Blood Ties

Chapter ten

John entered the briefing room in time to watch Jumper Three descend into launch position in front of the open gate. He didn't try too hard to quash the resentment that flared at the sight. Temporary assignment or not, he was being left behind, the rest of his team carrying out a separate mission three million light years away.

No matter what Landry said, John knew there was more than one reason for keeping him here. Radek's explanation notwithstanding, being kept out of the loop was an indication that you were about to find yourself demoted.

Honesty was something he'd come to expect from Elizabeth. The evasive look she'd given him in the jumper bay frankly worried the hell out of him. Of course, he was the only person around who'd had the pleasure of hosting the iratus virus. Dr. Lam was expecting him in the infirmary in a few minutes, so he had an evening of blood tests and cell samples to look forward to. He wasn't convinced there would be anything there for her to find, especially since he'd never produced the feeding enzyme even while he'd been infected-thankfully. That would have been a whole new level of wrongness. In any case, he'd made it his policy not to argue with people who wielded big needles, so he'd play pincushion like a good boy. Right now, any act, no matter how small, to persuade his superiors that he wasn 't a hotheaded maverick who leapt at any chance to blow off an order seemed like a smart move.

John had been around this block before. He recognized the signs. While his defiance during the Asuran invasion of Atlantis hadn't gotten him exiled to Antarctica again, it hadn't been forgotten, either. Four of them had borrowed that jumper, but of those four only John had been military, assigned to the SGC, and given a direct order to turn back. The fact that they'd saved the city, not to mention General O'Neill and the ION s pet mouthpiece, was a secondary consideration to some. Hell, there were days when he still found himself surprised that Woolsey and O'Neill's support had been enough to keep him in his post.

Since he was on a short leash with Landry and most of the IOA, maybe being confined to Earth for a while would give him an opportunity to demonstrate his value and dependability. If so, he'd take it. He'd do whatever was necessary to stay on the Atlantis expedition, because the alternatives didn't bear thinking about.

He had to smirk. Confined to Earth, huh? He wasn't sure when Atlantis had become such a fundamental part of his identity, but it had happened all the same.

Stepping fully into the briefing room, he raised his voice to address the only other occupant. "Kind of overwhelming, huh?"

From her place at the window, Rebecca Larance glanced over at him. Almost immediately her gaze was drawn back to the gate, now partway through the dialing sequence. When the final chevron locked and the wormhole exploded into being, she sucked in a startled breath, taking an involuntary step back. "My God," she gasped.

"I know the feeling. I got dragged into all this just by sitting in a damn chair." John joined her at the window and did his best not to clench his jaw when Jumper Three disappeared into the event horizon. The rippling blue disk disintegrated, revealing nothing but a blank gray wall behind it.

The FBI agent slowly shook her head, captivated. "It really exists," she murmured, staring out at the now quiet gate. "The portal to another world." A curl of vapor rose from the coffee cup in her hand, the contents apparently forgotten as reality provided a more immediate stimulant.

"Another galaxy, in this case." Seeing that she looked troubled, he offered a smile. "I'll admit it takes some getting used to, but it's not all bad."

She snorted softly. "I don't even know how to react to that, Maj — pardon me, Colonel."

"Try `John' instead," he suggested on impulse. "Since at one time you were in possession of more personal information about me than just about anyone I know."

For a moment, she regarded him in silence, as if sizing up his motives. He must have passed the test, because some of the hard lines set into her features eased. "Rebecca, then," she said finally. "Since the doctor/patient dynamic is no longer applicable. John, I've spent the lion's share of my career explaining away UFO cults as a coping strategy to reconcile the ontological gap between mainstream religions and modem science. In the last couple of hours I've been given a Who's Who of known gods-or, more accurately, known false gods and energy beings. Your little operation here efficiently demonstrated to me that my profession, which dismisses such beliefs as based entirely on flawed reasoning and weak rhetoric, is itself misguided."

John had never pinned much of his worldview to any particular set of religious beliefs, or even to an absence of belief. Nevertheless, he could understand why Dr. Larance-Rebecca-might find the gate's very existence disturbing.

Possibly mistaking his lack of response for a lack of comprehension, she scrubbed at tired eyes with the side of her hand. "I'm sorry. What I got right and wrong before, and why, isn't important. What matters is that." She laid her index finger against the glass, indicating the gate below. "This Stargate; it's real, and in light of that fact, many things I previously labeled as mythology-indeed, all so-called mythologies-now merit serious consideration."

Her hand fell away from the window, and for a moment John caught a glimpse of something familiar in her bearing: a combination of resignation tinged with despair. He'd seen it plenty of times from military comrades, maybe even worn it himself, when setting out on a mission that carried an inescapably tragic consequence as part of its unwritten rules of engagement.

The moment passed swiftly, illusive to the point where he began to suspect it was a reflection of his concern for his teammates more than anything else. Given that Rebecca had been on this case for several years, she'd no doubt witnessed her own personal set of tragic consequences.

"Up until now," she said, "the Bureau had theorized that our suspects-the group's followers call themselves cambion, by the way, and their priests are known as Watchers-were searching for a metaphorical gateway to a place in the heavens where they believed themselves to have originated."

"That was the name of a cult, wasn't it?" He recalled the news stories, maybe ten years back. "Heaven's Gate? They committed mass suicide in order to hitch a ride on a comet."

"A spaceship hidden in the tail of the comet, but close enough. They weren't unique, aside from their matching sneakers. Dozens of cults, even a popular religion making the rounds of Hollywood, preach variations on the same UFO theme." With a sardonic smile, she added, "Dr. Jackson just enlightened me as to why I'd never been able to access any substantive information on the Seth cult from a few years ago. Turns out the leader really was a reptilian alien who'd turned his followers into zombies. Go figure."

Leaning his shoulder against the window, John consciously warned himself to disregard the fact that Rebecca was a beautiful woman and focus on her role, no matter how temporary, as a professional colleague. "So what led you to believe that this Lilith cult is trying to get to the Stargate? Leaving aside the fact that there's no way they could succeed, since the security around here is tighter than Fort Knox and Bill Gates's house combined."

The corner of Rebecca's mouth turned up. "All belief structures-religions, cults, call them what you will-share certain underlying premises that fulfill the needs of their followers: namely, the concept that the world was created by superior beings or forces, as well as the recognition of mortality and the desire to transcend it-before or after death."

"By separating the consciousness, or soul, or whatever, from the mortal body." As she'd said, a common theme. "Around here we call it Ascension. There are even some folks in the program who've dipped their toes in that pool once or twice. Thing is, that doesn't really answer my question."

She lifted her eyebrows, and he wondered if she recognized the parallel to their first encounter, when she'd been the one calling him out on his various avoidance tactics. Surely she did; it was her job, after all. "I'm still working on that answer myself," she said, glancing at the cup in her hand as if surprised to find it there. "If you're asking me how to find these… Wraithlike people, until I'm able to put this new information into the proper context, all I can tell you is the chain of events up to this point."

"I'll take what I can get," John said.

"Generous of you." Turning away from the gate room at last, Rebecca placed her neglected coffee on the side table and laid out the case in standard law enforcement style. "As far as we've been able to ascertain, the first victim was a television network executive associated with the production of a low budget sci-fi series. The Los Angeles D.A.'s office assumed that an irate, unstable fan had carried out one of the death threats leveled against the network for canceling the show."

John grimaced. "You're talking about Wormhole X-theme." He'd only heard about the series when some of Atlantis's more warped minds had campaigned to have it added to the city's DVD library. He still had trouble believing that anyone had actually thought it might serve as a cover story for the real Stargate program. After seeing the pilot episode, he hadn't been sure whether to laugh his ass off or sandblast the experience out of his brain.

"I understand the character of Dr. Levant was modeled on Dr. Jackson." Rebecca's gaze shifted, like she might be comparing John against what she knew of the show, and he promptly raised his hands in surrender.

"Don't look at me. I was still in the operational Air Force when they dreamed up that fine example of quality broadcasting„

Her faint smile let him know that he'd been had. "In any event, I can take you through the details later, but for the moment I'll cut to the chase. Based on the pattern and victimologies of subsequent murders spread out over the last six years, it's become evident that this cult has identified Cheyenne Mountain as their Mecca. Apparently they were right."

Before John could ask how they might have found their way to that conclusion, Daniel Jackson appeared in the doorway, a stack of dusty books under his arm. "Good. You're both here." Without another word, he turned and continued down the hall.

By now John was accustomed to dealing with scientist quirks of all stripes. He waited patiently, giving Rebecca a shrug when she cast him a questioning glance.

Sure enough, Jackson was back in the doorway six seconds later. "Why is it that nobody ever follows me when I ask them toy"

"You forgot to have that part of the conversation out loud," John informed him helpfully.

"Ah." Jackson didn't seem bothered. "Come with me, please?"

"Sure thing." Pushing off from the window, John held out a hand toward Rebecca in an `after you' gesture. Looking once again like she'd fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole, the agent obliged.

During his brief tour of duty at the SGC, John had stuck his head into most of the facilities in the Mountain, but Jackson's office was one of the places he'd never had cause to visit. Probably for the best, he decided as he viewed the room now-he might have destabilized something just by stepping inside. Egyptian artifacts and Ancient technology were jumbled together on every horizontal surface in the room, a few larger pieces of each shoved into corners. A dry erase board leaned against one wall, covered with smudged hieroglyphs, gate symbols, and sharp, dense Ancient lettering in various colors. On its face, the collection looked incongruous, but of course the archeologist had spent years connecting the dots between those fragile pieces of papyrus and the graceful Ancient devices that lay alongside.

Jackson deposited the books in his arms into a padded duffel bag perched on a chair. "General Landry's finishing up a call," he began, rifling through a stack of papers, which appeared to consist mostly of overdue notices from half a dozen libraries. "He-"

A cell phone chirped. Startled out of her incredulous exploration of the office, Rebecca reached into her pocket. "Got your own cell tower down here?" she muttered.

"Something like that," said Jackson, obviously not surprised by the disruption. He set down the papers, tugged another heavy volume off a nearby bookshelf, and laid it in the bag.

Rebecca read the number of the incoming call off her phone's display and frowned before putting it to her ear. "Larance."

Trying to find a place to stand where he couldn't possibly knock into anything in the cluttered room, John almost missed her quiet, shocked, "Sir!"

He glanced up to see her spine stiffen and her mouth open and close twice without sound. It wasn't tough to guess that Landry had gone over her head.

Her side of the conversation was limited to a few periodic interruptions. "Yes, sir…yes, I understand that, but… of course, sir."

Had it not been for Landry's arrival John would have smiled. Instead, he straightened as well. "What's our mode of transport over to the desert, General?"

"C-20's waiting at Peterson," Landry replied, taking only one step inside the office doorway. Maybe all the piles of random stuff intimidated him as well. "You'll have to refuel but it's the best we can do."

A subsonic Gulfstream jet was the best they could do? John hesitated. "Sir, due respect, but don't we have a couple of jumpers available to us?"

"Not for this. I don't know what would be worse-an Ancient spacecraft showing up on radar and triggering a defensive response, or an Ancient spacecraft not showing up on radar and causing a midair collision. Given Major Lorne's recent encounter with the inhabitants of M1M-316, we have to consider the latter a serious possibility. And I don't even want to think about trying to hide the damned thing on base at Balad." As if anticipating John's next question, Landry continued, "The Odyssey's too far out of range, and her current mission's too important for her to return to beam you over. Also, all your movements while in country will have to be coordinated through Central Command, and you'd better believe they'd notice ifyou just appeared without having been on a recognized transport. They've got more important things to do over there than deal with our smoke and mirrors."

So they'd be on an aircraft-a cushy VIP aircraft, but still-for most of a day instead of making the trip almost instantaneously. "Understood, sir."

Rebecca put away her phone then, still looking rocked. "Can I assume that was our boss?" the General asked her pleasantly.

When she responded with a wordless nod, he smiled. "The IOA may have jurisdiction over the Stargate, but when it comes to federal employees such as yourself, the President still calls the shots. Before he rang your phone, he spoke to the Director of the FBI. Responsibility for the investigation into this cult has been transferred to the Air Force under section 11 C9 of the National Security Act. As such, Agent Larance, you have been temporarily assigned to the Stargate program."

"Welcome to the family," John couldn't resist telling her. "We've got matching outfits and everything."

The profiler fired off a disbelieving glare in his direction and quickly banished it again before turning back to Landry. "General, if I'm going overseas with your people, I'll at least need to stop by my home in D.C. for my passport."

"Not an issue," the SGC's commander assured her. "You'll be traveling on military orders; BaladAir Base doesn't have a customs checkpoint. Your Bureau ID will do fine. Someone's gone to your hotel to pick up your luggage, so it will be waiting for you on the plane."

Offering a cautious smile, she said, "I'm guessing those matching outfits won't be black suits and sunglasses. Do I at least get one of those handheld flashy things to wipe bystanders' memories?"

John had to give Rebecca Larance credit. In the span of a few hours her view of the world and her life's work had been run through a blender. Not many people could accept that so quickly. Yet here she was, trying her damnedest to roll with the punches.

"Only people with naquadah traces in their blood can operate hand devices," Jackson replied absently, opening and closing desk drawers in search of something unknown to the rest of them.

Rebecca stared at him for a long moment, apparently trying to evaluate whether or not to take the comment seriously. Shaking her head, she asked Landry, "Why Iraq? None of the murders have taken place there."

"We have reason to think otherwise." The General stepped out into the hall. "Dr. Jackson will explain on the way. A car's waiting for the three of you topside to take you over to Peterson. Wheels up in two hours."

"Yes, sir," John said, just for good measure. Landry was already halfway down the corridor.

When John glanced back, he found Rebecca giving him a piercing look, arms folded across her chest. Her foot wasn't exactly tapping, but the demand for an explanation was broadcast loud and clear. "Hey, I just work here," he claimed, backing out of the office himself. "And I'm supposed to go give Dr. Lam some blood samples before we take off, so I need to stop by the infirmary. I'll meet you guys topside."

Her voice followed him down the hall. "Still a firm believer in avoidance, John?"

He winced. Trapped on an airplane with a shrink who knew his file. They'd better have plenty of mission-related topics to discuss, or this had the potential to be a very long trip.