V
Jon hadn't shown up to school.
Jamie knew there was no logical reason to be so unnerved by it. But Jon hadn't missed a single day of school so far as he could remember; had even come in one time quite obviously sick, sneezing like a maniac and glowering at everybody.
So what did that prove? Maybe he'd had learned his lesson from that time, or was feeling even worse. He could have come down with 'flu or something, which would explain why he'd been so subdued.
Wouldn't explain the men in the black van, though.
Who Jamie had no proof at all had even visited Jon's apartment.
He barely paid attention as Mr Rasmussen droned on about the equations he was scribbling, consumed by irrational worries. What if Jon was sick - too sick to even call for help if he needed it? No one would know. What if those men had come back and... done something to him?
A knock on the classroom door succeeded on catching his attention, and everyone else's. His heart lurched to a halt when an unfamiliar couple walked in: a tall, attractive blonde woman and a guy in glasses who was dressed like a geek but not built like one. They most certainly didn't work at the school, and for a second all he could think was that they were here to tell the class that Jon had died.
"Theodore Rasmussen?" the woman asked the teacher politely, and Jamie's heart restarted, but at a painful rate. Mr Rasmussen had pulled Jon aside at the end of their last lesson for a talk about something. This could still be about him. Who were these guys, anyway? CIA? Air Force? Related to the men in the van?
He wasn't the only one to watch with eagle eyes as the pair led Mr Rasmussen out into the hallway and, apparently, off to somewhere even more private. However, most of the chatter that immediately sprung up was speculation on how long they could hope for Mr R. to be gone, or the identity of the two good-looking strangers.
Jamie had a whole different reason to be concerned.
Over the past year, he'd built up a private theory about Jon that he'd never shared with anybody. That curiously adult outlook, the fact he seemed to have no living relatives or even temporary guardians, his unexplained connection to the Air Force... Jamie had the feeling that Jon might just be in some program not a million miles away from witness protection. He'd seen something he shouldn't, maybe even the same something that had killed his parents, and the Air Force had hidden him away at a Colorado high school to protect him from... people.
The kind of people who might well case a likely apartment from their black van to make sure that they'd found their target. The kind of people who might just send a couple of wholesome-looking operatives to Jon's school to charm answers out of his teachers.
Jamie stood up, scraping the chair violently in his nervousness, and quickly gathered up his stuff. Maria snagged his arm. "Hey, where are you going? Rasmussen's gonna be back in a minute."
"Uh... tell him I was sick," Jamie babbled. "Listen, I've got to- I've really gotta go." He held up a hand to forestall any questions. "I'll explain, um- I might be back this afternoon, or else I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'll phone you! But, uh - I've got to go."
He scrambled out of the classroom, ignoring the curious stares that followed him out.
"O'Neill."
Teal'c was unsurprised to find his former teammate in the gym, taking his frustrations out in physical exertion. It was a habit he had often indulged in as a Colonel, although the duties and obligations of his new position of Brigadier General made it more difficult to arrange.
"T." O'Neill acknowledged him with a nod, already drenched in sweat. An ill-informed observer might believe such signs of strain to signify that O'Neill had grown too old and weak for these activities; Teal'c, and any who knew O'Neill well, would not need to have observed to know he had already been pushing himself further than many younger men would attempt.
Teal'c settled himself at the weight machine before O'Neill could invite him to engage in practise combat. O'Neill was a most excellent sparring partner; although he, like the rest of the Tauri stationed at Stargate Command, could not match Teal'c in either strength or in reach, he had the skills of an experienced warrior and continued to present a challenge. However, Teal'c did not intend to assist him in his current quest to exhaust himself.
"It appears that Baal has abducted the members of SG-6 for uncertain ends," Teal'c observed. O'Neill favoured the art of direct talking - one of the reasons that Teal'c had found him one of the easiest of the Tauri to relate to at first, despite his many strange actions and figures of speech. Though Teal'c had quickly grown to greatly value the companionship of Daniel Jackson and Colonel Carter, it was his bond with O'Neill as brother warriors that had formed the first and would always hold strongest. And therefore it was his duty to divine the cause of his fellow warrior's troubled mood.
"Oh, I think it's pretty obvious what he wants them for." O'Neill's face was stony as he pounded the punching bag.
The details of O'Neill's incarceration with Baal had never been fully revealed, but the aftereffects of them lingered. O'Neill would never allow discomfort to show beyond what was unavoidable, but it was clear to all of them that his temperament had changed in subtle ways since his return, growing even more insular and at times more subdued. The year in which Daniel Jackson had been absent from them had been hard on them all, but it was O'Neill who had suffered the greatest.
"You believe that Baal intends to torture them for information to aid him in his search," Teal'c said. He knew that Colonel Carter or Daniel Jackson might have hesitated over the word torture, wary of bringing up dark memories, but he knew O'Neill would not appreciate the substitution of a softer word.
"They're a science team, investigating ruins left behind by the Ancients. Baal's not dumb." The lack of any 'for a snakehead' qualifier spoke volumes. "Whatever he's after, he wants to know if we know about it."
"Then is it possible he is searching for a piece of technology that we already possess?"
It took a deft touch to attempt to lure O'Neill into optimism; the sharp headshake and increase in the power of blows to the punching bag told him he had not succeeded. "The only thing we've got that would matter to Baal is the planetary defence system, and he already knows he can't get at that without invading Earth."
"Then perhaps he is continuing the search for the Lost City that Anubis began," Teal'c suggested.
O'Neill grunted doubtfully, but did not respond.
This seemed an advantageous point to change the subject. "Colonel Carter and Daniel Jackson have yet to report back on the status of your clone," he noted.
"So he's not at the school." O'Neill shrugged. "Probably gone fishing."
"I find it unlikely that your duplicate would shirk his duty in this manner," Teal'c said.
"Yeah, well... Me and high school didn't work out so well the first time around." O'Neill finally backed away from the punching bag, mopping his brow with a towel.
"Then perhaps your clone has come to the conclusion that his current position is unsuited to his temperament."
O'Neill gave him a sceptical look. "You're suggesting that he's 'acting out'? By padding out his homework assignments with classified material there's no way in hell he understands?" He accompanied the term 'acting out' with the two-handed gesture that Daniel Jackson had variously referred to as 'air quotes' and 'really, really obnoxious'.
"Perhaps he simply wishes to reestablish some contact with his old life," Teal'c suggested neutrally.
O'Neill threw the towel down and gave him a sharp look. "Then he should have sent a postcard." He walked out.
John had been expecting something in the order of a shrine, but the building that housed the Iaeronan's Ancient relics was more like a museum. A lot like a museum, in fact, complete with an annoyingly enthusiastic curator.
"Ah, yes. Visitors, yes." He was a little round man with big sideburns who couldn't stop smiling. "You come to visit our history? Very wise, very wise. We must look to the effects of previous Cycles to see where we are going."
"Yeah," said John. Looking backwards to see the future. Why not? It was no weirder than ninety percent of the other things he'd encountered in the Pegasus Galaxy.
"We'd like to see your collection of crystals," McKay butted in impatiently.
"All in good time, McKay," he said pointedly. He swivelled to face the curator again. "Please - show us your history." The little man bowed deeply, then bustled on ahead.
"Oh, thank you, Major," McKay grumbled, as soon as he was - well, not nearly out of earshot, actually. "What I really wanted to do was spend my afternoon looking at pieces of ten thousand year old pottery. You realise these people are still at the pointy stick level of hunting technology? They have no idea what a power crystal is. They have no idea what power is! I'd be surprised if they've invented the windmill, never mind harnessed the electron. They're so married to the idea of following some preordained cycle of events that they refuse to even try to reverse engineer the relics of a more advanced civilisation - not that they could, but they could at least invent the idea of scientific study. These people would be using high precision power sources for paperweights, if they'd actually come far enough to create paper."
"Did you have to tell him right away that we were interested in the crystals?" John hissed.
"We will have to make our interest plain at some stage, Major," Teyla pointed out.
"Yes, exactly," said McKay airily. John was beginning to wish he'd assigned himself the guard position outside that he'd given to Ford. Not that he was expecting trouble from the Iaeronans, but, well, they hadn't been expecting trouble from most of the people who'd given them trouble, either.
"However," Teyla added, "it would be wise not to offend the Iaeronans unduly in pursuit of the crystals; there may be other benefits their good will can provide us."
"Like what?" McKay said impatiently. "The incredible technology of- my God, is that supposed to be clockwork?" He wandered over to one of the displays. "Hasn't anybody on this planet heard of gear ratios? It only takes the most rudimentary understanding of torque to realise-"
"Food, McKay." John jerked his head in the direction of the party they'd just come from. "In case you haven't noticed, it's hunt season out there."
"I believe the Iaeronans would be amenable to trade, if properly approached," Teyla agreed.
"And that means no-" John broke off as the curator finally brought them to the crystals, and McKay shot off in a gleeful beeline for them. "-Doing that," he finished lamely.
Teyla's initial assessment that the Iaeronans saw them as purely decorative appeared to be right, since the Ancient power sources were displayed in a glass case alongside several other polished stones and small ornaments. There were five altogether, but he could see at a glance that one of them was chipped. They were arranged artistically in a little pyramid that made it difficult to know for sure if the others were similarly damaged.
"Looks like they haven't been stored that carefully," he murmured to McKay. He winced at the thought of some long ago Iaeronan kid practising juggling with them or using them for oversized marbles.
"Yes, well, we only need three," McKay said dismissively.
"Need?" the curator asked, his friendly face abruptly growing more suspicious. John cursed McKay's uncontrollable babble impulse. If Ford's warning about the people's aversion to reusing old technologies held true, then revealing what the crystals were could jeopardise not just their chances of obtaining them, but any future trade.
He was opening his mouth to say something - admittedly, possibly something stupid - in the line of damage control, when an unearthly howl from outside interrupted.
John was reaching for his weapon when it came again, and he recognised it as not the sound of a wild animal, but some sort of horn being blown. He turned to the curator urgently. "What does that noise mean?"
"The Cycle of Purging is beginning!" the little man said cheerfully.
"Okay, somebody please tell me that doesn't involve vomiting," McKay said warily.
John's radio crackled to life. "Major!" came Ford's breathless voice. "We've got trouble. It's the Wraith."
Jamie took the stairs up to Jon's apartment at speed. Every step of the way he was telling himself that Jon was fine - probably asleep, probably had 'flu, he'd answer Jamie's frantic knocking with that "What planet are you from?" stare he did so well...
The door was standing open.
Jamie came to a staggering halt, aware of his own ragged breathing just as he desperately wanted to quiet it. What if someone had hurt- killed! - Jon, and they were in there right now?
What if someone was in there trying to kill Jon, and it was happening right now while he stood around too frightened to go in?
Jamie took a deep breath, kicked the door the rest of the way open, and ran in.
His heart was stuttering so fast every shadow looked like an attacker, and it took a moment to realise that no one was coming at him. The lights were all off, but he could see a faint blue glow coming from Jon's bedroom.
He approached the doorway cautiously, and peered inside. The glow was coming from the other side of the bed. Jamie peered around it - and flinched back. Jon was slumped on the floor, the stone sculpture from the day before clutched against his chest. It was transparently not a piece of African art, as Jamie could now see it was the stone that was glowing.
The panicked certainty that Jon was dead lasted only a fraction of a second, for he was twitching restlessly, like a feverish man dreaming. His lips were moving, and when Jamie leaned close he could hear Jon mumbling. It wasn't English, but the sounds were too regular, too fluidly made to be nonsense. Jamie thought it sounded a little bit like Latin. Was he praying?
"Jon! Jon, wake up." He shook the other boy by the shoulder, but got no response beyond a shudder and a break in the rhythm of the muttering.
"Nim celerae," Jon gasped urgently to himself. "Non paratus..."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say." Jamie patted his arm vaguely, uncertain what to do. His eyes fell on the... glowing stone football. Probably he needed a better name for it than that, but considering he had no idea what the hell it was, that was going to have to do.
What the hell was that light? Some kind of radiation? Okay, he was fairly sure lethal radiation didn't actually glow outside of sci-fi B-movies, but still, the fact that it was emitting light meant that could be emitting something else too. For all he knew, it was the stylish new approach to designing nuclear waste canisters.
Whatever it was, Jamie didn't like the way that Jon was clutching it. Using a corner of the bedding as a pathetic shield for his hands, he pried the football from Jon's grip.
As soon as he did, the blue light went dead. All the same, he let go of it hurriedly, mindful that it could still be giving off energy he couldn't see.
As Jamie dithered over what to do with the thing, Jon started to stir. Jamie knelt beside him. "Jon?"
Before he knew what was happening, a hand snaked out and closed around his wrist. Next moment, he found himself face down on the floor with a knee in the small of his back and his arm twisted up behind him. Surprisingly, the position barely hurt at all; Jamie somehow found that even more disturbing than if he'd been in agony. Any idiot could throw you around, but to carefully judge exactly how much damage to do took training. And practise.
What the hell kind of sixteen-year-old got that kind of practise?
"Um, hi?" he said into the carpet. After a silence that seemed slightly embarrassed, Jon let him up.
"Sorry," he said, adjusting his shirt. Jamie dusted down his own clothes and blinked at him.
"Perfectly understandable," he said. "If you're the President's personal bodyguard! What the hell?"
"What are you doing here?" Jon glanced at the alarm clock, then did a double-take. "What am I doing here? Shouldn't we both be at school?"
"Jon, what's going on?" Jamie refused to be distracted. "Your apartment was unlocked, and when I came in I found you collapsed on the floor clutching that thing and babbling in Latin."
"I don't speak Latin," Jon said. "Nor do I babble," he added, more indignantly. He moved toward the bed, studying the stone football as if he'd never seen it before, and reached out for it. "This thing-?"
The second his fingertips brushed the surface, it blazed with a brilliant blue light. Jamie yanked him away from it and the light went out again.
"Oh, yeah. And it was doing that," he added. "Jon, what is that thing?"
"It's a football-shaped... glowy stone thing," Jon told him. Which didn't really help all that much, but at least felt like it was pitched to about his level.
"What's going on?" Jamie asked again. "There were those guys that came to your apartment the other night, and there were people talking to Mr Rasmussen at school."
"Yeah? What kind of people?" Jon asked faux-casually as he moved to the dresser and removed a black sweater and a dark knitted cap.
"Uh... suits. Well, the guy was in a suit, and the woman looked like she wanted to be."
"This woman - tall? Blonde? Did the guy have glasses?"
"Yeah... you were expecting them to come after you?" he realised. Jon shrugged.
"I had a hunch. Was there a third guy with them? Black, wearing some kind of hat, built like a haystack's bigger brother?"
"Noo - I think if I'd seen him, I might have mentioned him first," Jamie pointed out. Jon waved his concerns away with a casual hand and adjusted his own hat.
"Don't worry about them. They're not with the other guys. We're old friends."
"Then who are the other guys?" Jamie demanded. "And what does that football thing have to do with all this? You looked really sick, Jon."
"Yeah, well, I'm better now." Jon grabbed a pair of boots from the bottom of his closet - black, like everything else he was now wearing. "Listen, I appreciate the concern, but there are some things I've got to do now, so you've gonna have to go."
"Oh, no way." Jamie folded his arms. "I don't know what this is, but I know it's serious, and I know you were seriously out of it just now. You think, whatever it is you're doing, you can afford to collapse and start babbling Latin in the middle of it?"
They locked gazes for a long moment. Jon had the whole 'eyes boring into you' thing down pat, but determination helped Jamie stand his ground. After a moment Jon finished lacing his boot up and stood.
"You come here on your bike?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Okay." He sighed heavily. "I need transport, and since somebody decided I couldn't get a driver's licence yet, looks like a freakin' moped is the best offer I'm getting." A brief flicker of frustration crossed his face. "You can drive me. But when I tell you to stay, you stay, and when I tell you to run, your feet don't even hit the ground. Clear?"
"Clear," Jamie echoed sombrely.
And wondered just what in the hell he'd managed to get himself into.