A half hour later, the truck transporting Paul and the SGC team passed a whitewashed sign welcoming them to McMurdo. A few orange parka-clad scientists hiked by, their flashlights broadcasting on the snow ahead them. In the days to come, the station’s winter staff of two hundred scientists and support personnel would more than quadruple when the sun finally appeared on the Eastern horizon.
The truck turned onto the side road leading to Building 155, the station’s main center. A bank of spotlights illuminated the power, water, sewer and telephone lines, all running above ground to keep from freezing. Paul rattled off the names of various buildings for General O’Neill and the SG-1 team. Over a hundred buildings made up McMurdo, mostly built of well-insulated corrugated tin and raised on short stilts to keep the snow from building up.
The truck came to a halt besides the ramp leading up to Building 155. Parkas were slipped on and zipped. Wool hats tugged down. General O’Neill cracked open the back door and the harsh cold of Antarctica rushed into the compartment. He grabbed his briefcase and jumped down. Paul waited while the others each collected their belongings.
“It will be good to see General Hammond again,” Teal’c said. “When do we depart for the outpost?”
Paul climbed down and shut the truck door. “A helicopter is waiting to take you now if you’d like.”
“Yeah, about that…” General O’Neill pulled up his hood. “Teal’c, stay and help the negotiations.”
“Sir?” Paul asked in unison with Colonel Carter.
“I do not understand, O’Neill. How would I assist?”
“Just stand over them. Be intimidating. And watch Daniel’s six.”
“My six is fine, thank you.” Daniel paused for a moment, tilting his head. “Although, it wouldn’t hurt for the diplomats to meet Teal’c.”
“Sir, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Paul countered. Negotiating the future of the weapons chair was critical to Earth’s safety, and moving it was not an option. They still knew too little about how the platform operated to chance any kind of relocation that might cause permanent damage.
“Having Teal’c at those negotiations is my idea, Major,” the general said, “so just go with it.”
“Yes, sir.” Paul tugged his balaclava down to combat the relentless wind. He needed to get everyone inside before they froze. He gestured toward the building. “We should get inside.”
He led the way up a rocky pathway, past rows of shacks and buildings lit up by lampposts. Someone had plowed recently, exposing the bare volcanic rock underneath on which the station had been built. McMurdo sat on Hut Point Peninsula, some twenty miles away from Mt. Erebus, which was also located on Ross Island. Paul had been assured that the volcano was only mildly active. Considering how this day was going, a volcano erupting was the least of his worries.
Colonel Carter ran up to join him. “Major, I’d like to get to the outpost as soon as possible.”
“Not a problem, Colonel.” He pointed toward a brown pre-fab shack. “Captain Biggs can take you to the helicopter pad. It’s right behind the main dormitories.”
“Goggles?”
“Ready and waiting.”
“Thank you, Paul.” Even through the hood of her parka, he could see the colonel’s signature smile. “Sir, we should head over if you’re ready?”
“I am. Daniel, you ready to kick butt with those diplomats?”
“Save the chair, save the outpost. World peace by lunchtime. I got it.” Daniel turned back toward the road. “You know, we’ve never ‘officially’ been to McMurdo before.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the introductory briefing.” The general patted Daniel’s shoulder. “It’ll be fun.”
“A fun briefing? That’s somewhat of an oxymoron, isn’t it?”
“Happy Camper training,” Paul explained. “Air force personnel are exempt, but since you’re civilians it’s required. Even repeat visitors — ”
“Don’t spoil it for them, Major.” The general tapped a gloved finger on Daniel’s chest. “Make those folks see the light of day.” He gestured toward the still dark sky. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“Jack, what if I screw up again? What if — ”
“Get it done, Daniel!” General O’Neill spun toward the USAF support building and headed off with Colonel Carter in tow.
Surprised by Daniel’s insecurity, Paul considered pressing him for details, but decided against it. If Generals Hammond and O’Neill believed he could help settle the outpost issue with the diplomats, Paul had to believe they were right.
He gestured toward Building 155’s double doors. “Teal’c, Daniel, shall we?”
“Yeah, I’m freezing. Teal’c?” Daniel ran toward the entrance.
No answer came from the Jaffa. Paul glanced over his shoulder to discover why. Teal’c had turned to face the frozen McMurdo Sound that separated the station from the continent’s mainland and the outpost. Paul wondered for a moment if Teal’c knew that, or if he was appreciating the green ribbon of light rippling over the horizon.
Knowing Teal’c, he was doing both.
“The Aurora Australis,” Paul explained. “They’re caused by photonic emissions in the Earth’s upper atmosphere. Solar wind particles funnel down and accelerate along the Earth’s magnetic field lines.”
“And those gold-white lines?”
Inside the aurora, several striations undulated in counterpoint. The outer green band swayed left while the golden-edged white lines would bend right, seeping out of the ribbon’s edge. The aurora would then solidify and repeat the process, all in a slow, meandering pattern.
“That’s unusual,” he admitted. “Gold bands usually are a reflection of how much energy’s absorbed, but I’ve never seen polar lights behave like that before.”
“So many years ago,” Teal’c whispered. “I often wonder…”
Paul assumed Teal’c referred to when the SGC first discovered the Antarctic gate. “Seven years is a long time.”
“Indeed.” Teal’c shuddered, as if shaken from a reverie.
The aurora disappeared. Another gust blew across the ramp, cold enough this time to bite right through Paul’s parka. He shivered. “We should get inside.”
“I agree.” Teal’c’s dark eyes turned wistful under the glare of a neighboring spotlight. “Though it should feel like only a moment in my hundred-and-six years,” he whispered, “my time with the Tau’ri has been most gratifying.”
Taken aback by the Jaffa’s openness, Paul could only nod in agreement.
“Major Davis?” Teal’c’s voice returned to its normal deep tone. “What does this ‘Happy Camper’ training entail?”
Glancing up at the six-foot-three alien warrior, Paul gulped. “How do you feel about having a bucket on your head?”
“…never agreed to enlisted civilians, Carter. Hammond’s making a huge mistake.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam let General O’Neill blow off steam as she strapped into the Bell 212 helicopter’s starboard seat. As it was, she barely heard him over the already running rotors.
Outside, the sky had changed from a pitch black to a rose-tinted dark gray. Still too dark to fly blind, but she had a definite plan to take care of that problem.
Flipping on the cabin lights, she retrieved her pre-check clipboard from the dashboard. Small red ticks marked off each item. Captain Biggs had generously prepped the chopper, but Sam knew the only safe pilot was an obsessive one.
“Cool! A real reason to visit the coldest place on the planet!” The general pointed out the front window. Down the hill from the helipad, the lights of McMurdo twinkled, but the ‘cool’ General O’Neill referred to — an Aurora Australis — hovered to the east. As they watched, the green wispy glow dissipated into the ionosphere.
While the general pulled on his helmet, Sam glanced off to their right at the helipad’s windsock. The bright orange cone was a little less than half full. She checked the wind gauge. Fifteen knots and holding steady. Happily, the gusts they’d experienced upon arriving at McMurdo were gone. Flying would be a cinch as long as it stayed that way. She donned her helmet.
“Whose idea was this anyway, Carter? I can’t believe we’re just going to sit back and let them take a whirl in that blasted weapons chair.”
“If we want the best, sir, don’t we need to look past our own borders?” Placing the clipboard on her lap, she turned off the overheads. Her eyes adjusted quickly, thanks to the green-lit instrument board.
“How are these people going to understand the stakes?” The general unzipped his parka. “Some of their governments don’t have the same attitudes about national security, they don’t — ”
“I don’t think General Hammond had a choice, sir. The Atlantis Expedition left a big hole in personnel qualified to operate the Ancient weapons platform.”
“Fine, we have to protect the planet. I get it.” He slapped his harness shut. “But why can’t they use that gene therapy thing and grab some SG teams? Slap ‘em with the shot, and then let them live down here.”
“The International Oversight Committee insisted on international involvement, sir, including both civilians and military.” She toggled the gyro switch. So far, so good.
“Gotta love those IOA folks.”
“Sir, you were at the Homeworld Security briefing. General Hammond discussed this with us at length.”
“This whole share and share-alike… Why is it that every time we save the planet, we first have to deal with folks like the IOA, Kinsey, or the NID?”
“Well, Kinsey’s gone.”
“That’s a happy thought.”
“I don’t see any other option, sir.”
“I’m tired of all the — ” The general tilted his head back against the headrest. “Forget I ever said anything.”
“General?” Sam twisted in her harness to look at him.
He didn’t return the glance. Instead, he stared out the fore window. “Life’s a moving target, Carter, and I’m tired of raising my gun.”
“Sir?”
He waved her off. “Finish your pre-flight, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam turned back to the instrument board. Over the years they’d served together, General O’Neill occasionally made mention of retiring yet again, but he’d never meant it. He loved their work just as much as she did.
Then why did he sound so convincing this time? As she checked the directional control pedals, she made a mental note to set up a team night once they got back to Colorado Springs. Maybe that would help the general feel more connected.
Between taking over SG-1’s command, coordinating with the science departments, and juggling work with a newfound effort to have an actual life, Sam knew she’d been remiss in the team bonding department. And while General O’Neill technically wasn’t part of SG-1 anymore, a few pizzas and watching a bad science fiction movie with the others couldn’t hurt.
She scanned the instruments one last time. “Hydraulic controls on. Throttle, fully open. Engine anti-ice set to on.” She flipped on the rise switch.
“Take her out, Colonel. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get back to the SGC.”
Sam lifted the collective control stick. The chopper inched upwards, nice and smooth, its spotlights bouncing off the ice-packed snow below. Once they rose a good fifty meters from the helipad, she nudged the cyclic control forward and the chopper headed out toward the outpost.
The F-302 base came into view as they flew over Observation Hill or ‘Ob Hill’ as Captain Biggs had called it. As the chopper neared the peak, she spotted the large wood cross commemorating Robert F. Scott’s failed expedition. In the years since being rescued from the second gate, Sam had made it a point to learn as much as possible about the region’s history. The Herculean efforts of Scott, Shackleton, Amundsen, and many others who braved Antarctica in the early 20th century had often inspired her during some of SG-1’s more difficult missions.
The chopper cleared Observation Hill and flew over the F-302 base. The hill’s rocky terrain did a good job of hiding the brown-paneled hangers and barracks from the casual eye. About fifteen miles down McMurdo’s frozen shoreline sat Scott Base. As Sam caught a glimpse of the twin F-302s on the ice, she wondered just how much the New Zealanders knew about the interceptors.
“Is that safe?” asked General O’Neill.
“I’m sure the New Zealanders have been briefed, sir.”
“That’s not what I meant. Do we really want to have two billion-dollar birds sitting on ice?”
Someone waved to them from next to one of the F-302s. A pilot, most likely. “This time of year, the ice shelf’s at least ten to fifteen feet deep.”
“Yeah, but is it safe?”
“As safe as the runway we came in on, sir.”
The chopper cleared the base and Sam flipped off the spots. Switching to infrared mode, she slid down her night vision goggles. Her brain took a second to adjust to the lack of depth perception.
“Those AN-PVS 15s work for you, Colonel.”
“Don’t really have a choice, sir.” Sam adjusted her headings to follow the Ross Island coastline further south toward the outpost along the barrier between where the McMurdo and Ross Ice Shelves joined. “Captain Biggs seemed to think the C-17s might start using them for winter flights.”
“Makes sense.” A light tapping sound came from the general’s direction. Though Sam couldn’t shift her focus from the terrain ahead, she knew General O’Neill well enough to recognize fidgeting when it happened.
“ETA ‘til outpost twenty-five minutes, sir.”
“And I’m counting every second in anticipation — Whoa!”
A stiff wind shoved the chopper’s nose to the right. Sam applied pressure to her left pedal to adjust the tail-rotor’s pitch. The chopper straightened out and she settled back in.
She checked the gauge. “The wind’s back down to ten knots, sir. We shouldn’t have any more problems.”
“Sweet.” The general tapped his fingers against the console. “A civilian could do this training, you know. I’ve got more important things to do like approving Walter’s latest parking space request or signing another round of Siler’s requisitions.”
“Running the SGC keeping you busy, sir?”
The general merely grunted.
Sam grinned. General O’Neill never got tired of downplaying his importance to the SGC in both a leadership position and as a strategist. Or in this case, being the most qualified person on the planet to operate the weapons chair, whether he thought so or not. She told him as much.
“I never should’ve let Sheppard go with Weir to Atlantis. The man liked Antarctica. We could’ve built him his own personal bunk at the outpost.”
“Yes, sir.” Another gust pushed against the chopper. She adjusted the rudder.
Sam envied John Sheppard and the others who’d gated to another galaxy. Not that she didn’t love her job leading SG-1. She did! But the possibility of discovering Ancient technology far beyond anything anyone could imagine was tantalizing. Although, when she’d heard Rodney McKay had been assigned to the expedition, her envy had turned just a bit to pity.
The general picked up his finger drumming routine again, this time tapping against his leg in syncopation with the rotors. “God, I hope Daniel doesn’t screw up.”
“Why would he?”
The finger drumming stopped. “It’s Daniel who needs to believe that, Carter. Not Hammond, Davis, you or me.”
“Just out of curiosity, sir, how do you think Teal’c can help? I mean, other than his firsthand knowledge of the Goa’uld, he’s not exactly — ”
The general laughed. “Kind of like sending a grizzly to babysit a salmon stream, isn’t it?”
She chuckled. “At least it gives Teal’c something to do.”
“Yeah, well, I know how that goes.” The finger tapping started up again.
Sam chewed her lip. Teal’c didn’t need to be in Antarctica, and he didn’t need to stay with Daniel. Whatever troubled the general, whatever motivated his need to keep SG-1 close at hand, clearly he wasn’t going to talk about it.
Another gust nudged the chopper, this time coming from behind, pushing them in the right direction. Grateful for the boost, she nudged the cyclic control forward and headed toward the outpost. With any luck, they’d shave off a few minutes.
Although, knowing the general’s mood, the trainees might not be so lucky.
The rope tied to the waist of Teal’c’s insulated coveralls tugged twice. “Just a few more steps to our right, Mr. Murray,” came the muffled sound of his assigned companion.
“I disagree, Dr. Malan,” he replied, his voice equally muffled by the white plastic bucket he wore to participate in this ‘Happy Camper’ training game required for McMurdo’s civilian visitors. “Our goal is to reach the central pole. To that end, we must take ten steps forward and one, perhaps two to our left.”
“Not if we want to win a set of bowling shoes!” Dr. Malan tugged the rope joining them again. He stopped. “Wait, how can you be so sure?”
Teal’c sighed. He could sense the pole ahead of them. Years of training by Master Bra’tac had taught him how to feel the presence of anything nearby. Convincing this young man to trust him would be difficult without offering an explanation.
While Teal’c understood the purpose of this training exercise — to remind civilians that they must use all their senses when in such a rugged environment — he also recognized the other element behind the simulation. “Did not the personnel director say we must learn to trust one another if we are to succeed?”
The taut rope slackened as Dr. Robert Malan’s footsteps crunched in the snow. The biologist bumped into Teal’c’s left side and stopped. “I really want to win. You understand, right? It’s not just about the shoes — ”
“If we lose, I shall personally acquire a set for you. Would that be a sufficient arrangement?”
“And you’re sure? I mean…” More crunching of snow, the rope winding across Teal’c’s back. “I could’ve sworn — ”
“Grab hold of the rope and permit me to lead.”
“Okay, dude. Go for it. You lead, I’ll follow.”
With one hand on the rope between them, Teal’c set off to the pole. He took two steps forward and then another. He stopped, waiting for Dr. Malan to catch up. Yes, he could sense the pole ahead. Only a few more feet. “Seven more paces and we will reach our objective.”
He took another step.
Dr. Malan followed. “Objective. Like a military thing? Oh, that’s right. Dr. Edmunds said you were with the Air Force. Awesome. Well, forward march, airman.”
Teal’c smiled beneath the confines of his bucket. The enthusiasm of youth never changed, no matter the civilization. The biologist reminded him very much of Rya’c, and perhaps even himself many years ago when serving as Serpent Guard within Apophis’ ranks. So sure of himself. So sure that what is seen is what things are…
As he took another step forward, Teal’c considered the possible ways he might exact revenge on O’Neill for insisting he remain at McMurdo. Not holding back on their next ping-pong match was certainly one option. Replacing his beloved red Jell-O with green was yet another. In either case, Teal’c would most certainly find retribution.
“Are we there yet?” asked Dr. Malan.
Teal’c’s gloved hand grazed the wooden pole. He stopped. “We have succeeded.”
Removing the near stifling bucket from his head, Teal’c sucked in a refreshing bout of the cold, dry air. The miraculous Aurora Australis lights had been replaced on the horizon with a red wisp of pre-dawn glow.
Turning toward the other eight teams scattered across the snow-covered parking lot, he searched for Daniel Jackson. His friend had been partnered with the National Science Foundation’s director for McMurdo. Lean, white-haired, and with a beard as long as the Tau’ri’s Santa Claus, the exceptionally tall NSF man had said little during formal introductions, except to argue over the partnerships assigned by Hannah Presley. The station’s personnel director had been gracious, but firm in her refusal to change the assignments. It was a talent that reminded Teal’c very much of Colonel Carter.
Plastic thwacked against wood. Teal’c spun back around to his own partner.
“Ouch!” Dr. Malan pulled off his bucket. He grinned widely beneath his sparse red beard. “Hey, we did it!”
“We have a winner!” Hannah Presley ran over to them, blowing a whistle. “Everyone inside — there’s hot chocolate and a snack waiting in the cafeteria.”
Buckets were raised and much laughter ensued as the teams disengaged their partnered tethers. That is, all but one team. Far over on the parking lot’s other side, Daniel Jackson and Dr. Edmunds turned away from each other as they untied their rope. The NSF director threw his bucket to the ground. He mumbled something Teal’c could not hear and stormed off toward Building 155. Scooping up the neglected bucket, Daniel Jackson followed at a slower pace.
“Hey, thanks for the win,” said Dr. Malan, rubbing snow off his short red beard. “If you’re up for it, I can give you guys a tour of the main complex.”
Teal’c bowed his head. “That would be most appreciated.”
Dr. Edmunds stomped past the pole. “Back to work, Malan.”
The biologist stared at the NSF director’s retreating back. “What’s his problem?”
“Not exactly the warmest welcome I’ve received,” said Daniel Jackson as he joined them.
“Don’t mind Edmunds,” said Hannah Presley. “The bergy bits in the sound have a warmer nature than him.”
“Bergy bits?” Teal’c asked.
“Miniature icebergs,” explained Dr. Malan.
Buckets in hand, the four reached Building 155’s back entrance just as the wind picked up yet again. Dr. Malan yanked open the heavy door. Most of the buildings in McMurdo were made for the cold weather with walk-in freezer doors to block out the elements. The only difference was that instead of walking into a freezer, this was more like walking out of one.
Inside, they removed their outerwear to dry. When Dr. Malan inquired as to why Teal’c’s watch cap remained on his head, Daniel Jackson thankfully changed the subject by asking if there was any tea. They hurried toward the cafeteria and Hannah Presley promised to return shortly with a selection of Rooibos.
The cafeteria was at the end of a long hallway beside a bank of windows that rattled against the wind. Teal’c looked in at the large open-style dining area — far larger than the SGC’s commissary. In the center were many food stations. Several dozen community tables lined the walls.
“Good thing we got inside when we did.” Dr. Malan pointed out the window toward a wooden building further up the road. A row of flags flapped briskly. “Hey, how about that tour?”
“Don’t waste your time with those two, Malan.” They turned around to find Dr. Edmunds leaning against the wooden door leading into the cafeteria, arms crossed, his bearded chin thrust upwards.
The NSF director dropped his arms and strode up to Dr. Malan, separating the young man from both Teal’c and Daniel Jackson. “They may not look like military, they may not act like military, but they are military.”
“As I explained earlier,” said Daniel Jackson, “I’m a linguist and an archaeologist and — ”
“Have absolutely no reason to be here.” With that, Dr. Edmunds stomped off. The sound of his footsteps echoing through the corridor only served to punctuate the howling wind outside.
Dr. Malan apologized. “Edmunds’s not a bad guy, he’s just what my mom calls ‘prideful.’ Don’t take it personally.”
“Don’t worry about us.” Daniel Jackson awarded the young biologist a smile. “We’re used to it.”
Used to it, indeed. Teal’c observed the NSF director depart. Edmunds’s arrogance was no different than what he’d had come to expect from Goa’uld System Lords.
The wind rattled the windows once more, a howling gust that lent agreement.
Jack grabbed hold of his armrests as another gust jolted the chopper starboard. “Nice flying there, Ace.”
“I can’t explain it, sir.” Carter jockeyed the collective, her arm vibrating against the strain. “Even Katabatic winds don’t just pop up out of nowhere.”
“Pop up, you say?”
She smiled faintly, but didn’t reply. Too much wind, Jack supposed.
The first time he’d been choppered from McMurdo to the outpost, the trip had started out as a bit of a lark. The sun had been high overhead, the sky as blue as a robin’s egg, and the snow-covered brown mountains surrounding Ferrar Glacier had gone on forever. Then, that errant drone chased Sheppard’s helicopter halfway across McMurdo Sound.
He’d expected things to go differently this time, but so far? Not so much. The ride itself had been anything but smooth. One moment Carter had the chopper airborne nice and easy, honing in on the outpost. The next, they were fighting gusts that would put a hurricane to shame.
“You sure you can do this, Colonel?”
“Trying, sir.”
“Well, try not to flatten us like a stack of pancakes,” he said only half-jokingly. Every trip he’d traveled to this damn place always ended badly. Why should this be any different?
He checked the altimeter. “Fifteen hundred feet to go.”
Carter switched on the head beams and yanked off her night-vision goggles. “The wind’s shoving us down too — ”
The chopper lurched left. Below, a circle of blinking red landing lights and a solitary spotlight marked the outpost helipad. The instrument panel’s green lights reflected against her scrunched-up face.
“Easy, Carter.”
“Eleven hundred feet, sir.” She shifted her grip on the collective. “Piece of cake.”
The chopper took a sudden drop, making him wish he’d never eaten that donut Biggs offered before take-off. “Make that an even thousand,” Jack said, reading the altimeter. “Maybe this isn’t such a hot idea.”
Over the roar of the wind, he heard Carter’s feet tap the pedal controls. “Have a little faith, sir.”
“Hey, I’m all about faith, but — ”
The chopper’s nose pitched upward, throwing him back against his seat.
Carter wrestled them to a steady horizontal, the chopper shuddering against the strain. “I’ve flown in worse.”
He eyed the altimeter once more. Seven hundred feet to go. “Maybe we should head back. Try again later, when the wind’s died down.”
The rotors groaned, another shudder seized the chopper, and then…
The shaking stopped.
“The wind’s gone.” Carter flashed him a grin.
He returned the smile. “Faith, my ass. Nice flying.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He leaned back. “Take us down, Colonel.”
“Happily.” Carter wiped her brow and brought the chopper down by the mammoth glass and steel dome housing the elevator that led down to the Ancient outpost.
Jack grabbed his briefcase and jumped out, half-tempted to kiss the ground. Except it wasn’t ground. Beneath his feet was a whole lot of ice. At least two hundred feet of it.
“General O’Neill! Colonel Carter!” A heavily bundled figure waved at them from the tunnel leading inside.
Carter raised a hand over her brow and did a half-turn. “They must have moved the dome since my last visit.”
“To cover my fancy drill work,” Jack explained, still mystified by how he’d macgyvered the ring transporter to bore through two hundred fricking feet of solid ice. He remembered holding a soldering gun. He remembered sparks. Hell, he even had a faint reminiscence of Teal’c keeping him company.
But how he got those rings to cut through ice like a knife through Swiss cheese? Completely clueless.
The figure receded inside the dome tunnel. Jack nudged Carter toward the dome. “I’ve had enough hypothermia for one lifetime. Let’s go.”
Carter hoisted her backpack and followed him inside. As soon as they ran under the ‘White Rock Research Station’ signage, the parka-clad figure hit a button. The outer door slid down and the man pulled back his hood.
General Hammond grinned at them both. “Welcome to the outpost.” He strode toward the inner door and slapped the button to open it.
As the inner door retracted, Jack pushed back his hood. “General, it’s good to see you.”
“I told you, Jack…” He led them further into the dome, swiping another button to close the inner door. Ten feet inside, an elevator waited. “Call me George. We’re both generals now.”
“Old dog, new tricks, sir.” Jack followed him into the elevator cage. “How’s the Pentagon treating you?”
“It has its ups and downs.” Hammond punched the button for the bottom level.
The door closed. Digital numbers flashed above the control panel as they descended — just like the elevator back at the SGC. Grateful for at least one constant, Jack’s unzipped his parka as the air warmed up.
While Carter followed suit, Hammond kept his parka closed. Jack raised an eyebrow. “Too cold for you, sir?”
“Still a Texan at heart, I’m afraid. Even Colorado Springs was a bit chilly for my tastes.”
“Are you enjoying Washington, sir?” asked Carter.
“I never thought I’d say this, but yes, I am.” Hammond gestured at Jack’s briefcase. “I see Walter’s kept you busy.”
“Not exactly the ammo I’m used to carrying,” Jack admitted.
“Welcome to my world,” Hammond said with a laugh. “I understand the diplomats insisted on meeting with Dr. Jackson back at McMurdo. That was a good idea, by the way.”
“General?”
“Having Teal’c join in. Give those folks a taste of what’s really out there.”
Jack grimaced. “Sir, about that. Can’t you drag them — ?”
“They’ll do a fine job,” Hammond insisted. “You worry about wrangling those eager trainees.”
Hammond chatted with Carter as the elevator descended, but Jack barely paid attention. His mind was too busy, trying to figure out the best way to tell the general the truth.
How could he train a bunch of nuggets if he couldn’t even remember himself?
Pull it together, O’Neill.
It wasn’t like he’d had to train the Atlantis gang on how to use the chair. They’d figured that out all by their little genius selves.
The elevator hit bottom, the cage door slid open, and Carter excused herself. She dashed across the outer chamber in search of Dr. Lee. Jack watched her go.
That is, until he caught sight of the one gadget he hated even more than the chair.
Eight-feet high, barely two-feet wide and deep, the Ancient stasis unit he’d spent way too many months in stared back at him from across the room. How he’d willingly stepped into that metal coffin… Well, he’d deliberately shoved that memory in the same box as all the others.
Last time he’d been at the outpost, there’d been plenty of distractions to keep him from thinking about the damn thing. Daniel and Weir’s enthusiasm. McKay’s uppity Canadianisms. Sheppard’s ability to operate the chair as if it was a Gameboy.
“You ready, son?” Hammond stepped out of the elevator. Other than a dozen or so scientists futzing with gear at various workbenches, the chamber was fairly empty. A few airmen hung out by a bank of communications equipment at the far wall, drinking coffee, filling out paperwork. All run-of-the-mill.
Though he didn’t feel ‘ready,’ Jack grinned. “You bet.”
Sure, rummaging in the dark corners of a crowded box of memories was exactly what he wanted to do.
“The trainees are in the break room so you’ve got some time to work with the colonel and Dr. Lee. Take a spin in the chair and test those Mark IIs.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hammond frowned. “Is something wrong, Jack?”
“Nothing a good rummage sale won’t fix, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just a little joke, General.”
Hammond nodded, hopefully buying the lie. “I’ll go let the trainees know you’re here.” He stepped nimbly around a cart being pushed by a scientist and headed toward the break room.
Alone and ignored in a room full of geeks, Jack sucked it up and made his way to the weapons platform chamber. He marched past his former resting place, refusing to give the metal box another thought. Once through the archway, he caught sight of the chair. Carter and Lee were bent over a monitor, unaware of his presence. The ‘easy-chair from hell’ — his pet name for the Ancient weapons chair — just sat there nice and dormant. Its trellised back was upright. The platform dark.
And yet somehow, he had it in him to make the thing light up like a Christmas tree. In that chair, he could shoot out enough weapons to take out an entire Goa’uld fleet.
Or so they’d told him.
Carter had said to have a little faith, but faith was a funny thing. It required all sorts of clichés like doubting doubters. Believing in the evidence of things not seen. Or, losing control to a higher source. Inside his own head, no less.
He strode toward the chair, knowing he had no choice but to rely on another old chestnut — fake it ‘til you make it.
Daniel huddled with Teal’c and Robert Malan around the rec room’s foot-high Plexiglas tank. A hand-drawn sign encouraged them to touch the tank’s mostly albino inhabitants.
“Is that a starfish?” Daniel asked, surprised by its pale yellow coloring. It clung to a rock in the center of the tank while the other creatures stayed underwater.
“That’s an Antarctic sea star.” Malan gently touched one of the sea star’s limbs. He pointed to a handful of spindly yellow slug-like creatures, each the size of a child’s fist. “Those are anemones.”
“Why are they so light-colored?” Daniel asked.
“Lack of sun, temperature. A whole bunch of reasons.” Malan stroked the largest anemone’s spine. Its tendrils retracted. “You need to come over to Crary Lab. We’ve got a much bigger touch-tank over there. Flatworms, isopods, crustaceans. All sorts of local marine invertebrates.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Paul glanced at his watch. “We’ve only got about twenty minutes left.”
“I’ve got an idea!” Malan joined Paul at the door. “How about after the meeting we show them the lab, the NSF Chalet, and maybe take them up to the weather station?”
While Paul did his best to let the redheaded biologist down easy, Daniel copied Malan’s earlier action, grazing one of the anemone’s multiple tendrils with his fingertip. Soft, almost rubbery, the tendril slipped from his touch.
Teal’c leaned in beside him. “Will not the diplomats be angered if we are late, Daniel Jackson?”
“We’ve got time.”
“Would not that time be best used in preparation?”
“I suppose.” Daniel touched the pale starfish. Its skin was softer than normal. More pliable.
“And yet — ”
“I’m stalling, I know.” Daniel grinned at his friend. “Just trying to gather my thoughts.”
Teal’c tilted his head. “You have prepared for this discussion for the past week.”
“Yeah…”
Teal’c copied his action, touching the starfish’s back. “This is not Tegalus, Daniel Jackson.”
“No… It’s Antarctica,” Daniel replied. “These are my own people, Teal’c, but to be honest, I’m not sure if that makes it any easier.”
“But perhaps more difficult?” Two of the starfish’s points curled upward as Teal’c stroked its back. “And like the people of Tegalus, these diplomats will do what they want unless otherwise convinced.”
“Fat lot of good I did convincing the Caledonians and the Rand Protectorate.”
“As you say, these diplomats are your own people.” Teal’c retracted his finger from the tank. “Do you believe it your responsibility to make them understand the outpost’s importance?”
“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” With a sigh, Daniel turned from the tank and took a look around the room. Stacks of newspapers, books, and board games covered the center table. On another table by the far wall, a chess set waited for players. Next to the chess set stood an all too familiar wooden board covered in a series of crisscrossed lines. Several dozen black and white stones bunched together in one corner of the board.
Daniel blinked in surprise. Wéiqí — the ancient Chinese game known by most today as ‘Go’ — wasn’t that popular a game. He wondered who would be playing it at McMurdo.
It’d been barely a year since he’d been captured by Lord Yu and forced to play. While not the strangest experience of his lifetime, Daniel couldn’t deny that his hours-long discussion with the Goa’uld had left its mark. Especially Yu’s insistence that Daniel learn how to be both a warrior and a scholar.
Though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he’d embraced that advice whole-heartedly ever since.
Teal’c followed his eye line. “You cannot always help those who do not wish to be helped, Daniel Jackson.”
“No,” Daniel whispered. “But I can still try.”
“You know, Mr. Murray…” Malan replaced the tank’s cover. “You don’t need to wear a hat inside. It’s like — ”
Major Davis cleared his throat. “We really need to head toward the meeting room.”
“Sure, sure. We’re going that way, anyways.” Malan led them down a wide hallway with office doors on either side. He pointed out the various rooms including the radio and television stations, the library, and the personnel office.
Daniel kept a smile plastered on to be polite. The tour stopped to admire a weather monitor. Malan dragged Teal’c in for a closer view while Paul held back, his face pinched and anxious.
Daniel didn’t blame him. Gating to a Goa’uld enemy stronghold would be easier than what lay ahead. Despite Jack’s parting order to ‘get it done,’ this wasn’t going to be easy.
Jack’s latest orders rankled. He’d changed since taking command of the SGC. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but Daniel did. How could he not? Jack seemed quieter. Not necessarily more removed, just subdued.
Before his promotion, Jack had definitely been more animated. Sure, he’d argue loudly. He’d groan and complain. But he’d also listen. Jack would take in everyone’s thoughts before making a final decision. Sometimes those decisions weren’t the best, but more often than not, Jack had bent when Daniel needed him to.
The man still listened, but sometimes he behaved as if he’d already made up his mind before any arguments could be made. Of course, there were issues Jack was privy to as a general that Daniel could barely guess at.
When the tour stopped in front of a closed door with a small window in its top half, Paul thanked Malan for the tour — a not-so-subtle cue that the young biologist needed to leave.
Malan pumped Teal’c’s hand. “Don’t be afraid to join us tonight in the bowling alley. It’ll be fun!”
“I shall consider your invitation.” Teal’c tipped his head, oblivious to the scientist’s hero-crush.
“Dr. Malan…” Paul glanced at his watch.
“Oh, right. Gotta go!”
As Malan hurried off, Daniel shared a smile with Paul. “Bowling for fun — ”
“Still putting that promotion package together, Davis?” a voice called out behind them.
Daniel turned toward the newcomer. A man dressed in an F-302 jumpsuit strode toward them. When he stopped in front of Paul, Daniel read his name patch: Kenneth Ferguson, Lt. Colonel. Ferguson was lean, with an aquiline nose and eyes that seemed to take in everything without missing a beat. His buzz-cut blond hair was just a breath above being shaved clear off.
Paul introduced Ferguson. “The Colonel and I went through the academy together.”
Ferguson smirked. “And yet you’re still a wee little major. That’s got to be boring. What’s the matter? Can’t your CO write up a decent recommendation?”
Paul stiffened. “Actually, Colonel, the board review happened several months ago. I’m good to go.”
“Congratulations,” Teal’c said.
“That’s great,” Daniel said, ignoring the colonel’s petty comments. “When does the promotion happen?”
“Yeah, Davis,” Ferguson chimed in. “When’s the ceremony?”
“I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet.” Paul glanced through the door’s window.
Ferguson slapped him on the back. “Of course not. You’ve been in the service more than sixteen years. Why would you ever want to be promoted?”
“I’m happy with the way things are.”
“Sure you are,” Ferguson said. “Tell you what, Colonel Thanks-but-no, when you decide to get off your ass and go through with the promotion, call me. I’ll be sitting in the front row.” He tossed off a wave and strode toward the galley.
“You okay?” Daniel didn’t really understand military ranks and promotions, but he got the pecking order. If Paul was turning down a promotion, there had to be a good reason.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He turned back toward the door. “Before we go in, let me brief you on these diplomats.”
Surprised at Paul’s sudden change of topic, Daniel glanced at Teal’c who raised an eyebrow in response. Inside, three ambassadors hovered around a coffee service by the far wall. Two men and a woman.
“The tall man with the mustache is Markus Duebel, Switzerland,” Paul said. “He’s been with their diplomatic corps for over twenty years, but from what I’ve put together, he’s been booted out of just about every place the Swiss sent him.”
“Great. A grumpy career diplomat,” Daniel observed. Duebel had a reserved air to him. He poured cream into his cup, added sugar, and then stirred it in, every movement economized. Even the man’s facial movements were minimal. Duebel didn’t smile or frown while talking with the other man in the room. He simply was. His steel gray hair added to his stern aura.
“All three of them are basically bottom of the barrel ambassadors. Kicked out, fired, re-hired. I’m guessing the UN didn’t believe they needed to send their best.” Paul pointed at the shorter man gesticulating wildly at Duebel. “That’s Jorge Diego Suarez, Argentina. You know their deal.”
“They believe they own Antarctica,” Teal’c said.
“Not all Argentines think that way,” Paul explained.
“Mostly just the upper-class.” Daniel decided Suarez probably belonged in that category. Unlike the other two who had donned simple cold-weather fleece pullovers, the Argentine diplomat wore an expensive cable-knit sweater. His black hair and beard were neatly trimmed, not a hair out of place.
And from the way his hands waved, he enjoyed a good argument. Too bad Jack wasn’t around. There wasn’t anyone better at shutting down someone like that in a heartbeat.
The third diplomat turned toward the door. She was Asian, not more than five-foot-three. Short-cropped black hair and bangs framed a face tattooed with what seemed a permanent scowl. She sat down at the table in the center of the room and sipped her coffee while the two men argued.
“That’s Quing Zhu,” said Paul.
“She desires something of value,” Teal’c observed.
Daniel pulled back from the door. “Not that I’m surprised considering how little we’ve lived up to our end of our promise to share technologies from the program, but how can you tell?”
“She remains separate from the other two,” Teal’c said. “Watch. She is impatient.”
As if on cue, Zhu glanced toward the wall clock and frowned.
“Maybe that’s just her nature,” Daniel said. “Guys, whether we like it or not, China’s a member of the Security Council. If President Hayes trusted them enough about the Stargate — ”
“After last year’s diplomatic fiasco over Lord Yu,” Paul said, “I’m not so sure the president trusts anyone.”
Teal’c’s frown only punctuated Paul’s point. Though Daniel had missed SG-1’s run-in with the Chinese government last year — mostly because he was Lord Yu’s prisoner at the time — he’d learned during his debriefing all about how the Chinese had unwittingly allowed Yu’s spy to infiltrate the SGC.
A spy that China wouldn’t allow the Pentagon to interview.
“So those are the players.” Paul dropped a hand to the doorknob. “Teal’c, you’re just here to observe, but — ”
“I have pledged my allegiance to this world, Major Davis. I will remain silent.”
Daniel grinned at his friend’s avowal, wishing he felt as confident. “I think what he’s trying to say is — ”
“I am ready.” Teal’c lifted his chin. “This is merely a battle of a different sort.”
“A battle of words,” Paul said with a nod.
“It’s not a battle,” Daniel insisted. “We have to help these UN diplomats understand why the weapons chair — though technically in breach of the treaty — needs to stay put.”
“Daniel Jackson, is not world peace the primary reason for the United Nations?”
“Of course.” Grabbing the doorknob, Daniel silently prayed these negotiations would go far smoother than his last attempt.
“Then is it not also true that if the chair’s removal causes it to malfunction, any hopes of such peace will be destroyed if the Goa’uld could attack again?”
Stunned by the simple truth in Teal’c’s words, Daniel did the only thing he could.
He opened the door.