Stargate SG-1: Trial by Fire: SG1-1 (3 page)

"It's a title," clarified Daniel. "Basically it means `Lord
Hammon'."

Oh yeah? So Baal would be Lord what? Lord Goddamn Sadistic
Son of a Bitch?

"It still doesn't explain the finish of the chamber," Carter threw
in, mercifully yanking the applecart into a completely different
direction. "I've analyzed those samples you brought. They look as
though the stone was grown. Literally. Something's been done to its crystalline structure on the molecular level. The nearest thing to
it that we know of would be the Tok'ra tunnels, but this is much
more refined."

"You're saying we've got the Tok'ra digging up our backyard?"
Jack frowned.

"You have not, O'Neill," replied Teal'c. "This is unlike any
structure the Tok'ra would create."

"That's reassuring."

"Uh... Jack?" Daniel was wearing his If you think this sucks,
wait for the other shoe face and pushed a button on the remote.
"Check this out."

The image zoomed in on the monolith at the center of this tailorgrown cave. Then it zoomed in further until the edges of the stone
disappeared from the frame, leaving a rough white surface and, on
it, a clearly visible relief:

"Holy Hannah..." whispered Carter.

"I couldn't have put it better myself, Major." The comers of
Hammond's mouth twitched. "I've already contacted Groom Lake.
A team of specialists from Area 51 has sealed off the site and is
conducting tests as we speak."

"Obviously the `gate glyph for the Tauri." Deserting his spot
by the monitor, Daniel poured himself some water. "But there is a
chance that it's simply a huge coincidence," he remarked between
two sips.

Teal'c's left eyebrow said Bull!

Jack couldn't have put it better himself. "Arms aside, how huge
a coincidence are we talking about, Daniel? Cosmic?"

"It's Punic, and the -"

"Nah."

"Huh?"

"Puny's more like" - Jack's thumb and forefinger pinched a
quarter inch of air between them - "so."

"Punic, sir." His 21C grinned. "From Phoenicia."

"Wrong continent, Carter. Phoenicia is in Asia," commented
Jack, looking smug. "The puny guys are from North Africa.

"Which would be the problem." Obviously Dr. Jackson wasn't
buying. "I mean, apart from the cross-fertilization. I got thrown
by that, plus I'm not exactly firm on Punic cultures, so I never
recognized it until I found that stele. It's a religious symbol, the
so-called `Sign of Tanit'. Now, Tanit was a Punic deity commonly
identified with Ishtar or Astarte or Ashtoreth, all of which were just
different names for a prominent goddess of fertility in the ancient
11

"Ah!" The stack of books was at least twenty inches high, and
Jack wasn't about to languish through a detailed precis on each
of its components. Not quietly, anyway. "We trust you. What's it
mean?"

"A while back someone hatched a wild theory about the
Phoenicians sailing to the New World and leaving their footprints
all over the place. Wacky, but it may explain this. Coincidence, in
other words."

"So what about the technology used on the stone? See, last time
somebody hatched a wacky theory, the Air Force ended up building
this facility under Cheyenne Mountain... It's called Stargate
Command," Carter observed drily. "We've also found out that the
Goa'uld were the common denominator. No coincidence, in other
words."

"I just wanted to give you the alternative." Adjusting his glasses,
Daniel dropped into a chair next to her. "Interestingly, the people
who supposedly built Peflasco Blanco were called Anasazi. That's
a Hopi word, and it means `Ancient Enemy'. Draw your own
conclusions."

"An exceedingly apposite name."

"My thought precisely, Teal'c."

Jack sketched a mustache on his bass. "Okay, so if I understand
you correctly these Punic guys set sail one fine day, got lost, and
had trouble blending in with the local crowd because they'd brought
along a Goa'uld?"

"I doubt they got lost. The Phoenicians invented navigation. Otherwise, yeah, it's possible. Some of them may have bailed out
when the Romans invaded Carthage in 146 BC." Daniel shrugged.
"As for the rest, I simply don't know enough about the culture.
However..."

"However?"

"An Oxford University team has just dug up a whole new temple
precinct in Tunisia. I've been comparing pictures, and it could be
where this stele came from. The leader of the dig is a Dr. Kelly.
She's an authority on Punic cultures. I'd like to show her what
we've got."

"Is that advisable, Daniel Jackson?"

Going by Hammond's frown, he had the same problem with this
as Teal'c. Or Colonel O'Neill for that matter.

"Daniel -"

"I know, I know. But what do you think she'll do? Go public?"
Daniel gave a wry grin. "As far as she's concerned I'm a total flake.
My academic reputation's shot to bits. I promise you, someone like
Kelly'd rather bite her tongue off than admit she even talked to
me."

"Point taken, Dr. Jackson." General Hammond shifted forward
in his chair, palms flat on the table. Wrap-up time. "So where does
this leave us?"

"With a lot of loose ends, sir," Daniel acknowledged. "Unless I
get your permission to see a lady about an artifact."

Blow stretched the deep blue blanket of the southern
Mediterranean and jutting out into the water lay a parched
belly of land that held the remains of Kerkouane, an ancient
fortress town. To the naked eye it looked like a bomb site. Stumps
of columns and leftovers of walls formed an unruly maze. The
Romans had dropped by for a visit, about the same time they'd
levelled Carthage and rebuilt it to suit their own taste. No rebuilding
had ever happened in Kerkouane, which meant that this jumble of
ruins was the only major site of genuinely Phoenician origin in all
of Tunisia. Most of the excavation had taken place in the 1950s, but
some digs were still active, including a recent one, backed by the
University of Oxford. Its tents were pitched beyond the far end, a
little inland and set back from the main complex.

Outside the largest of these tents stood a sturdy, apple-cheeked,
elderly woman. Everyone's favourite granny. The looks distracted
from forty-odd years of academic achievement, and from the lofty
heights of that experience and its concomitant accolades she glared
down at a mousy girl, young enough to be her granddaughter.

"Tophet? Did I hear you say tophet, Miss Matham?" snapped the
granny. "And I suppose that afterwards the priests held a jamboree
and gnawed the bones. Don't tell me! You've found a wee little
femur that smells of incense and has teeth marks on it, right?"

"No, Professor... I just thought -"

"Don't think! You're paid to catalogue. I'm paid to think. That's
why they publish what I write, an experience I'm sure you'll never
have to deal with."

"Yes, Professor."

Miss Matham, a postgraduate with an appalling tendency to
mistake random association for structured thought, shrivelled into
a sweat-soaked tank top and fled towards the trenches.

Dr. Siobhan Kelly smiled briefly, entered the tent, and sagged
into a canvas folding chair. Forefinger and thumb tweaked the
front of her shirt and flapped it in a futile attempt to ventilate her ample bosom. Beastly climate! Grunting, she let go and focused
her attention on a decorating table that filled half the tent.

It served as desk, lab counter, and specimen tray, and on it lay a
series of six rubbings Matham the Mouse had taken this morning.
They showed six different symbols framed by square cartouches,
all of roughly the same size. Almost like some kind of hieratic
script. But one didn't get to be Head of the Institute of Archaeology
by postulating novel writing systems every time one came across
something not directly identifiable. So what the dickens were
they?

Snatches of conversation drifted into the tent. The chatter and
calls of diggers and students could be heard all the time and, like
the roar of a waterfall or surf at the beach, she simply tuned them
out. Eventually her concentration was broken by the mention of
her name.

Miss Matham's dulcet tones answered a query. "Yes, she's in
there... But frankly, I wouldn't risk it at the moment. We're in a
foul mood."

"We usually are, as I recall. In there, you said?"

American accent. A vaguely familiar voice, straining to drift
up from underneath the baggage of decades' worth of names and
faces. Before it could rise to the surface, the tent flap swept back
to admit a silhouette, black against the noonday brightness outside.
Behind it the flap dropped, shutting out the glare and easing the
tent's interior back to a diffuse saffron glow.

"Hi, Professor."

"You!"

The hair had undergone some radical pruning, he'd filled out
in a way that rather suited him, and something in his face said that
he'd encountered real life. Well, he certainly had asked for that,
hadn't he? Contrary to all advice.

Dr. Kelly gathered the rubbings, turning them face-down. "There
are no vacancies on this dig."

"Nice to see you, too, Professor. I've got a job, thanks."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd stop by for that drink you owe me."

"I owe you what?"

"Remember, last time we met?"

Oh yes. The occasion had been unforgettable. Dr. Siobhan Kelly,
then on a scholarly exchange sponsored by the Oxford-Princeton
partnership, had been among the first to leave the lecture room that
afternoon. And yes, they had arranged to meet for a beer later. She
hadn't kept the appointment.

"I don't recall anything of the sort."

"No, I don't suppose you do... Something came up, didn't it?"

Quite. A whole outrageous load of codswallop about the 4'
Dynasty and the Giza Pyramids had come up.

"So what do you want?" she snapped.

"I need your professional input." He pulled a fistful of Polaroids
from his shirt pocket and held them out to her. "Ever seen this
before? I'm thinking it's Tanit."

"Tanit? By your standards that's a bafflingly conservative
interpretation!" When Kelly finally looked at the pictures, she bit
back a curse. This was impossible. Unless he'd really sunk that
low... "Which one of those thieving louts has given this to you?
More importantly, where has he hidden it and how much does he
want?"

"Your diggers have nothing to do with this. I found it."

She stared at the pictures again. The resolution was barely high
enough to bring out detail, but in one of the photos somebody had
rigged a yardstick next to the stele. Height and proportions matched
exactly. "Where?"

"I'm sorry, Professor. Need to know."

Need to what?

The cheek of this plonker was incredible. "Let me show you
something, Jackson. And then, if you'd still prefer keeping it to
yourself, we'll call the police."

Kelly stormed from the tent, nearly tripping over that wretched
girl, Matham, and leaving Daniel Jackson to follow.