[Stargate SG-1 01] - Stargate SG-1 Read online

  Twenty-eight stories deep inside a mountain, it was cold.

  Deep inside the heart of General George Hammond, it was colder still, with the knowledge that the Stargate was in use once again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Major Bert Samuels checked his watch as they made the final turn onto the quiet street. Just past midnight—not bad for a medium-long drive from the base.

  They were in a quiet residential area, well established judging by the landscaping. Not many lights interrupted the velvet darkness of the sky—reasonable figuring how late it was. He hoped the man he was looking for was still up. If not, well, that would be just his luck, dammit. He’d be up once Samuels got through with him.

  His driver slowed, creeping along, looking for some sign of numbers on the discreet driveways or the mailboxes, half-hidden by shrubbery. Samuels bit back an irritated remark. He wanted to get this over with, get home, and wrap himself around a drink. He was an officer, not an errand boy.

  Well, unless he was outranked. As a mere major that happened more often than he really liked. He thought once he’d made it past captain he’d have it made, but now instead of majors making his life miserable, it was generals. And colonels. But it was part of the game, and playing the game got you promoted until you were finally the one who got to send junior officers on errands like this one. Samuels was looking forward to that day nearly as much as he was looking forward to getting home. Not that getting home anytime soon was on the agenda for the foreseeable future.

  The car pulled into the drive and jolted to a stop. Samuels got out, followed by the driver.

  “This is it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The driver, an airman, was required to be polite even in the face of stupid questions.

  The house at the end of the long walkway was dark and silent, with only a single, discreetly shaded light gleaming on the porch.

  The place looked deserted, and it was cold enough that he wished he’d brought a coat. Samuels sighed. There would be hell to pay if he didn’t bring back his man as ordered. The two men started toward the front door, Samuels smoothing the wrinkles out of his uniform jacket and replacing his hat on his head as he went. It never hurt to look sharp.

  At least there were lights on in the house. He could glimpse a living room through the flimsy drapes, a stone fireplace mantel. But there was no sign of the man he was seeking.

  He lifted the door knocker, applied it briskly. They waited. Nothing happened.

  “If he’s not here…” the officer muttered.

  “I thought I saw someone on the roof when we pulled into the drive, sir,” the driver suggested, not quite diffidently.

  “Why would he be on the roof?” Samuels demanded.

  The driver knew better than to try to answer that one. He pointed at the side of the house. “There’s a ladder over there.”

  Samuels cursed under his breath. Climbing ladders in the dark? With his luck the house would be alarmed, and he’d find himself arrested, and wouldn’t that look good on his personnel jacket….

  Orders were orders. Up he went, mentally daring the airman waiting below to say anything more. The enlisted man, wise to the ways of not-yet-senior career officers, kept his mouth shut. He might have been smirking, but Samuels couldn’t tell.

  The roof was peaked on one side of the house, flat on the other. Samuels brushed himself off again and looked around.

  The isolation of the area meant there wasn’t much light pollution, and a glance at the sky nearly took the captain’s breath away—he’d never appreciated how many stars there were out there. It took a few seconds to realize that there was someone else on the roof, sitting over a telescope, also looking at the stars.

  “Colonel Jack O’Neill?” Samuels asked, suddenly uncertain. He was at an angle to the other man, and got an impression of quiet scruff—something like a college professor perhaps, if college professors went in for black leather jackets, black T-shirts, and khaki pants.

  O’Neill looked tall, even seated, with light hair—the kind of blond that didn’t show gray—and Samuels would bet his flight pay he’d never had any trouble meeting fitness requirements. He appeared to be in his forties, young to be retired. But O’Neill was far more involved with what he was seeing in the eyepiece than in any visitors who might climb up into his refuge.

  “Retired,” O’Neill answered, not looking up. Go away hung heavy in the air.

  The other man swallowed. “I’m Major Samuels.”

  “Air Force?” O’Neill asked absently, still not looking up.

  Samuels swallowed again. “Yes, sir.” O’Neill might not look like it, he might be retired, but he still had rank, even if it was only by courtesy. He had presence too. Samuels found himself fighting an urge to stand to attention. He really didn’t like that. “I’m the general’s executive officer.” So there.

  O’Neill lifted his head at last, away from the eyepiece, but only to look at the millions of glittering lights in the sky directly. The revelation of Samuels’ exalted position clearly failed to impress him.

  “Want a piece of advice?” O’Neill said conversationally. “Try to get re-assed to NASA. That’s where the action’s going to be.” He waved his hand at the glory of the stars over their heads. “Out there.”

  Samuels reminded himself he hadn’t come for career counseling and took a deep breath. “I, um, I’m under orders to bring you to see General Hammond.”

  O’Neill, still staring at the sky, said dismissively, “Never heard of him.”

  Oh, hell. “He replaced General West, sir.” You do remember General West, I hope?

  There was a short silence. Then O’Neill sighed, turning back to the telescope and fiddling with a small knob. “Well, I’m a busy man, Major.”

  Clearly, this was not going to be a career-enhancing assignment unless something drastic happened. Samuels took a deep breath. He’d been authorized to say this outside the confines of the base, but only if he really had to. It looked very much like he had to.

  “I can see that, sir. He says it’s important. It has to do with…”—Use the exact words, Major—“‘the Stargate’.”

  The moment froze, as if caught in a frame of film. Then O’Neill turned toward him, the telescope finally forgotten, and looked him directly in the eye.

  Samuels swallowed again, and hoped he would never in his life have cause to have a look like that one on his face.

  O’Neill had barely spoken during the entire trip to the base. Samuels had tried once or twice to make conversation, but O’Neill ignored him, staring out the windows into the darkness, up at the sky. He seemed to be pulled deep into himself, thinking—remembering maybe.

  The base was on full alert. Samuels watched O’Neill covertly as the other man noted the automatic vehicle gate, backed up by armed sentries; second and third checkpoints; airmen patrolling the roofs of the cinder-block buildings surrounding the entry tucked under the granite overhang of the mountain. Both Samuels and his driver had to show identification repeatedly until the vehicle was parked and they entered the main facility.

  They walked past more sentries carrying both sidearms and rifles, down a long hallway, and into a steel elevator. The driver left them there. Samuels kept watching, looking for some sign of emotion in the other man’s face. But since that single flash of—something—in O’Neill’s eyes at the mention of the Stargate, there was nothing. He might have been strolling through the local mall.

  At Sublevel Eleven they left the elevator and walked down another hallway. Pausing before a reception desk, Samuels said, “We’ll have to take another elevator. It’s a long way down.”

  The corner of O’Neill’s mouth twitched. “I know,” he said, reaching for a clipboard and signing it. “I’ve been here before.”

  Chagrined, Samuels muttered an acknowledgment. On the way down this time he faced the front of the elevator, standing at parade rest.

  Of course O’Neill was no stranger to the base. He didn’t even blink at the guards
, the fences, the elevators that plunged them deep into the mountain. He knew where they were going without being told, allowing Samuels to lead him through the halls. They turned a last corner and confronted one last guard who announced their arrival with a “This way, sir.”

  “Come.” The voice from within was gruff and weary.

  Samuels came to attention in front of the large desk, snapping a salute. Hammond looked up from the file he was reading and returned it.

  “General Hammond: Colonel Jack O’Neill.”

  “Retired,” O’Neill added.

  Hammond looked him over as Samuel stepped back. O’Neill, still unimpressed, looked right back. Samuels found himself anticipating this interview more than he’d expected to. He’d read the reports, of course, synopsized them for Hammond—that was part of completed staff work. The reports told him all about the first Stargate mission, not enough about O’Neill. Who was this guy? Why had he retired early? And why, in the midst of more than top secret base lockdown had Hammond insisted on summoning him? Had the general seen more in the files than Samuels had?

  “I can see that,” Hammond agreed, looking over the casual stance, the leather jacket, the hint that O’Neill might have skipped shaving. O’Neill had made no effort to come to attention, though there was tension in the broad shoulders that suggested he might be fighting the inclination. Old habits died hard, even in retirees.

  “I envy you, Colonel,” Hammond went on.

  “Sir?” O’Neill inquired neutrally. Samuels hid a smirk. He knew that give-no-opening tone; he’d used it to superior officers himself a time or two. It was the military version of wide-eyed innocence.

  “For retiring,” Hammond answered. “Me, I’m on my last tour.” He set down the file. “Time to start getting my thoughts together, maybe write a book. You ever think of writing a book about your exploits in the line of duty?”

  Exploits? Samuels thought. The Stargate mission qualified as an “exploit”? It wasn’t a word he would have chosen. But then, he wouldn’t have thought Hammond, a solid, by-the-book crusty career man, would play games. He was about as ready to retire, Samuels thought, as the man in the moon. Hammond’s whole life was the Air Force and service to his county.

  “Thought about it,” O’Neill said laconically. “But then I’d have to shoot anyone who actually read it.”

  Hammond stared at O’Neill a moment, weighing the possibility of insubordination. Samuels nearly choked. The general was also crafty, cunning, and sharp, and didn’t tolerate fools.

  “That’s a joke, sir. Most of my work the past ten years was classified,” O’Neill went on, explaining the obvious. He’d be hell on wheels to work for if you got on his wrong side, Samuels decided, and thanked God he reported directly to Hammond. Hammond didn’t do wry.

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  The tall man in the leather jacket took a deep breath, clearly deciding to cut through the bull. “Major Samuels mentioned something about the Stargate.”

  Hammond nodded, acknowledging. “Down to business. I can do that. This way.” He stood, brushed past the other men to lead the way out of the office. Samuels followed. He hadn’t been invited, exactly, but they hadn’t told him to leave either, and he had a good idea where they were going next. Besides, he was Hammond’s XO, and where Hammond went he was going to follow.

  He was right. A few minutes later, wending their way through more steel tunnels, stepping around suddenly activated hordes of maintenance personnel—replacing light bulbs and checking electrical boxes, they were in the base infirmary. Normally this place saw nothing more serious than tetanus shots or annual physical exams; broken bones were a big deal here.

  Lately something far more serious than broken bones had claimed the attention of the medical officer; the infirmary had been turned into a combination of morgue and pathology lab. In the middle of what used to be an exam room were several stainless steel gurneys with funnels down the side. Samuels didn’t want to think about what the grooves were meant to channel away.

  On top of each table lay a figure covered with a sheet. As Hammond, O’Neill, and Samuels looked on, the CMO pulled the sheet off one of them, revealing a naked male body bearing the marks of high-powered gunshot wounds.

  Aside from the evidence of cause of death, the body was marked by what looked like metal embedded in the forehead—an encircled oval containing a snakelike squiggle—and an X-shaped slit in his belly. The slit didn’t appear to be a wound; it looked as if it was either a natural opening, or one the body had carried for a long, long time.

  “Anyone you know, Colonel?” Hammond challenged. O’Neill just stared at him. Apparently retired colonels didn’t have to answer rhetorical questions.

  “They’re not human,” the doctor offered.

  “You think?” O’Neill said, simulating amazement. It was probably a good thing this guy was still technically a civilian, Samuels thought. The word “smart-ass” came irresistibly to mind.

  The doctor ignored the sarcasm. “Best we can tell, these slits are actually a pouch similar to that found on a marsupial.”

  “Like a kangaroo,” Samuels supplemented, eager to add his own two cents. O’Neill gave him a glance that made it quite clear he hadn’t required a supplementary explanation.

  “Except in both sexes,” the doctor went: on, pulling a sheet off another gurney. This one was obviously female. She too bore the forehead marks and the X-shaped pouch.

  “These people, or aliens, or whatever you want to call them, came through and killed four of my people and kidnapped another using advanced weapons,” Hammond said heavily.

  O’Neill’s head came up a fraction, like a war horse hearing a distant trumpet. “Weapons, sir?”

  The general turned to a staff propped against the wall, picked it up, and showed it to the other man.

  Samuels blurted, “We can’t figure out how they opera—”

  It was clear that O’Neill had seen it before. He took the staff and slid his hand down one side in a practiced motion, almost as if he were cocking a shotgun, uncovered a lever and flicked it. The bulb end of the staff popped open, lightning sizzling between its jaws, ready to fire. Everyone else in the room stepped hurriedly back.

  “Seen one before, I take it?” Hammond said hollowly.

  O’Neill took a deep breath, studying the weapon in his hands. “Yes, sir. But there were no creatures like this—” he nodded at the alien bodies—“on Abydos. Those people were human… they were from earth. They were brought there by Ra thousands of years ago.”

  This was more than Samuels had heard O’Neill say at one time since they’d met. It was different, somehow, hearing the words out loud rather than just reading them in a dry report. He shivered. It was all ridiculous. Science fiction. Couldn’t be real.

  But there they were, lying dead and cold before him, and he had seen with his own eyes the devastation that innocent-looking staff had wrought.

  Hammond snorted. “I know all about that. But your report said this Ra was in fact some kind of alien that lived inside a human body.”

  O’Neill’s lip twitched. “Yeah, his eyes glowed. That was our first clue.”

  Definitely smart-ass. Samuels wondered fleetingly how the guy had ever made colonel.

  Apparently so did the general. “Are you sure he’s dead, Colonel?”

  O’Neill shrugged, shutting the weapon down. Once more it appeared to be an elaborately decorated, if rather odd-shaped, hiking staff. “Unless he could survive a tactical nuclear warhead blowing up in his face, yeah, I’m positive. Why?”

  Hammond jerked his head toward the bodies. “Colonel, these… people… or whatever they are… were guarding another man who retreated back through the Stargate. I got a good look at his eyes, Colonel. They glowed.”

  The general kept up easily with the younger man as they strode down the long concrete corridor.

  “How do you feel about the Stargate mission after all this time, Colonel?” Hammond asked. He was fairl
y sure he knew the answer, or at least what the answer would have been ten minutes ago, before O’Neill had seen the bodies. All the bodies, the human ones included.

  “How d’you mean?” O’Neill’s voice was neutral.

  “Well, it’s been over a year. Has your perspective changed?” It’s been over ten minutes. How about your perspective now?

  As they came up to the corner, O’Neill started to answer, his words still carefully chosen. “Well, sir, I think that—”

  The two broke step to allow another to escort two men into a room just down the hall. As they passed, O’Neill, his initial response forgotten, said, “Was that—?”

  Hammond smiled to himself. Gotcha. “Kawalsky and Ferretti, yes. Served under your command on the first Stargate mission.” As they came to his office door, he gestured offhandedly. “After you, Colonel.” Samuels followed after, breathless.

  O’Neill stalked through the office, ignoring the chair the general offered. His eyes shifted from one corner of the room to another, as if seeking a trap, and he headed directly to a large window overlooking the next room, a briefing room with a long boardroom table.

  Kawalsky and Ferretti sat on one side of the table. Two officers stood on the other, going through files, jabbing their fingers at the papers and asking questions. Kawalsky and Ferretti looked distinctly uncomfortable, sending covert glances at the man watching on the other side of the window.

  Hammond watched as O’Neill leaned against the window frame, assessing the tension he could see in shoulders and neck.

  “Tell me about Daniel Jackson, Colonel,” he suggested delicately.

  O’Neill had something else on his mind. “Why are they questioning my men?”

  Hammond felt a flicker of satisfaction. So O’Neill’s sense of responsibility hadn’t been exaggerated after all. “They’re not your men anymore, Colonel. You retired,” he reminded him. After a pause, he prodded, “Daniel Jackson.”

  O’Neill still didn’t look around. “You read the report.” The words were bitten off.