The Drift Read online

  “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.

  BUILDING 155 — MCMURDO STATION

  18 AUG 04/1015 HRS MCMURDO STATION

  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.”