressed with appropriate designs according to which tribe uses what figures. If you want Zuni, find the Zuni section. If you want Hopi or Navajo, the same thing applies. The silver bar with the readymade setting for the beads and stones then can be bent to form bracelets or whatever. Sometimes an 'artist' will make an original. But it is rare. The blanks for the ceramics are on sale there too. The 'artist' can then apply paint and glue on sand to make his designs and even sign the piece. Unsuspecting tourists buy it up by the busload. That shop in Gallup does big business.

True dealers know that the best place to find real Indian turquoise, pots, woven baskets, and blankets is in pawnshops on the reservations. The Indians favor large silver and turquoise pieces in the form of belt buckles, bolero clips, huge bracelets, and necklaces. Conchos stamped from old silver Mexican pesos link to form hatbands and belts. These items of jewelry or pots or old woven baskets or blankets are routinely pawned for cash and redeemed. In other words, it represents wearable cash. When the pawn cannot be redeemed it is called dead pawn and sent to dealers in Holbrook, Arizona. Once a year there is a show where store buyers come to pick over the best of it and sell it to connoisseurs.

Jack ignored the street hawkers and headed for the church. It was unlikely that anyone would be listening there. Inside, he sat down with the man. Both men kept silence trying to sense the other. Ellie's friend began quietly and seriously.

"Colonel O'Neill, I am Dr. Lars Svenson. I'm an anthropologist." Lars tried to assess Jack's reaction. He got nothing. "Dr. Eldridge was your neighbor the past two years. He was one of us. Unfortunately, he had to go home on an emergency. So Ellie was sent to take over the project. She got here right before Christmas. That's when you met her."

Jack nodded, waiting. Well that would explain why she had no idea about Christmas.

"Ellie's specialty is pre-industrial societies. Her assignment here was due to the premature departure of Dr. Eldridge. No one else at her level was available or would come." Dr. Svenson sighed. "Earth is not considered to be a premium posting. It's tough to get people to come."

Jack gave him such a look. "We've been told that before." And he rolled his eyes and frowned, losing patience. "An alien, right, whatever, sure you are. What are you posted here to do?"

"It's a long term research project. We are funded by the Science Academy on our world. It's nothing sinister. I know what you are thinking, but not everyone is a threat. We are scientists. Your world is interesting, at least to some of us." Jack snorted in response. "Look, you go to other worlds and poke around, too. Don't look at me like I am some criminal."

"No, you are an ALIEN, uh huh. Yasureyabetcha." Jack eyed the man again. "Assuming you are some alien, oh brother...anyway, well, I take it you are hiding that fact?"

"Of course we are. This place is not exactly welcoming to off world peoples. And you know what would happen if we had asked permission. We'd be locked up or dissected or worse. The N.I.D. is gruesome." It was Dr. Svenson's turn to roll his eyes. Jack frowned.

"So why did you stake out my house?"

"What?"

"Why did you locate directly across the street from my house?"

"Why not? It's a nice neighborhood." Dr. Svenson was perplexed. "What? You have exclusive rights to live on your street? It's a free country."

Now it was Jack's turn to react in amazement on that phrase. "Free country!"

"So I've heard. You live in a nice neighborhood. You want us to locate in the ghetto or the jungle?" Dr. Svenson snorted. "For crying out loud, why go looking when we know you live there? It had to be ok. So when we saw the house for sale across the street, we bought it."

"You're kidding?"

"No. Why?"

"You moved into my neighborhood because I live there?"

"Yes. We knew all about you. It's why we decided to come."

"WHAT? Do you practice being vague?"

"We know all about your escapades. Frankly, we are amazed you've lasted this long with what's out there and your level of development. Look, Colonel, the N.I.D. was stealing from us. We did a little investigation and discovered they were from the same planet as you. We sent people to recover our stolen property. Then we realized it was a good science project to study a society on the brink of star travel."

"Oh, puh-leeze." Jack gave him a look of complete disbelief.

The pew was hard. In his seat, Dr. Svenson shifted uncomfortably. His long legs were cramped. "Colonel O'Neill, I came to you and put my cards on the table. You could kill me or capture me right now. I have no weapons. I took the risk because Ellie is a good woman. She's my friend and a kind soul." Lars was very afraid of this ruthless warrior. But the appeal had to be made. "Ellie cares for you. She told me you two have become close. She wasn't supposed to interfere. But, it happened. My question is will you help her?"

Jack sat there silently for many minutes. This guy could be anyone. So far, Jack had not admitted to knowing anything. If this man was a spy or worse a journalist, then even a wrong word or gesture could expose the Stargate Program. But it did explain why Ellie seemed so clueless at times. Now he wondered if they were trying to play him. Maybe there was some other game involved. The man seemed sincere. Ellie seemed sweet and charming. But they were spies of some sort. Even science projects convey information used by someone for what purpose who knew?

"Can you prove it? Can you prove you're an alien? Beam me up, Scotty and all that?" Jack got a little surly as a cover. Dr. Svenson sighed.

"Nothing so dramatic, but I could show you something you might recognize. Here," Lars pulled out shishta coins used on Chulak. Jack recognized them but said nothing. And then Lars pulled out a round device and put it in his palm. A hologram of Narim, the Tollan projected before them.

"Will you put that thing away?" Jack grabbed it and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. No one had. Jack hissed through his teeth, "are you nuts? Ok, let's have a look." Jack looked around and stood up. Lars followed. Jack opened the door to a confessional and went inside then held out his hand for the device. Shutting the door, O'Neill listened to Narim give a speech at some assembly or other. When it was over, Ellie went up to the podium and gave Narim a hug. Oh yeah, they were aliens. Jack emerged, nodding to the local priest who had become curious.

"Do you wish to confess, my son?" The priest looked expectantly at Jack.

"Um, no, thanks, I changed my mind." Jack took Dr. Svenson's arm and hurried him outside the church. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Find her."