Carter stared at the shrine’s eclectic offerings. “I think… is there more gold than there was the other day? Wasn’t there only one big lump of it in the MALP footage?”
Jackson nodded. “That’s my impression. And now there are two. Keep looking.”
“The flowers,” said Carter, straightening. “My God, Daniel. You’re right. These flowers are fresh and they should be wilted, given that the MALP footage was recorded over twenty-four hours ago. And they’re not the same blooms. The others were long and thin, kind of like skinny trumpets. These are flat-faced, like pansies.”
That got O’Neill’s attention. “You’re sure? They’re different flowers?”
Carter and Jackson exchanged glances, then she nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And the ones we saw before aren’t here now,” added Jackson. “They’ve been removed, probably because the idea of something decaying in the shrine is considered sacrilegious.”
“Yeah. Whatever. I don’t care why, I just care that they’ve changed,” said O’Neill, and unslung his MP5-K from his shoulder. “Hey Teal’c! Look alive. We could have company.”
“Wait a minute, Jack,” said Jackson, as Carter got back on her feet. “You can’t seriously think we’re in danger from the person visiting this shrine. That’s like saying we’re in danger from a florist.”
O’Neill raised his eyebrows. “
Little Shop of Horrors
. Ring any bells? Come on, get your gear. I want some distance between us and this shrine.”
“Jack, just
wait
a minute, would you?” said Jackson, scrambling to his feet. “What’s happening here could be part of some elaborate extended ritual, and if it is I need to know. Its significance to Adjoan culture could — ”
“Daniel, I don’t give a fat rat’s ass about its cultural significance,” O’Neill retorted. “It’s a question of security, and — ”
“Jack, there is no demonstrable threat here,” said Jackson, arms folded stubbornly across his chest. “And if whoever’s performing this offering rite does come back we’ll have the perfect opportunity to make first contact without the added complications of group dynamics. This mission will go a whole lot easier if we can make friends with a single individual first. Break the ice slowly. You
know
that.
And
you know I have a specific mandate this time. I’m not going to let you ride roughshod over it the first chance you get. So please, back off and let me do my job, for once.”
Dixon, watching the air sizzle between Jackson and O’Neill, decided he liked the archeologist. It took guts, standing up to a man like Jack O’Neill. He also decided it was time to remind SG-1 he was here.
“I think Jackson makes a good point,” he said mildly. “If we can gain one person’s confidence now we might be able to avoid misunderstandings down the line.”
O’Neill’s expression tightened, his thoughts clear.
I don’t give a crap what you think.
But he didn’t say it. “What makes you so sure we’re only dealing with one Adjoan here, Daniel? For all you know there could be a whole gaggle of them traipsing round the place trailing bunches of flowers. And they could be armed.”
Jackson stared. “With what? Deadly nightshade? Anyway, I don’t think we’re looking at a large group. This is a small shrine. It feels… personal. Intimate.”
O’Neill exhaled sharply. “Teal’c?”
The Jaffa didn’t lose any of his taut alertness or abandon his relentless assessment of their surroundings. “I am inclined to agree with Daniel Jackson,” he said. “Provided we do not make the mistake of assuming a flower-carrying stranger poses no threat.” He looked at Jackson, one eyebrow lifted. “As we have previously discovered, the most attractive flowers often hide a thorn.”
“Okay, Daniel, I’ll give you an hour, tops,” O’Neill said briskly. “If nobody’s shown up by then we head towards the village, no arguments.”
Jackson nodded. “Okay. That’s fair.”
They withdrew to the meager cover of nearby trees and made
themselves as comfortable and inconspicuous as possible. Well-used to this kind of mission requirement, the members of SG-1 rested their gazes on the surrounding landscape and sank into a watchful, waiting reverie. With his own senses set to autopilot alert, just as used to this kind of suspended action, Dixon let a small sliver of his attention wander.
Interesting team dynamics, with SG-1. Reading mission reports didn’t tell the full story. Couldn’t. First-hand observation was the only way to learn how a team functioned, how the cogs meshed, the wheels turned. How someone like O’Neill led his team.
As it turns out, more democratically than I expected.
Of course SG-1 wasn’t a typical military team. How could it be when half of it wasn’t military? Well, not US military at least. He wondered if that ever bothered O’Neill, knowing he was giving orders to the Jaffa equivalent of — of — well, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He didn’t think so. It looked to him like O’Neill would be comfortable giving orders to the Commander in Chief himself.
He really is an arrogant bastard.
Not that Teal’c seemed to mind. Interesting, that a man who’d once commanded thousands — hell, who’d led an entire
army
— was content to surrender power to someone who could be considered his inferior, both in experience and in physical prowess.
Wonder if there’s any way I can get him alone for a chat while we’re here
…
Carter wasn’t standard military issue either. Sure, she’d done
her fair share of soldiering — continued to do it on SG-1’s off-world missions — but it was obvious her heart belonged in a lab, where she could reinvent the laws of science on a weekly basis and save the world every now and then in her spare time.
I guess it’s not always easy, living in her sk
in. Supersmart, supercompetent daughter of a brilliant, some say difficult, Air Force general. No pressure there. And now she’s O’Neill’s walking talking rabbit’s foot. He seems to think all he has to do is tell her ‘fix it’ and she will, no questions aske
d, not a hair out of place
.
Trouble was, she always did. And what kind of pressure did
that
put on a person? The more times you succeeded, the harder it got to contemplate failure.
When the time comes she can’t fix something — and it will come, it has to —
is failure going to crush her?
He really hoped not. He liked Sam Carter. She deserved better than that.
And then there was Jackson.
Not even Frank had known the story between those two, known why O’Neill cut the guy so much slack. They’d met on the first mission to Abydos. When that was done O’Neill came back home and left Jackson behind. Had disobeyed orders and
lied
about the man’s survival, the survival of everyone on that planet. And he’d persuaded the men who’d survived the mission with him, Kawalski and Ferretti, to lie as well.
Never expected that
, Frank had said.
Jack was always a maverick but I never thought he’d cross that line
.
Whatever had pushed him over it must have been big. O’Neill’s kid had killed himself around that time. Was that the connection? No, how could it be? O’Neill and Jackson never met before the Stargate was opened. No reason for the boy to factor into it. What did a dead child have to do with the Abydos mission? Nothing.
He was a great kid, Charlie
. Memory whispered, Frank’s voice full of old pain. He’d known O’Neill’s kid, and loved him.
And O’Neill knew that, but kept Frank away from the funeral. Bastard.
Remembering O’Neill’s dead son derailed his train of thought then, turned it homewards, little knife-points of guilt pricking. He and Lainie were both only children. They’d sworn to each other they wanted a tribe of kids to love and raise. And now the first of that tribe was cooking and he was on an alien planet halfway across the vast Milky Way…
Someone kicked the side of his boot. Jolted from troubled reverie he refocused, to see O’Neill staring at him with those dark, hooded and unnervingly perceptive eyes. Not a word spoken, nor did there need to be. Somehow O’Neill, like Carter, had read his thoughts and the message was clear.
Keep your mind on the job, Dixon
.
Damn. What had possessed him, that he’d tell O’Neill Lainie’s news? Their news? Their own families didn’t know yet and he’d blurted it out to this cold, unsympathetic bastard.
Crazy. I was crazy. Dollars to doughnuts
he’ll find a way to use it against me
.
He thought again of O’Neill’s dead son. How would that be,
knowing your own child — your
only
child — was dead because
you got careless. Left your gun out. How would that be?
According to Frank, O’Neill’s ex-wife had said — when he called to express his condolences — that her then-husband had gone someplace where she couldn’t follow or find him.
Perhaps that explains why he is the way he is. Perhaps not all of him came back
.
Or was it just an excuse for crappy behavior? After all, his kid wasn’t dead when he and Frank fought in Desert Storm. Then another thought occurred. Not comfortable. Not the kind of thought that fitted with his preconceived construction of one Colonel Jack O’Neill.
Must’ve been hard in that Iraqi prison, thinking he’d never see his son again. Be pretty easy to throw blame around, thinking you were going to die in that hole
.
At a stone’s throw distance, Teal’c sat a little straighter. “O’Neill.”
He didn’t need to say anything else. Jackson had been right. SG-1 had company.
A sudden rush of adrenaline. Senses sharpening to the point of pain. Increased heart rate. Trickles of sweat. Every muscle contracted, ready for attack.
Heads up. It’s showtime.
The newcomer was a woman. Well, closer to a girl really. Maybe fourteen, fifteen years old tops. Slight of build. Not tall, five-one, five-two. Olive skin. Straight dark hair, long and braided away from her face, hanging down her back. Dressed in a simple shift made of a patchily blue-dyed natural material. Linen, maybe? Some kind of laced-up leather sandals on her feet. She approached the gate from the west, coming through the surrounding spindly trees. Cradled in her arms were more fresh flowers, scarlet this time. Another offering for the shrine?
Emerging from the sun-dappled shadows she saw the gate plinth and stopped dead. Her head came up and she looked around, startled. Dixon held his breath but she didn’t see them.
Still holding the flowers she hurried to the spot where the MALPs had squatted and stared, seemingly perplexed by their inexplicable disappearance. She even dropped to one bare knee, the flowers carefully protected, and touched her fingers to the sun-baked red rock where they’d been. Then she stood again, turning to the shrine as though seeking an answer. Every line of her body shouted confusion, dismay… and fear.
O’Neill leaned forward and tapped Jackson on the shoulder. “Okay, Daniel. You’re on.”
Dixon watched as Jackson carefully got to his feet and stepped out of concealment. The Adjoan girl didn’t see him, she was still seeking some kind of answer or comfort from the red rock shrine. It was way beyond weird, looking at a human being who had no idea that Earth existed. Who was descended
from humans who’d been stolen from their home thousands and
thousands of years ago.
Janet Fraiser was right. Once you step through the Stargate there’s no going back.
Abruptly he felt bereft, as though he’d lost something pre
cious, of profound importance. And in a blinding flash of insight
he knew what it was.
Innocence. Goddammit, I’ve lost my innocence.
Just like the young Adjoan woman Jackson had nearly reached was about to lose hers…
She was down on both knees before the shrine now, heedless of the hard rock against skin and bone. The pansy-like flowers had been taken from their honored place and placed on the ground. The scarlet offerings she’d brought with her were still in her hands but she was holding them out in some kind of supplication, or as though she wanted her invisible god to inspect them and give her a sign of approval. Her head was bowed, the long braid down her back glossy in the sun. She was so engrossed in her silent prayer that Jackson was able to get within three feet of her. Then his shadow fell obliquely across the shrine and she knew at last that she wasn’t alone.
With a startled cry she dropped the scarlet flowers and turned awkwardly, overbalancing on the uneven ground.
“No!” she cried, snatching her scraped knees up to crouch before Jackson. “You cannot be here! You must leave the gods’ place!”
Jackson immediately dropped to a crouch himself and held out one hand. “It’s all right,” he said, his gentle voice carrying clearly. “I’m a friend. My name is Daniel. What’s yours?”