STARGATE SG-1 Transitions

By C. Bauer

The journey begins

After her mother's death, Cassie Fraiser is moving on. So she thinks. But there are dangerous forces at work and she soon finds herself caught up in a situation far beyond her control. It's a good thing Colonel Carter was keeping an eye on her.

But while Carter rallies SG-1 to Cassie's aid, events on Atlantis are

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fandemonium Books
• Release date: Jun 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781800700253

Book preview

Prologue

Amara stared at the tiny glass vial that lay snugly in the palm of her hand. Such a delicate thing. So seemingly innocuous. So deadly.

Her mother had named her appropriately. Amara, the bitter one. Amara, seventh of seven daughters instead of the longed-for son. Hence the name. Of course, her mother would never know just how appropriate the choice had been, for her mother’s acrimony couldn’t begin to compete with that of Amara herself. She had seen more injustice and cruelty than anyone ought to see, enough to fill a mind and heart with a glut of bitterness. And she would be the bringer of bitterness, too. She had begged to be chosen for the task, and the Teacher had heard her.

Looking across a rose-tinted evening sea, breathing in the scents of salt and olive and lemon that drifted across the water, she wondered if the Teacher knew, somehow, that she was here, was ready.

Her gaze returned to the vial.

How a little thing could be so all-important.

Take her name.

Exchange one single letter, and she would have been Amata, the loved one. Would her life have taken a different course? Perhaps. Perhaps not. All she knew for certain was that she never had been the loved one. Nor would she ever be. Some would walk in awe of her and the deed she had committed, others — many, many others — would hate her for it while they still could.

Amara!

She recognized the voice. It belonged to Pelas, and Pelas was a friend. This she had not counted on. In retrospect, she should have, because it was only natural. One cannot live among people, blend into the midst of them, without forming at least a few personal connections. Some, such as Pelas, close enough for that person to know one’s secret hideouts — all but one — and to seek one out even when one didn’t wish to be found. Perhaps those who had sent her had never considered a warning to that respect, perhaps they had deliberately omitted it. After all, the prospect of destroying one’s friends was daunting. Too daunting for most.

Amara! You were going to join me for the evening meal, don’t you remember?

Gently her fingers closed around the vial and slipped it back into the hidden pocket in her robe. A last meal, a last glass of wine, then it would be time. After this she would never see Pelas again. Pelas, who would learn to despise her when he might have been converted and brought into the flock. His heart was good. He suffered with the course his people had chosen. He could have been saved.

Not for the first time she wished the Teacher hadn’t expressly forbidden her to proselytize. Doing so would have endangered both her and her mission. Yet withholding the wisdom of origin was the vilest sin of all, and though she had been absolved in advance, she felt she was no better than those among whom she had lived all these years. They, the denizens of the crystal-bright, many-spired city behind her, would look on from a godlike distance while those poor, ignorant-as-newborns people on the mainland dwelled in filthy hovels, succumbed to blights a child could have cured, fought senseless, violent wars with weapons that left them horribly maimed and disfigured if not dead. And still the Lanteans, as they called themselves now, did nothing where they could have taught, improved, pacified, and healed. With great knowledge came great responsibility, they’d profess, and the highest and most painful duty of all was to leave lesser folk to make their own mistakes, for only there lay the roots of true enlightenment.

Vicious heresy.

What good was knowledge if it wasn’t shared with new generations everywhere and of every race? How long would it last if there were none left to carry it forward?

It occurred to Amara that she could answer this last question almost to the day.

These Lanteans had weathered the first onslaught of the plague the Teacher had brought upon them. The goal had been to utterly destroy them and their heresy. Still, a few hundred Lanteans had survived and although they realized that they now were immune, they had built this city on an isolated island in the Middle Sea and were intending to leave the planet before another fatal epidemic struck them down.

So the Teacher had taken the virus and modified it. Then he had sent her, and there would be no immunity this time. The little vial in her pocket contained certain death, and she would install it deep within the city, within the device the Teacher had instructed her to build. There the virus would slumber for hundreds, maybe thousands of years, until such time when it was certain that everyone in the city had awakened, had started their lives anew, felt safe and once more took stealthy pleasure in the plight of the unenlightened. Vengeance would come upon them when they least expected it, and the heresy would be eradicated. Amara would stay behind, within the protection of her own stasis chamber deep beneath the island, and she would sleep until the day when the Teacher came to waken and reward her.

Pelas’s hand touched her shoulder. Amara? Didn’t you hear me?

I did. She turned to him, studied him, the golden-haired, golden-eyed one, with his smile full of trust. And she smiled back at him. I merely wanted to watch the sunset. It will be our last one here. We will leave tonight.

Following the direction of her gaze, he drank in the pink and scarlet swaths of light the sun had painted on ocean and sky. You’re right, he said. I had almost forgotten.

She took his hand, gently, sadly, knowing that with this simple gesture she was leading him to his death. Let us go, Pelas. It is time.

Chapter one

Michael Webber’s guests were an odd couple. Dr. Stavros Dimitriades; short, stubby, temperamental, with a wild halo of gray hair and in a suit that might have benefited from a dry-clean or, at the very least, a steam iron. And his companion, a Ms. Graves from some cultural foundation down in the States; thin, immaculate, humorless, but with all the right credentials. Heaps of them.

She wasn’t the sort of person Michael normally would have considered dealing with, but if Stavros had finagled the help of her outfit, bully for him. Michael wasn’t going to spoil it. After all, Stavros had — for the umpteenth time and counting — definitely discovered Atlantis.

This time it lay at the end of a manmade tunnel that a recent earthquake had exposed on an island off Santorini. Which, unlike most of Stavros’s previous attempts, at least had the novelty of corresponding with one of the leading theories regarding the location of the fabled city.

Anyway, Stavros and his cohort had shown up in Michael’s office half an hour ago and unannounced, and the goal of their mission was obvious.

I am absolutely certain this time, my friend. There can’t be any doubt! Atlantis at last! Stavros had leaped from his chair like Zorba the Greek, and for a moment he looked as if he was going to break into a spontaneous dance routine, complete with plate smashing and shouts of Oppa! Then he crumpled and collapsed back into the chair. But, alas! You know how little interest there is in the world today for things of culture. Nobody wants to invest in it. I very much fear that the city of marvels must remain buried for all times. He pinched the bridge of his nose as if to drive back tears and heaved a stormy sigh.

The performance had class, and Michael bit back a grin. It wasn’t the first time Stavros had hit him up for funding, probably wouldn’t be the last. They’d been friends forever, ever since Michael and Jenny had discovered Santorini on their honeymoon a few decades ago, and being Stavros’s friend carried certain responsibilities, at least from Stavros’s point of view.

Well aware of it, Michael didn’t even argue. Besides, he could afford it, and there always was that nagging bit of conscience that said he owed karma a good deed or ten. He’d escaped a war that had killed thousands of his generation. And he’d turned a tiny renewable energy business into one of the best bets on the TSX, thus becoming the kind of people he’d protested against once upon a time and in another life. At least the start-up capital had been derived in style, from a couple of homegrown bumper crops of British Columbia’s main agricultural product. So, no, he wasn’t going to argue.

He opened a drawer, took out his check book, wrote a check for a sum that should keep Stavros happy for a while. Especially since Ms. Graves’s foundation had promised to match the amount. Michael signed it in an awkward scrawl that said he wasn’t bred to be a businessman, and handed the slip of paper to Stavros.

Who stared at it and went pale. Then he went red. Then he leaped from the chair again, rounded the table, grabbed Michael’s shoulders and soundly kissed him on both cheeks. "Evcharisto poli, my friend! Thank you so very much! You mark my words, you shall go down in history as one of the great spirits in the sacred world of classical antiquity!"

Michael wasn’t entirely sure that this was what he’d been dreaming of, but thought it best not to mention any reservations. Stavros’s eyes looked suspiciously shiny, and he seemed to be planning an encore to that Levantine kissing thing.

Mercifully, Ms. Graves interrupted. She’d rescued the check, which had fluttered from Stavros’s grasp in all the excitement, and now stared at Michael as if seeing him for the first time. This is extremely generous, Mr. Webber. I didn’t expect this at all.

The smile she forced would have scared a shark, so Michael merely shrugged. He was spared from coming up with an appropriate platitude by his PA.

Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Webber, the PA chirped over the intercom. Your two o’clock has arrived.

Ah, well, said Ms. Graves, extracting herself from the chair. We’d better be going then. Thank you again, Mr. Webber.

Stavros looked inconsolable all of a sudden, and Michael had a good idea why. In Stavros’s world, an occasion such as this needed to be celebrated with copious quantities of ouzo and enough Greek food to sabotage the healthiest of digestive tracts. Certainly not Ms. Graves’s scene. He wrapped Michael in one last bear hug.

I shall keep you updated on everything we find, my friend. You shall see, it’s the discovery of a lifetime.

And I’ll be looking forward to it, Michael said, surprising himself by meaning it.

It felt odd, coming back. A little like returning to your parents’ house on weekend leave and discovering that your den had been remodeled and turned into a guestroom. Your posters — baseball and country music stars — and sports trophies were gone, and the interesting purple accent wall once draped with the Lone Star flag had been painted beige, a color that perfectly summed up a space which had lost all trace of its previous resident (admittedly of doubtful taste).

Though that wasn’t quite right, was it?

Well, Major General George Hammond hoped it wasn’t. He hoped that he’d left some lasting impression on this particular space, a legacy that couldn’t be eliminated by a coat of paint. That aside, beige was just about the last color anyone would associate with the current occupant.

That triggered a grin, and he spent the elevator ride into the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain trying to find color matches for Jack O’Neill. By the time the car came to a halt on Level 28, he’d decided that a single color — even Day-Glo — simply wouldn’t do. The O’Neill experience was just a tad more psychedelic than that.

In the hallway he passed several new faces and garnered bemused and anxious looks from folks who’d been posted here after his time and didn’t recognize him by sight.

Odd man out.

Before he had a chance of — God forbid! — waxing melancholy about that one, an enthusiastic shout rolled down the hall and barreled into him like a ball into the bowling pins.

General! The shouter was Sergeant Siler who picked up his pace just enough to make Hammond worry about the possibility of a non-regulation hug. Luckily the sergeant, a little shy and awkward by nature, knew when to put on the brakes. Good to see you, sir, he said after foregoing the hug, executing a smart turn, and falling in alongside Hammond instead. What brings you back?

Nothing drastic, Sergeant, Hammond replied, knowing full well that this wasn’t entirely true. Chances were that most everyone at Stargate Command, and three people in particular, would find it very drastic. Just here to discuss a few things with General O’Neill.

Uhuh, said Siler, managing to squeeze a world of doubt into those two syllables, but otherwise refraining from comment.

Hammond grinned and briefly put his hand on Siler’s shoulder. Good to see you, too, Sergeant.

With that he headed up into the control room, had a quick chat with duty staff, all of whom were still familiar, and then climbed the stairs to the briefing room and his… General O’Neill’s office beyond.

The door stood open, and George Hammond liked to think that this was a tradition he’d established. His door had always been open, to anyone. Jack sat behind the desk, looking a little unkempt for a CO — but then, what else was new? — and balefully contemplated the mountain of paperwork in his in-tray.

Biting back a smile, Hammond briskly rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb. Permission to enter?

The answer was a preoccupied grunt, followed by a double take, and then Jack shot from the chair and to attention. General! That’s a surprise! I didn’t know you were coming.

This time there was no biting back anything. Hammond grinned. At ease, Jack, for Pete’s sake! And it’s George, remember? I thought we’d discussed this.

We have. And I’ve been practicing in front of the mirror every morning. Still doesn’t quite sit right. Smiling, Jack swung around the desk, hand outstretched, and they shook. "Good to see you… George. Come on in. Have a seat. Have your seat."

Visitor’s chair’ll do just fine, Jack. Don’t give me any ideas. Hammond sat down, actually quite enjoying the view from the other side of the table. He missed the place, to be sure. What he didn’t miss was the price you had to pay. Too many lives lost, and every one of them still haunted him.

Jack returned to his chair — his chair — and contrived to look like a kid who’d stolen into the principal’s office to sit behind the man’s desk for a dare. So, what brings you here, sir… George? Routine inspection? He was only half joking. The other half, well, that had been obvious in his emails.

Hardly. Hammond chuckled. I know full well that you’re filling my — how did you put it? — very big, very shiny shoes just fine, Jack. The chuckle died. As a matter of fact, I’m here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.

Oh? Curiosity and suspicion just about balanced out in that little question. And the suspicion wasn’t misplaced, either. Jack wouldn’t like it. Much. At first.

Leaning forward, Hammond plucked the name sign off the desk and flicked his index finger at the single star on it. You’ll need a new one, Jack. That’s the headliner. You’ll be bumped up to major general, and I’m genuinely thrilled to be the one telling you.

Of course he’d known better than to expect a victory dance. Jack’s eyes narrowed. Where’s the snag?

The President wants you in Washington.

Ah. Jack settled back in the chair, found himself a pen to fiddle with. And if I refuse this offer I can’t refuse, they’ll slip a horse’s head into my bed one night?

In the immortal words of Dr. Jackson, don’t be an ass, Jack.

Sir… George… I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but… He might not seem ungrateful, but he certainly seemed to be at a loss for words. For a motor mouth Jack sure wasn’t much of a talker, especially when it came to people or things he cared about. Eight years ago you dragged me back here kicking and screaming. Turns out it was the right thing to do… I think. I belong here, which was why I agreed to run the show when Dr. Weir left. At least I know how you’d want this place to be run… I think. The pen sailed through the air, turned a tidy little somersault. Jack caught it, tossed it again. "What I’m trying to say, General… what I’m trying to say is, I belong here."

Those last three words were loaded. George Hammond sure as hell shared the sentiment. What was more, he understood it perfectly. When he’d first come here, it was a dead-end posting for surplus generals awaiting retirement. For a good long while he’d babysat a defunct piece of alien technology. Then that had changed in one big hurry, and before he rightly knew what hit him he’d had a war on his hands — and a couple hundred men and women who’d turned into a close-knit family. No wonder really, given that it was them against any number of worlds. Hammond knew what it meant to be part of that family. But still…

Jack, the war is over. You won. Which is to say that promotion isn’t a bribe. Not entirely, anyway. Hammond sighed. You’ve become a member of a very select club. Your commander-in-chief has made this a request, not an order. That aside he’s been shrewd enough to realize that I’d be the messenger least likely to get shot. As for me, I might not have played along, except I happen to think he’s right. You’re wasted here.

As opposed to Washington? You know me, sir. It’s not as if ‘diplomacy’ is my middle name. I’d just lower the tone.

Hammond snorted. With all due respect, son, not even you could manage that.

Wanna bet?

At the risk of repeating myself, Jack, the war is over. Which means you’ve become a glorified bellhop shuttling luggage to and from Atlantis.

Tips are good. The mulish look on Jack’s face brightened to something close to hopeful. Besides, what if we’ve missed a couple dozen Ba’al clones?

Oh yeah, definitely psychedelic. Hammond stifled another sigh. The Pentagon doesn’t think so. Neither does the IOA. They’re married to the bellhop version. Meaning that the SGC will be looking at massive cuts in funding. And that’s not speculation, it’s a promise.

It’s idiotic, that’s what!

I couldn’t agree more. Now that he’d finally grabbed Jack’s full and undivided attention — not to mention indignation — Hammond allowed himself a small bout of relief. Maybe, just maybe, he could stop twisting the man’s arm before he snapped a bone. They’re not looking past the obvious. Which is a) the Goa’uld are no longer a threat, and b) every time you activate the gate their electricity bill goes up by a few hundred thousand bucks. Do the math, Jack.

What about exploration? Daniel’s rocks and scrolls and anthropologically significant tea cozies? Those alien technologies everybody used to salivate over?

They figure the Atlantis expedition can cover all of that. With the possible exception of the tea cozies, but I very much doubt Congress will make those a budget consideration. Anyway, general consensus — however misguided — is that Atlantis can do what we’re doing without damn near shorting out the North American power grid every time they’re at it.

Jack’s mouth had become a thin, hard line of fury, as if he were struggling to keep in an encyclopedia’s worth of undoubtedly colorful invective. And the off-world sites? he snapped.

Scrubbed. Ideally they want you to start pulling out personnel by the end of next month.

Great! Just great! And I suppose I’m to nail the gate shut personally the second the last man trots down the ramp?

That hypothetical task would fall to your successor. Unless you manage to prevent it, of course.

Do I look like the great and powerful Oz?

The outburst was followed by a leaden pause Hammond knew better than to interrupt. Let the man take his time to think it through. Or let the silence get so uncomfortable that he couldn’t help but say something. Anything. Of course, experience showed that, in Jack’s case, anything was more likely than something, simply because he knew every trick in the book, including this one.

Not for the first time, Jack surprised him. So how would I go about preventing it? he said at last, sounding amazingly calm.

"You do what the President’s asking you to do, Jack. What they need to hear over there is the point of view of someone who’s been there and done that and knows which way the galactic cookie crumbles. Even better if that someone is a bona fide hero. Hammond clocked the wince that word triggered and felt entirely unrepentant. It was true, and every now and again it needed to be said, even if the guy at the receiving end bristled at it. In other words, you go to Washington and be undiplomatic. I think President Hayes is counting on you to make one hell of a nuisance of yourself."

I guess I could do that, he offered cautiously. Kinda comes natural. When would I leave?

Yesterday. George Hammond got within a hair of letting out a good old yell. Of all the victories he’d won throughout a long and distinguished career this one ranked right up there among the ten most improbable.

Not gonna happen, sir. I’d like a chance to pack my toothbrush if you and the commander-in-chief don’t mind. I’ll also have to talk to people… Daniel’s gonna be pissed, and that’s just for starters. Teal’c’s gonna sulk. Loudly. And Carter… Jack dropped the pen and scrubbed his hands over his face. You sure a nice, drawn-out root canal wouldn’t do as well, sir? I’d volunteer to forego the anesthetic.

Don’t think that’ll be an option, son. Sorry. Okay, Hammond wasn’t sorry in the slightest. He felt relieved. And a little guilty. But only a little. At the end of the day it would be good for Jack. Not to mention the Stargate program. He rose. You made the right choice, Jack. Even if it won’t strike you that way for a while yet.

You got that right, Jack muttered and pushed himself to his feet. End of next week good enough?

End of next week will be fine. Hammond smiled and saluted briskly. Congratulations, Major General O’Neill. Give ‘em hell!

Chapter Two

Friday morning, ten past nine, and Dr. Daniel Jackson had already gotten fed up with a somewhat painful decision making process. Consequently he’d postponed the whole dilemma and headed out for a caffeine fix.

Who had come up with those ridiculous limits on what you could take to Atlantis anyway? After all, it wasn’t like USPS was charging freight rates on items transported through the Stargate — even when they were shipped to the Pegasus Galaxy. Going by that arm-long list of restrictions, he’d probably travel with one clean set of underwear (disposable) and a toothbrush (ditto), and that was it.

Okay, slight exaggeration, but he really didn’t see why he couldn’t take more than one personal item. How on Earth was he supposed to make up his mind between the chess set and his prized Haida war paddle? Not to mention the books. Some of the essential volumes he’d snuck in under the label Research Materials, though even he would be hard pushed to explain the archeological/mythological/other relevance to the Pegasus Galaxy of, say, The Lord Of The Rings. And that still left —

What can I get you today? The barista interrupted Daniel’s mental diatribe.

Oh. Uh… medcapnonfatwet, he rattled off and held his breath, waiting to see if the experiment would be successful.

Excuse me?

Daniel repeated his order slowly, in English. A medium cappuccino, please. Skimmed milk, and easy on the foam.

Medcapnonfatwet! the barista shouted at a colleague manning the giant espresso machine.

Bingo.

It was a hugely fascinating phenomenon. The tribe of the baristas spoke its own dialect and resented alien usage thereof to an extent that rendered them hard of hearing whenever an outsider addressed them in their own idiom. At least that was Daniel’s working hypothesis.

Will that be all for you, sir?

He nodded, dropped the exact change on the counter. Thanks.

Medcapnonfatwet! the espresso machinist hollered over the hissing of steam and the crunchy roar of an industrial coffee grinder.

That’ll be mine! Daniel made his way over to the pickup counter, sprinkled a generous dose of cinnamon on top of the milk foam, and took his drink to a small corner table.

One of the previous customers had left the morning paper behind. Perfect. He sunk into a comfy armchair and settled in for a pleasant half-hour of caffeine and news.

Twenty minutes into it, he nearly choked on the last mouthful of cappuccino. The news item was tucked away on the penultimate page, between Britney Spears’s latest escapade and a report on a Maine dairy farmer who’d invented a contraption to collect the methane gas his cows gave off when farting.

He hadn’t thought of the old man in forever. The reputation of Dr. Stavros Dimitriades as an unrepentant crackpot had rivaled that of Dr. Jackson and, though Daniel was loath to engage in this kind of judgment, held considerably more justification. He knew for a fact that, contrary to Dimitriades’s stubborn claims and spurious evidence, neither Nazca, nor the source of the Nile, nor the Greek island of Santorini was the location of Atlantis. Many years ago, Dimitriades, sniffing a kindred spirit, had all but stalked Daniel in the hopes of persuading him to join a new dig on the Azores. Daniel had blown him off, probably more unkindly than he deserved.

Eventually the old man had abandoned the Azores for Santorini, and now he was dead.

According to the local authorities he’d run his car off a cliff.

He’d continued digging all those years, mostly by himself, without funding and with little material support. Daniel suspected that the only thing to keep him in excavation permits was the simple fact that the Greek government preferred Stavros Dimitriades picking holes into the volcanic rock of Santorini to Stavros Dimitriades making a fool of himself and, by extension, his country on the international academic stage. Lately though his luck seemed to have changed. He’d attracted the support of an unnamed sponsor who, together with some US-based foundation, funneled a considerable amount of money and resources into the project. Apparently the investment was warranted. Only two weeks back the old man had publicly hinted at sensational findings that would conclusively prove his theory. Which hadn’t so much as stirred a hiccup among the archeological community. They were used to this kind of announcement from old Stavros.

Then the accident had happened.

Except, and provided the paper had gotten its facts straight, it couldn’t have been an accident. For the simple, compelling reason that Stavros Dimitriades didn’t drive. The man had never even gotten his license. He suffered from a mild form of epilepsy and was prone to zoning out without warning. Not a good look for a motorist.

Daniel cast a furtive look around to see if anyone was watching him. When he noted nothing but polite indifference, he carefully tore out the article, folded it, and stuffed it into his pocket. Though, if truth be told, he had no idea why he was doing it. Shrugging at himself, he decided to go back to his apartment and continue to tear his hair out over the respective necessity of a chess set and a war paddle.

He was halfway out of the chair when his cell phone rang. Slumping back, he fished it out of his pocket, frowned at the caller’s number. Canadian area code.

Huh, he muttered, flipped open the phone. Jackson, he said.

What the caller had to tell him drove all thoughts of chess sets and war paddles from his mind.

Some sixteen hundred miles east, another phone rang in a Washington office.

We’ve got a problem, the male voice on the phone announced without preamble.

This isn’t a good time. The meeting would start in ten minutes. Tardiness wasn’t an option. Make it brief.

"The old fool emailed a copy of the fragment we found to Webber. With instructions to