Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or the Buffy/Stargate/Star Wars triumvirate...bugger...
Stargate Command
"What's the status of SG-2 right now?" Hammond asked.
"Sir," Walter said, "they're currently prepping to receive the Alpha Site teams when they arrive. There's also a message from the Watcher, they say their recovered SG-1 plus one Goa'uld EPW and Master Bra'Tac."
"Now that IS excellent news, Master Sergeant; tell the Alpha Site teams to stand down, and send a message to the Watcher congratulating them on a job well done. I look forward to meeting them onboard the station." Hammond was relieved that the operation had been a success, and the bonus of encountering the old Jaffa master and rebel leader, to use a euphemism, and capturing one Goa'uld was the cherry on top of the fudge sundae that this day promised to become.
"There's actually a bit of bad news on that front, General; we can't leave yet, not until Senator Kinsey arrives to board the shuttle with us, and he's on his way in a Gulfstream from his office in Indiana…"
The O-8's shoulders slumped just slightly at that letdown; this was a political move, pure and simple, and Kinsey was coming determined to find out why the SGC was continuing to operate without further funding from the Appropriations Committee. Technically, this was true, but emergency circumstances such as the Vigilant Watcher's arrival, plus the threat of a Goa'uld invasion, did not respect the national budget, and Hammond was forced to keep the lights on regardless of orders.
Kinsey, though, would not care about any of that, and everyone in Stargate Command, especially its commanding general, knew it.
"Damn…." swore the Texan sotto voce. After a half minute Hammond composed himself as best he could, and in a normal voice he stated, "Walter, you know I don't like the man one bit, but he is a Senator and as such outranks even me, so I want you to advise Feretti and his team that they are to assemble in the briefing room in one hour. I want them on the shuttle with us when Kinsey and his bunch arrive. And relay our situation to the Watcher, if you'd be so kind…" Almost as an afterthought, he added, "When you're done with that, contact NASA and see what the Hubble can show us up there; I want to be kept up to date on their situation. They kept us from having to launch our nukes, and they kept Earth going for a while yet, so as far as I'm concerned, those people up there are our allies."
He neglected to mention the other half of his position, and George Hammond would be damned if anyone else saw that on one level, he'd had the same idea as the not-so-good Senator. Not with the flag-planting part, after all, but in using their new allies' capabilities to the utmost. Generals, after all, did not earn their stars without learning to think like politicians on one level, and like soldiers on another. He knew when to channel Mother Theresa, and when to think like Niccolo Machiavelli. Right now Hammond certainly understood what Machiavelli would think when presented with such a unique opportunity as the presence of the Vigilant Watcher.
Alliances served a purpose of convenience; specifically, when mutual benefit was crucial to building lasting friendships, windows opened through which one could peer into the ally's house and unlock their secrets. Part of a general officer's job was the keeping and stealing of secrets. Then again, so was a politician's….
Local space near Vigilant Watcher
Between the two Goa'uld Ha'Taks and the gargantuan battle station, the sheer number of fighters appeared as so many insects in space, albeit insects with minds and furies of their own, as they chased and shot at each other, the Jaffa piloting the Death Gliders with fanatic zeal and utter devotion to their perceived deities, the other with cold logical programming that said 'eliminate all targets'. Neither could the droid TIEs deviate from their programming nor the Jaffa from their holy mission. And to add to the confusion and chaos of the firefight, the Ha'Tak that hosted the Supreme System Lord Apophis, favored of Ra, was still pouring plasma fire at the Vigilant Watcher's hull, pockmarking it in small, negligible spots and adding to the death toll of its own Jaffa pilots; Apophis would not allow his followers to be taken by the enemy and subverted against him.
The Goa'uld fighters were limited in their maneuvering capacity by the living, fragile bodies of the Jaffa piloting them, and against opponents that could fly backwards and fire on their pursuers, that could turn tighter and faster than living pilots, firing green plasma bolts that wore down their shields more quickly to the point of collapse than they had ever experienced…they had little chance, if any. And even though the drone fighters had no shielding, they were far more numerous, more than a thousand to the Jaffas' several hundred, and they attacked every single Death Glider in tight formations of three or more. What the Jaffa didn't know was that the TIE drones siphoned their energy directly from the limited stellar light available as well as from the battle station that charged them in their cradles before deployment, whereas the Jaffa craft ran on a limited energy reserve derived from their own power cells and could not continually recharge themselves during an engagement. And for the Jaffa, there was no thought of flight from the engagement zone; the gods punished cowardice with slow torture, followed by an equally slow death, as an object lesson to those that would further defy them. And somehow, the Tau'ri had decided that they had captured enough of the enemy, having decided at some point to destroy the rest.
For the servants of Apophis and Klorel fighting here in space, it was clear that they had been sent to their deaths. Our deaths are glory to Apophis, and to his mighty son Klorel, was the common though in the minds of every single pilot that met his or her end above the Tau'ri homeworld. We are your Jaffa. Gladly and freely do we give our lives in your service and for your purpose…So may it be…
Vigilant Watcher, Overbridge
"The last Death Glider had been neutralized, Xander," reported Buffy from the command chair. "Commencing final ion bombardment of both Goa'uld motherships…"
Buffy imagined that out in space, the battle station was trading broadsides with the alien ships in the old style of the wooden seagoing man-of-war ships that flew the flags of the British Empire, France, Spain, and the Netherlands, among other nations. She saw frigates and tenders trading cannon shots, the iron balls propelled by a powder charge to smash into target ships' hulls, with crews standing by, ducking down under the gunwales and ready to swing across the water and board the other. That part of her that was increasingly Lady Elizabeth, though she knew next to nothing about naval combat tactics and strategy, had sailed on enough of her father's frigates and dreadnaughts to have seen a naval battle once or twice, and as terrifying as the experience had been to her noble-born alter ego, it had also been quite the fascinating experience as well. Since the Lady Elizabeth had arrived in the American Colonies, she had dedicated herself to the study of her father's craft of war upon the high seas. Out here in the cold of space, the difference was far more vast, for as much as the fighters swarming around each other in the recently-ended furball had resembled insects, compared to the overwhelming size and vastness of the Death Star that she and her fellow Scoobies called the Vigilant Watcher, the two Goa'uld attack ships resembled specks of dust even more so. Within five minutes the engagement had ended, with both enemy vessels dead in space, their power reserves almost immediately depleted following the collapse of their shields.
Just as the final tally was recorded by the Watcher's instruments, the double doors opened, revealing Xander, Cordelia, and Warren and his boys, followed by a group of four individuals the likes of which she had never seen. Upon recognizing Xander Buffy immediately stood from the command chair, stepping to its side to formally relinquish command back to the rightful commanding officer.
Damn that aristocrat of a Lord's and Admiral's daughter, and her insistence on protocol! Buffy cursed inwardly. She bowed slightly at the waist, however, when Xander approached her to accept his post once again.
"You do good work, Commander Summers," he said jovially as he took in the displays around the Overbridge and their wealth of data. "You just Slayed your first two starships." Her reaction to his statement was surprisingly subdued, at least to him; whereas before Buffy Summers would have been hopping with glee and giggling as though she were her even more diminutive grammar school self, after the chaos spell had broken, the Lady Elizabeth's manners and attitudes had tempered her glee with noble reserve. Xander took in her subsequent curious glance at the Air Force team and added, "May I present our rescuees, the Air Force group designated SG-1? The tall gray-haired man is Colonel Jack O'Neill, the woman is his Executive Officer, Captain Samantha Carter, the civilian with the glasses is Doctor Daniel Jackson, an archaeologist who specializes in Ancient Egypt, and…" looking at the big black man with the staff, "let me see if I have this right…Teal'C? With an apostrophe?"
"You are correct, Grand Moff," said he, inclining his head ever so slightly. Buffy noted with added curiosity the gold emblem affixed to his forehead, as though the gold had actually been poured there in its molten state.
Regarding the rest of SG-1, however, Buffy could not but take notice of the astonished looks adorning each individual face. She'd seen that look a hundred times among those who had inadvertently learned of her mystical calling; each had wondered how someone so young could handle the extreme responsibility of being the sold guardian of humanity against all the forces of the myriad Hells in existence. The Lady Elizabeth had also seen it many times on the faces of those men who had been rendered speechless by her intuitive grasp of naval combat tactics in her time. Normally they'd have been right, as most women of Elizabeth's time were thoroughly indoctrinated into thinking there was no greater or more glorious purpose in their existence than to marry a member of the nobility and bear their sons, and to see that a young woman of excellent breeding and sophistication could show up even the most experienced and skilled naval tactician to serve the Crown was a feat beyond measure. Aside from the Colonel, the whole of SG-1 wisely kept their lips pressed together.
"OK, um, somebody tell me I'm hearing this right….Grand Moff? Commander? Doesn't anyone here, aside from the Englishman standing down there in that pit, think that these people look just a little too young to be in command of a ginormous planet-bashing battle station?"
The aforementioned Englishman then calmly strode out of the pit and around the command chair where Xander had taken his seat, regarding the SG-1 troopers with an expression that blended curious analysis with a paternal glare. The young Moff might have been in command here on this station, O'Neill realized, but it was this man that they all looked to for advice and wisdom. Giles's gaze fell finally on the O-7, and he stood there before him finally. He could have challenged the Colonel's statement, had he been as generous with his information now as in his youth, but the Watcher decided that their confrontation required a bit more civility.
"Colonel O'Neill," he said, "I would assume a man such as yourself does not rise to your rank by being either blind or slow-witted. These teenagers you see before you…"
"Teenagers?!" blurted out the members of SG-1 almost in unison, save for the big Jaffa…
"If we can all endeavor to keep the outbursts to a minimum?" replied Giles. "It was an accident of Fate, to put it simply, that permitted this construct to come into being, and allowed these young men and women to acquire the skills and experience requisite to the demands of operating it. For their part, they conducted an operation that not only rescued the four of you, but potentially saved this whole planet from destruction and subsequent subjugation by these Goa'uld, as you call them. Were it not for this accident, the details of which I'm sure you'll wish to hear at some point, those ships out there would be raining fire down on the surface at this time instead of being dead in space."
"You don't say…" quipped Jack. "But what you are saying, I think, is that not only we, but about six billion people, give or take a few thousand, now owe their lives to a few teenagers and their privately owned weapon of mass destruction. That sum it up pretty much?"
"Just so."
"Colonel," said a bewildered Sam Carter just then, "this has to be impossible; a construct of this size can't be controlled by only a few teenagers with neither the skill nor the technical knowledge required to run it. Judging by the size alone, you would need a crew of close to a million people. This doesn't even bring into account how the station can even maintain its position. The amount of reaction force required to move it even a fraction of a respectable distance would depend on a fuel demand that is simply astronomical…"
"Not so difficult to believe as you might think, Captain," interjected Xander. "The fuel cells, as massive as they have to be to run a station this size, are very much capable of recharging themselves on a continual basis, and the electrical load is supplied by a number of fusion reactors and reaction chambers where matter and hypermatter combine in equal proportions, to control the reaction and guarantee a constant flow of energy. It's the same process that powers the station's primary weapon…"
The looks of utter confusion borne by their faces to Xander were priceless. He could clearly hear them mumble the word "hypermatter" in tones of bewilderment and outright disbelief, and he had thought of explaining how hypermatter was harvested for such a massive undertaking. From her speech, Carter sounded like a top-notch physicist, whereas O'Neill was the grizzled CO that was ever ready with a witty remark for any given situation. Good for morale, not so much for discipline. If he were Tarkin right now instead of Xander Harris, he'd probably wager about a hundred Imperial credits that his own commander, this General Hammond that Xander had yet to meet, probably viewed Jack O'Neill as the source of any number of migraines other than the Goa'uld and the US Congress. He knew this well because he had enjoyed the same relationship with Buffy's Watcher; as many times as Giles complained about being called "G-Man", one had to realize it was done purely out of a sort of surrogate father's admiration for the son he wished he could have had.
On that last note, Xander mused, if the computers on board the Vigilant Watcher were even half as powerful as he imagined they were, then he could link wirelessly to the terminals in the California Bureau of Records and have his paternal name changed to Giles. As proud as he was to be called a Harris, his drunken abomination of a father had long ago squandered that pride as well as his right to be called Father.
And Xander would by no means start calling himself Alexander Tarkin; that was just asking for all sorts of Hellmouthy trouble, whether one chose to call it a jinx or a curse, or otherwise. He resolved himself to see it through eventually, and to do it right, as it would be the height of rudeness to suddenly, and with no forewarning, declare himself the heir apparent of Rupert Edmund Giles. But regardless of all that, he knew it would have to be before he graduated from High School at the very latest. He just needed to figure out how to get his so-called 'parents' to sign the forms…
The archaeologist took this moment to make his voice heard. "Excuse me, but are you by chance the Rupert Giles that used to work for the British Museum, in Room 51?"
Having some of his earlier work mentioned by someone who clearly was an admirer and a colleague, not that Giles cared overmuch for accolades and the like, he looked Doctor Jackson in the face and beamed, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am…"
"Oh, good," Jackson smiled, his eyes lighting up at the chance to hash over their respective specialties. "Then you would be the one that published a research paper on the supernatural legends of Ancient Egypt."
"It earned me my doctorate, as I recall…"
This sudden exchange between two apparent "bone and scroll geeks", as Jack O'Neill referred to all dusty professor types, was not lost on him. Daniel had inadvertently just blown this crew's cover. He leaned over his bespectacled friend and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Can we have a quiet word?"
"Jack, I was just about to ask Doctor Giles about his thesis and…"
"Now, please…" Jack interjected pointedly. He turned his gaze to Giles then and added, "Excuse us, but us military types need to confer with our civilian colleague…"
The latter regarded the former with a blink and a brief widening of the eyes, clearly recognizing that this conversation was outside his remit. "Ah, yes. Well, if you must…"
"We definitely must, 'Doctor' Giles…"
Jack and Daniel stepped over to an unused corner of the Overbridge, Jack's hand on Daniel's upper arm in an insistent grip. Once they stopped, Jack looked over his shoulder, ensuring that none of the bridge crew were in a position to overhear, and looked the archaeologist squarely in the eyes.
"They're from Earth, Danny. OUR Earth."
"Jack, I get that, but if we can establish a rapport with these people there's no telling what we could do for each other…" Jackson replied hastily…
"And you're not getting the clue here!" Jack added in a heated stage-whisper. "We're standing on board the frigging Death Star. The. Death. Star. From the films. Where is the rest of the crew? There should be a hell of a lot more, but they're strangely absent. And why didn't they just blast the Goa'uld with that big honking planet-buster laser of theirs?"
"I've read the stories too and seen all the extra stuff; they'd have to fire twice to get them both, and there's no chance in hell they could fire a second time without stopping for a whole day to recharge it. The other ship would run scared; they'd be long gone by now!" Jackson cut in defensively.
"How'd they deploy all those fighters? No pilots, what I heard, so they must be automated, but who's programming them all? It can't be just one or two people…"
"So the programming has to be rather broad in scope, orders going to whole wings or squadrons rather than individual ships, and the droid brains in each ship determine their specific roles in the operation from those orders. I don't see how that's not entirely feasible; this whole station might somehow be fully automated and run only from here on the Overbridge."
Daniel's explanation had a clear effect on Jack O'Neill; his expression suddenly registered mild surprise as he listened to those words. "OK, there's that….so how did the station get here? Who built it?"
"The Extended Universe books say it was built over the prison colony world of Despayre, which was later destroyed during the Death Star's first test of its planet buster weapon, but we know that was in another galaxy, which doesn't exist as part of the real universe…." Jackson's words suddenly trailed off, as the realization suddenly occurred to him. "Unless it does….and nobody had any way to figure that out until now…"
"It still does not," said Teal'C suddenly, having walked over to them in an interest in their impromptu summit, "and the Goa'uld System Lords have kept numerous records of their ancient enemies throughout the universe, in many galaxies. At no point has there ever been any mention of a Galactic Empire or Rebel Alliance…"
"Glad you could take the time out of your busy schedule to join us, big guy," said Jack. Turning back to Daniel, he continued, "Which leaves the question of how it came to be here. We just don't know, do we?"
"No, we don't," realized Daniel, "and we probably won't find out for some time, unless Harris decides to tell us. They might be from our Earth, and they're human, every one of them, but they do know how to operate this battle station and deploy its assets, so there's a fair chance that they do know how it came to be here so suddenly. Why don't we just ask them?"
"Will they answer?" countered O'Neill.
"They just saved our lives, Jack. Maybe they feel they owe us an answer."
"Yes, they certainly scratched our backs, Danny boy. Wanna finish the rest of that statement?"
"Indeed," supplied Teal'C, "it is equally likely that they may feel they have earned a favor from us for rescuing us from Apophis."
It suddenly occurred to Jack and Daniel both that the Jaffa might have inadvertently supplied a way out for everyone.
"Mutual benefit…" mused Daniel.
"They scratch our backs, we scratch theirs, they scratch our backs again…it's a whole big Scratch-a-Palooza…"
"We need Hammond up here…" Daniel stated. "Let's talk to Harris…"
"Or Dr. Giles…"
"Indeed…"
Level Five, Detention Block AA-23
Cell 2187 had held Leia Organa of Alderaan, and it had held Ethan Rayne of Earth. The cell was as famous as the rest of the station from the first Star Wars film, as many fanboys and devotees of the franchise would attest to. Until this night, it had not once held an alien being. That changed when Klorel, son of Apophis and warrior of the Goa'uld, stepped across the threshold and into its confines, to sit and contemplate his present circumstances.
Securely nestled within the body of Skaara of Abydos, Klorel ruminated.
How had it come to this? He was a warrior of the first order, destined to become a System Lord after Apophis himself; destined to conquer, to rule…
This damnable host had proven stronger than most. On his ship, when the Tau'ri leader had shot him with a stolen zat'ni'ktel, the host had proven strong enough to momentarily resurface, and the Tau'ri had witnessed the emergence. Only moments later he himself had been abducted, and a standoff forced. He had tapped into the mind of Skaara and used his words, when his Jaffa warriors were set to kill SG-1.
He could feel the host now, fighting, struggling to regain control of his consciousness. Until tonight, Klorel thought the idea an exercise in futility, as it was long known that nothing of the host could survive the blending. From now on he would fear the truth….
Warring with insecurity inside the body of Skaara of Abydos, Klorel ruminated.
Vicinity of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado, United States of America
The latest communique from the Vigilant Watcherdetailed a location suitable for a Lambda-class shuttle to touch down without being observed, and it was here now that the delegation from the SGC had gathered together, including General Hammond, Janet Frasier, the base's Chief Medical Officer, the hastily-recalled SG-2, and Senator Kinsey, who was last to arrive after the pilot of his personal Gulfstream jet had to make a sudden course correction. The night sky was currently overcast, obscuring all starlight and threatening to get heavy with gathering rain clouds; it was precisely because of this that the clearing in this area of the local forest was selected for the shuttle landing site. Thunderstorms and heavy rain made people want to get indoors in a hurry, so they would be less likely to observe an unknown craft descending through the clouds.
The craft in question homed in on the clearing now, guided only by a precise set of coordinates and the Global Positioning System that was somehow being accessed by the shuttle's navigation system. Flashes of lightning reflected off the stark white hull, rivaling the glow from the exhaust nozzles and heralding the imminent downpour, and great peals of thunder drowned out the low-pitched drone of the shuttle's propulsion system. On the ground, someone had thrown a signal grenade that was now belching green-colored smoke, blowing almost sideways in the increasing wind. Were it not for the fact that the Kuat Drive Yards Lambda-class Imperial shuttle was not a true atmospheric craft, relying instead on the repulsorlifts that held it aloft rather than aerodynamic principle, the wind would have made it nearly impossible for the craft to fly, let alone achieve escape velocity.
Hammond watched the wings fold upwards as the craft descended into the clearing. He didn't know why he was suddenly reminded of the wings of a bird of prey as it prepared to powerdive towards a potential meal, and he forcefully cleared his head of that image as the shuttle glided down to a feather landing. Floodlights along the underside backlit the steam that belched forth from the reaction control nozzles, and the boarding ramp lowered as like a dragon opening its great maw to swallow whole its prey. He half expected to see a gnarled old man in a black cloak walk down the ramp with the aid of an equally gnarled cane, and he mentally suppressed a shiver. Thankfully no such personification of ultimate evil manifested from the shuttle's belly.
Instead, a young woman wearing a grey officer's uniform emerged and descended from the ramp to touch the ground as though science fantasy had suddenly passed through an invisible barrier into grim reality.
Robert Kinsey, for his part, found he could not describe the scene unfolding before him. The young woman with the shoulder-length blonde hair could not be more than sixteen years of age. He was no Star Wars fan, but he suspected that she was a lower-ranking officer, and thus could be generally easy to sway. He still had to tread carefully, however, as looks were generally deceiving; young though the junior officer was, it was clear she held a position of some authority, judging by the way she carried herself as she strode toward General Hammond with purpose. There was something about the eyes as well, he realized, something that bespoke of grim experience with darker, more nightmarish things than the Galactic Empire that the uniform she wore represented. It did not mesh with reality, the Senator's mind kept denying to him.
Once she was face to face with the General, the young officer spoke. "Are you Major General George Hammond, senior officer in charge of the SGC?"
"Yes, I am in charge of the Joint Special Operations unit called Stargate Command," Hammond introduced himself. "With me are my Chief Medical Officer, Captain Janet Frasier, MD, my second expeditionary team designated SG-2, Major Donald Feretti commanding, and Senator Robert Kinsey of Indiana, who also chairs the Senate Appropriations Committee. We are honored to receive you and equally honored to be permitted to board your space station."
The young officer inclined her head very slightly, her eyes opening as she heard the words 'Stargate Command'. After only a second, though, she nodded her head in acceptance. "I am Commander Buffy Summers of the Vigilant Watcher, assigned by its commander, Grand Moff Xander Harris, to convey you all to the station. He will be pleased to meet you all, I'm sure, just as he will be pleased to hear about your Stargate Command. No doubt we have much to learn from each other." She turned to Kinsey then, intrigue reflecting in her old eyes and contrasting with her almost childlike cheeks. "A political leader? Grand Moff Harris will be especially interested in meeting with you, Senator Kinsey of Indiana."
"As I would be delighted to meet with the Grand Moff, on behalf of the US Congress," Kinsey returned. He felt slightly envious of the young Imperial Captain, who seemed to have no trouble speaking over the wind whereas he and Hammond almost had to shout. He then added, "Perhaps we could board the shuttle and lift off before the rain gets here?"
"Agreed," said the young Commander, nodding her assent; "time is short, and there is much to discuss. Please take your seats once we board, and I will do my best to make the trip as short and smooth as possible given the local weather."
The first drops of rain began to fall, faint at first, then harder and heavier by degrees, as the joint SGC/Senate delegation began to climb up the smooth surface of the boarding ramp and into the belly of the shuttle. While the ramp closed, thunder and lightning equally struck in greater frequency as the storm front drew near, and at some point after lifting off the craft had to fly through sheets of rain before it could break through the cloud layer and pass through the stratosphere. Within the shuttle, nothing was felt, not even a jolt. The seating for the passengers, while not the most comfortable, was decent enough, and with the inertial compensators dialed up it was actually a little more than tolerable for all but one. Kinsey was used to the finer comforts and the frantic scurrying of his personal staff to and fro as they hastened to carry out his commands, so he was more than just a little disappointed.
Still, he wouldn't mind flying around the country or the planet in one of these; they beat out his personal Gulfstream jet any day of the week. A Kuat Drive Yards Lambda would be able to get from point A to point B in far less time than it took to achieve flight ceiling in a Gulfstream, and all without feeling a thing either on takeoff or landing. Add the fact of VTOL capability to the mix and Kinsey decided that once the Death Star station, which this young pilot called the Vigilant Watcher for some reason, was entirely under US control, then flying on one of these would become a fact of life. He'd just have to have something done to get better seats installed on his personal shuttle; let the rest of the government fly coach if that satisfied them. A Senator of the United States was entitled to better by far.
His musings were interrupted by the pilot's voice over the loudspeaker. "Gentlemen and madame, we've just broken through the ionosphere and are now on course to the Vigilant Watcher; our estimated time in flight should be about thirty minutes, as the station is currently holding position on the dark side of your moon. You may feel free to move about the cabin if you so desire, but I would ask you to return to your seats once we make our final approach."
It was only after Commander Summers made her announcement that everyone realized something. There had been no sensation of weightlessness. The flight out of the atmosphere of Earth had been so smooth that no-one had noticed the sensation of gravity. It had to have been generated artificially, but how? This technology was centuries ahead of its time; Kinsey was right to mention that to President Johnson over the phone just prior to traveling to the SGC, and he was now more convinced than ever that the Death Star and all its technology had to become the property of the US government. They sure as hell couldn't allow it to fall into the hands of the Chinese or the Russians, as they were likely to blow up the planet in a misguided attempt to wipe the US off the face of the Earth.
And thirty minutes from Earth orbit to the other side of the Moon? What sort of fuel was it using to produce that much thrust? Even the Space Shuttle system used gigantic solid rocket boosters filled with solid oxygen just to escape Earth's gravity, and an even larger external fuel tank besides. This small shuttlecraft looked like it couldn't make altitude, let alone the vast distance from here to the Moon and beyond. With that kind of range, the opportunities to colonize the solar system, let alone the galaxy, were manifold. The untold riches…
Kinsey was not stupid. Reality itself was staring him right in the face, and it wore the visage of an orbiting weapon of mass destruction. The Senator was no scientist, but it didn't take a scientist to figure out that whatever fuel the Lambda was using, the Death Star was using an unimaginably more vast quantity of the same, not only for propulsion, but also, he strongly suspected, to power its huge primary weapon. Whenever the next shuttle that touched down on Earth's surface, he had to make sure it was on US soil, so the science team that he would contract out for the assignment could obtain a sample of the fuel for analysis. Plus he might have to ensure that anything that passed through the hands of Hammond or O'Neill was reported to him by his contacts in the NID, on the off-chance that they acquired a key technology or learned a vital secret that could prove damaging to national security.
There was still the matter of the SGC operating without Congressional funding, which was still his primary purpose of making the trip to Cheyenne Mountain; he leaned over to General Hammond and, with a quick tilt of his chin, beckoned him over to sit beside him. No sooner did the General do so than Kinsey gave him a glare that would have shriveled another man with its intensity. Kinsey's calm whisper barely concealed the venom in his words.
"Let's keep this civil here, General Hammond, while we sit through this space cruise. I am concerned about the SGC's continued operation in light of the fact that the Appropriations Committee pulled all further funding for the Stargate Program from the national budget. There had better be a very good reason for this, otherwise I will be forced to take this to the Department of Justice with my recommendation that everyone employed by the SGC be placed under immediate arrest, pending charges of treason."
Kinsey's glare was easily matched by one of Hammond's; the General knew that Kinsey was looking for any advantage in the upcoming election, and it was common knowledge that Kinsey was vying for the position of running mate on the Republican Presidential ticket. For everyone's sake, Hammond knew, that could not be allowed to happen, but that decision was not his to make. He was a general in the US Air Force, not a member of Congress. Still, his voice carried great weight with the current President, and he could go back to the Mountain after this was done and make a phone call. With what he knew of the Senator, it might be enough to see Kinsey's Vice Presidential bid come crashing down around his ears. And then, of course, the President would get mad at him for using the red phone to influence an election, which was something generals simply did not do if they valued their careers.
A noncommittal grunt was all, then, that came out of Hammond in response to Kinsey's statement.
"Mm-hmm."
Kinsey's eyebrows went up. "General Hammond, I am well aware that the US Armed Forces do not mint stupid generals, so I would appreciate more of a response from you than a simple grunt of acknowledgment."
Hammond then turned to face the Senator. "I'm sorry, Senator, did you want an explanation?" In moments such as this one, where Hammond became agitated or irritable, his thick Texas twang became more pronounced. "I'm sure you're aware that there's no such thing as a stupid general officer, so I'm also sure you're aware that no Senator or Congressman currently serving in office gets to that lofty position simply on luck. If it's an explanation you want, then I suggest you look out that cockpit canopy, Senator. In about twenty minutes you'll have all the explanation you will ever need and then some. You will, of course, have every opportunity to speak with the crew and command staff of that space station when we finally board, if that isn't proof enough for you. Go ahead and have a look, Senator Kinsey; even so far out here, you can see it, can't you?"
Y'all take a nice, long look down the barrel of that superlaser, too, while you're at it, was Hammond's unspoken addition to his response. And I hope you remember what it looks like for a long time to come….
The Senator, for his part, took Hammond's advice to heart, and he stood up onto the deckplates, noticing for the first time the artificial gravity. Pushing that to the back of his mind, however, he strode up to the cockpit hatch, coming as close as he dared without actually stepping inside.
He was totally unprepared for the sheer vastness of the thing. The roughly spherical battle station was nearly one-fourth the size of the Moon itself, reminding him of the recent film Independence Day. An artificial construct like that would have taken decades to build, and that wasn't counting all the testing of each of the uncountably numerous systems in the station, ranging from security to navigation, from the greatest weapon in its arsenal to the smallest flow valves and gate valves in the even more vast and complex pipework. Even from the vast distance that the shuttle could cover between their present point in space to the Death Star in the twenty minutes they had left, merely the size of the construct was terror-inspiring. Robert Kinsey found himself speechless with both terror….and possibility.
Neither the scale nor the grandeur of it did not truly reveal themselves to him until the shuttle closed to within five thousand kilometers, thereabouts, and for everyone who happened to see the Vigilant Watcher as they came around to the dark side of the Moon, those two aspects had the power to render them mute by turns with shock, disbelief, and awe. There was of course the horror inherent in the superweapon's original purpose, for who could not look upon that construct and see the horrible giant dish that was the visible portion of the station's primary weapon? Anyone who had seen the first and third Star Wars films, in order of their production, would remember the terrible genocidal power of the superlaser as it struck the planet Alderaan and the Mon Calamari battleship designated Home One. They stood there in the shuttle's passenger bay, looking on at the very same battle station that had smashed Alderaan into rubble in naught but an instant, snuffing out billions of lives in the process. The horror only increased as they neared the Overbridge Hangar Bay, nestled firmly above the north edge of the superlaser dish, which more and more resembled a vast caldera as they approached the atmosphere containment field. Even the myriad features of the city sprawls as they revealed themselves were little noticed, the horror of the planet buster pervading the senses of every last soul in the SGC/Senate delegation.
One thing broke the Senator's reverie; rather, two things did. Identical spaceships, each resembling a pyramid firmly ensconced within a dull metallic ovoid disc; they drifted aimlessly through the void like things that had once lived but now were lifeless hulks, and suddenly Kinsey realized the truth of O'Neill's words as well as those of the alien Teal'C. The barbarians had truly been upon the gates, and inside Cheyenne Mountain was the billion-dollar machine that would hold them back. Yet, with all its inherent grandeur and majesty, the Stargate seemed inconsequential in the face of the machine before them all that was greater and potentially more expensive than the Stargate by an incomprehensible order of magnitude. At last, Kinsey knew there was an enemy out there in the larger galaxy, one that directly threatened not only the people of the United States, but humanity as a whole.
But first Robert Kinsey had a task before him, for now not only did Earth have need to be made safe for democracy, but the entire Milky Way galaxy, in its turn. First al-Qaeda had to be made to fall, then the Russians, the Chinese and then the rogue states such as Iran and North Korea would be brought to heel, and then the whole of humanity would be unified in peace and freedom under the Stars and Stripes.
It was a righteous goal, and God did support the righteous. After all, was it not the duty of the righteous to spread righteousness in an unrighteous world? And as God did support the righteous, the righteous could not but prevail.
Robert Kinsey would first have an American Earth, then an American Galaxy. He would use the Death Star to make it happen. These thoughts inspired him and fed his desire as the station swallowed up the shuttle that carried them, him, and his goals and ambitions, into the hangar bay.
A/N: I don't know how I managed this chapter; I was half asleep for Kinsey's shuttle ride over up until the last, but we're close to midnight here in this story, and Cordelia will have some greater part to play here before I'm done with the first part, and we'll see some Sunnydale action sometime in the next chapter, which should mainly concern itself with the summit onboard the station, but let's just enjoy the ride for now, k?