Stargate SG1 - Roswell (25 page)

They both stared at him blankly.

“The other Carter, the General one... Actually, it was the guy with her, Herbert. He had the hand device that Cassandra used to send us home after we left 1969.”

Carter's eyes widened in understanding. Daniel was silent for a moment and then he nodded. “Carter and Carnarvon's excavation permit stipulated that they had to wait for the arrival of Egyptian authorities before entering any newly discovered tomb. The rift between Carter and the authorities was common knowledge, and it was an open secret that Carnarvon's daughter and several others entered Tutankhamen's tomb immediately when it was opened. It was also common knowledge that he allowed his guests to take several small items of gold and jewelry. Given Vala's tendency to kleptomania...”

“As unlikely as it sounds, it makes sense.” Carter sat back. She'd put a fair dent in her meal. “Vala would have identified the gold cuff immediately, and Cam's memorized every SG-1 mission report. He knows where the Stargate was buried.”

“So why'd they wait three months before using it?” Jack asked.

“Because Professor Langford had the dig concession around the Giza pyramids. I'm surprised they managed to bribe the right people and get the 'gate dug out in
only
three months. Then all they would have needed was a power source.”

“The power outage in Cairo that night.” Carter pushed her now empty plate aside.

Jack signaled Dorothy, who was patrolling the diner armed with a fully loaded jug of coffee and fresh mouthful of gum. When their cups were refilled, he said, “Okay, maybe. Doesn't mean we have to go running off to New York.”

“Professor Langford didn't discover the Stargate in 1928,” Carter reminded him.

“No Langford, no Stargate program,” Daniel muttered into his coffee.

“Daniel's right, sir. Leaving behind Cam and Vala has dangerously altered the timeline. Listen to this.
Due to a restriction in floor space, the rim of the Well of
Ra, displayed in an upright position, serves as a
fascinating entryway into the New York Museum.'“
She dropped the paper onto her plate. “Without a capstone, with the 'gate displayed upright, if Ra sends anyone through now—”

“What are the odds of that happening?” Jack said dismissively, although he had to admit, not convincingly. It was an image that he'd never forgotten, and one that had literally caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end when he'd first laid eyes on it. The mummified remains of a jackal-headed Jaffa partially embedded in the capstone had, justifiably as it had turned out, prompted the Air Force into sending him to Abydos with a nuke. The evil gods of myths and legends hadn't been so imaginary after all.

“Depends on what happened after Vala and Cam went through the 'gate,” Daniel replied. “And where—or when—they went.”

Before Jack could ask what he meant by that, a cowhand burst in through the front door, cursing the military and Sheriff's Department alike. “I'm telling ya, Johnny,” he said to the smartly dressed guy who followed him in, “unless it's a bomb, I'm never gonna report one of their goddamned planes crashing again.”

Outside, a convoy of military trucks crawled past, heading toward the base.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“You
know, you have to wonder, don't you?”

Vala's words broke through the steel wool clag that currently inhabited Cam's skull. Opening one gluey eye, he saw her sitting with her back to a filthy brick wall, young Howard sitting huddled beside her, apparently hanging off every word.

“Regards to what?” Howard wondered.

“Well, let's face it,” Vala said, twirling a curl of hair around her finger, “assuming the Ancients did create—or rather, recreate—all life in this galaxy, what were they thinking when they created the Goa'uld? I mean I've come across some nasty specimens in my time, but a creature that mixes its DNA with a human in order to create a slave race, and then sets itself up as a bunch of gods?”

“Didn't you say they were false gods?”

“As distinct from true gods? Have you encountered any of those around the universe?” She smiled and turned to him. “No, of course
you
haven't but aside from the odd fundamentalist who doesn't seem to need hard proof in any form, I haven't met anyone yet who really fits that description. And let's face it, the Ancients aren't stacking up too well in that regard, despite this whole Ascension thing they've got going.”

“What...the hell happened?” Cam asked. The last thing he remembered was walking into a tack room and—crap. He brought his hand up and felt around his groin. It was tacky with dried blood, and there was a hole in the cloth directly above...”Please tell me this isn't my blood.”

“Oh good, you're awake.” Vala redirected her smile at him and, standing, collected her borrowed coat and pulled it on. “We better leave before it gets too light, or we'll be spending the day in among these garbage cans. And yes, it is your blood but don't worry, all the bits are back in place and it's all healed up. As to whether the bits in question are still in work-ing order—”

“Thank you. I think.” He planted a hand against the grubby brick wall and pushed himself to his feet. “Where's Daniel?”

“Twiddling his thumbs in the rear of the jumper, I suspect, waiting for Sam to reconfigure the transport so that they can beam us aboard.”

Cam's vision was still slightly off, but he was fairly certain he'd heard that last part right. While he was happy about Vala finding the opal, he distinctly recalled the transport device having 'several critical errors', which weren't exactly fixable in this era. “I hate to be the pessimist, but I'm not so sure they're going to be doing any beaming us aboard until they get Loki back to—what year was it again?”

“1947.”

“To sort out the transport— Whoa! Did you say 1947?”

The smile on Val's face slipped a notch. “Yes. And I was trying not to think about that. In which case they might take a few-hours getting back here. But they
will
come back for us, won't they? I mean—” she laughed nervously— “they wouldn't leave us behind.”

1947, huh. Well, it made sense. “Guess you don't know much about General O'Neill.” He squinted and, edging out past a few garbage cans, looked along the alley to the line of horse-drawn fire trucks. “Uhm, did we start a fire?”

“Just a teensy one. Nothing that would interfere with Sam's precious timeline.”

“What's it like? 1947?” Howard asked, standing and ineffectually brushing the soot off his clothes.

“Dunno,” Cam replied. Now that he'd been reminded of Carter's warning about screwing around with the timeline, he frowned at Vala. “And I'm not sure it's such a good idea to be blabbing about what's out in the big ol' universe to all and sundry, either.”

The pounding in the back of his skull was subsiding, which made it a hell of a lot easier to focus on getting out of here. The back way was clearly out, given the amount of water and greasy cinders all over the ground...not to mention the place was crawling with helmeted police and firemen and what would—no doubt—be a bunch of angry Rhode Islanders wanting to get their hands on whoever had started the blaze.

“Do you think we can leave, now?” Howard asked uncertainly. “My mother will be concerned if I'm not in my room.”

Cam glanced down the other end of the alley. It faded off into the shadows. “Howard, do you have an attic?”

“No, but we do have a coal cellar.”

“Good enough.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Learning
the Stargate was on public display in New York worried
Sam for any number of reasons, not the least of which seemed to be that leaving Vala and Cam behind had changed history. That had now exposed Earth to a horror that would make the recent genocide of World War
II
pale by comparison.

Fifty years in their future, when Apophis stepped through the 'gate beneath Cheyenne Mountain, humanity had at least had
some
comprehension of the Goa'uld threat, and the technology they could employ to counter that threat. Now, in 1947, with no idea of the Stargate's true function, if Ra got it in his mind to return, New York would be a war zone before the military could even conceive of a defensive strategy.

Earth would fall in a matter of weeks.

The. burning question was:
would
Ra take it into his head to come through the Stargate? There was no way of knowing for certain, of course, but given Vala and Mitchell had been through the 'gate, there was a fair chance word had already got back to Ra that the Stargate on Earth was operational once more.

They had no choice. Sam
had
to find a way to repair the time machine and restore the past. Before Daniel had even answered the General's questions about the odds, her mind had been racing ahead. The past had been altered, which meant that any impact they might now have was no longer a consideration. Trivial details that had bothered her earlier, like paying for their meals with coins minted in 2002, vanished, and she focused on what resources they had available to them.

The arrival of the rancher, Marc Brazel, and the radio reporter, John McBoyle, was her and Daniel's cue to leave the diner—assuming the event they had come to intercept still happened. Sam hoped it would. Everything else about Roswell had so far seemed to fit with the known timeline. Recovering An and the escape pod was now vital for what she had in mind.

She eased out of the booth while the General folded the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and followed.

“Calm down, Marc,” McBoyle was saying, patting the rancher on his shoulder. “Lemme buy you a cup of coffee and you can tell me all about what happened.”

“I've found stuff before, you know, those weather balloons the Army are always testing, but nothing like this.”

Sam didn't hear the rest. Leaving O'Neill to order more coffee for himself, she pushed open the door and stepped outside into a blast of searing heat. The temperature was still in the eighties even though it was almost 1700 hours.

The town lacked the glitz and plastic neon signs and the endless line of fast-food drive-throughs featuring super-sized meals. It reminded Sam of the Saturday movie matinees that her mother had loved. She was equally fascinated by the line of 1930s and 40s Packard's and Buicks, Fords and Chryslers angle parked along the dusty street, although it surprised her the vast bulk were black and grays, cream and navy or emerald. No bright shiny red and yellow models in this neck of the US. Also surprising was the number of women about who were either pregnant or pushing wicker perambulators. The baby boomer generation was well on its way.

“Sam, you still want to go through with this?” Daniel asked, falling into step beside her.

Turning right and heading west, they tugged their caps low over their faces in a mostly useless attempt to hide from the blinding sun as it crept toward the horizon. Sunglasses were out of the question. Her 2006 model aviator Ray-Bans would have drawn just the sort of attention Sam wanted to avoid, at least for the next couple of hours. After that, she'd be drawing a great deal of attention.

Provided her revised plan
could
be implemented.

“The only way to protect Earth is by restoring the timeline, Daniel. To do that, we need the Asgard transport. Then we can recover Cam and Vala before any of this happens.”