Chapter Two: Down the Rabbit Hole, part I
Series: Stargate: Alchemy
Chapter: Two
Title: Down the Rabbit Hole
Authors: bluecove and aaaaaahz
Rating: PG-13
(with thanks to martyfan for the beta)
"Jackson."
The summons was abrupt and demanding. Daniel sat up in bed, completely disoriented, glancing around for his clock. The large, blurry red numbers indicated it was 5:30 am, and that pissed Daniel off mightily. He turned his head toward the shadow in his doorway and snapped, "Go away. It’s too early to be awake."
"Get your sorry ass out of bed," the voice commanded. "It’s examination day."
Daniel belatedly recognized his visitor, just as Jack O’Neill flipped the light switch.
He flung up a hand in front of his eyes, now tightly clenched against the overhead glow. Flopping back down on the bed, he shot back, "Forget it. I’m not going down the rabbit hole. Go explore Wonderland all you like, but count me out."
"If I had a choice in the matter," O’Neill retorted, his tone sharp with anger, "you’d be staying behind. Orders came from a lot higher up than General Hammond. Somebody up there apparently thinks you’re the only man for the job, so you’re going, and that’s final. Now, on your feet, Jackson, or I’ll come drag your ass outta bed."
Grimacing and groaning, keeping further protests and arguments to himself, he flung the covers back and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Struggling to blink, his eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness, he ordered his protesting body to stand, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand beside the clock. He shoved them onto his face with a weary sigh, and headed for the bathroom.
"Meet me in the gym, level seventeen," O'Neill ordered. "You’ve got a busy day ahead of you, kid."
"Don’t call me kid," Daniel snapped. "I’m twenty-six years old, Colonel, and I have a doctorate in linguistics."
"I’d have guessed a lot younger than that. Maybe it’s the hair. Which reminds me, you have twenty-four hours to get it cut, or I'll do it for you."
Daniel stuck his head out the door with a glare and a retort poised on his lips, but caught a glimpse of olive drab fatigues disappearing out into the corridor. He straightened, running a hand over his nearly shoulder-length hair. Mostly, he just forgot about it, and ended up letting it grow. He’d pay a visit to a stylist in town before he’d let some military barber at his head. The last thing he wanted was one of those nearly-shaved jobs the gung-ho types and new recruits got, and he suspected that any military barber, upon seeing the length of his current style, would smile and whip out the shaver in a New York minute.
He’d take care of his own haircut, and make sure it just met the regulations. Just.
Deciding against a shower, since he’d need one after the workout anyway, he took off his glasses and just washed his face. After dressing in some sweats and a baggy T-shirt, he repositioned his glasses on his nose, pulled on socks and running shoes, and left the room. Ignoring his growling belly, he stopped by the commissary just long enough to get some coffee, then headed for the elevator and pushed button number 17.
There was impatience and disapproval smoldering in O’Neill’s eyes when he arrived. Daniel set his empty coffee cup by the door, since he didn’t see a trash can anywhere, and presented himself for examination. The colonel’s workout was brutal but efficient, testing his hand-to-hand combat skills and finding them barely adequate, thanks to his previous training at the military school where he’d spent most of his teen years. He lifted weights and ran on treadmills to test his physical conditioning; Daniel had let that lapse over the last couple of years, but he wasn’t so far gone he couldn't participate in the mission.
Once that was over, Daniel showered and changed into the base-issued fatigues, ugly black boots and all. His long hair marked him as civilian personnel, but apparently that wasn’t enough. Jack affixed a black patch onto the left sleeve of his fatigue shirt with a winged, crowned white spear-point cross with entwined snake, the symbol of his station. Now everyone would know he was an alchemist at a glance.
Daniel ripped it free of its Velcro backing and tried to stuff it into his shirt pocket.
"You will wear that at all times," O'Neill ordered, his voice low and dangerous, filled with threat. "Everyone on this base needs to know you’re one of them."
He made the announcement with such force and obvious distaste that Daniel couldn’t help but respond. "I came here as a linguist," he argued, chin lifted in defiance, fingers still trying to stuff the patch into his pocket. "As far as I’m concerned, that’s all I am."
O'Neill didn’t argue further. He just snatched the patch out of Daniel’s grip, and slapped it back into place. Then he reached into his own shirt pocket and withdrew a beaded chain and set of dog tags, handing them over in silence.
Both of the tags were black on the back, imprinted with the alchemist symbol. The front of each was embossed with all the required information: his name, serial number, blood type, and his status as a civilian rather than military personnel. The tags were edged with thin black rubber to keep the metal plates from clinking as they struck each other with the wearer’s movement.
"Don’t take those off, either," O'Neill warned. "As long as you’re on active duty, you wear ‘em wherever you go, on this world or off. Period."
Daniel didn’t argue. He felt the weight of his servitude settling on his shoulders like lead, heightened by the chain now around his neck. He tucked the tags into his shirt and clenched his teeth.
"Now what?" he growled.
"Firing range," said O'Neill. "This way."
It didn’t take long to prove that Daniel was already a decent shot. He’d picked up the Beretta pistol and loaded it with ease, taken aim at the human silhouette target at the far end of the shooting gallery and emptied the clip efficiently into it, half the shots in the heart, the other half in the head. Military school had taught him well, and he never forgot hard lessons learned.
Nevertheless, Colonel O’Neil seemed surprised by his skill.
"That’ll do, Jackson," he said neutrally, accepting the empty weapon with a nod of approval.
After that, there was breakfast, which Daniel ate as though he’d never have another meal set in front of him. Relaxed and full, he followed the colonel to the elevators, where they went up to the surface. A group of men and women were waiting for them at the mouth of the tunnel.
O'Neill performed the introductions, and Daniel realized that this was the team he would be accompanying through that ring.
"Now that we all know each other," said O'Neill flippantly, turning back to face Daniel, "let’s see what the kid can do." He gestured toward a handful of waiting Jeeps parked nearby.
"I’m not--" Daniel started to argue until he realized O'Neill was baiting him. He decided to let it go, because the more he objected, the more this guy was likely to use that stupid noun. He sighed, and headed for the nearest vehicle, seating himself behind the wheel.
If O’Neill hadn’t expected that, he didn’t show it. He got into the passenger seat, with Sam and Major Lou Ferretti climbing into the back. The colonel just pointed at another OD-green Jeep ahead of them and said, "Follow that ugly-ass car." He turned to his cohorts in the back and mused, "Why can’t the Air Force have our vehicles painted like our planes? These make us look like we’re in the Army, for cryin’ out loud."
Carter answered what was obviously meant to be a rhetorical question. "Sir, I think these are Army vehicles."
Daniel grinned, and mentally pegged Captain Doctor Samantha Carter as Ms. Literal. He might actually have fun teasing her, provided she had a sense of humor.
The caravan headed away from the mountain, across vast fields of parking lots, down and around the slope on the backside, away from the city view. Very few buildings could be seen from the location where they parked, the Jeeps in a long line beside an open area lined with broken concrete. Some of the pieces were small and irregular, others large and flat.
This would be Daniel’s proving ground, to see what he could do as an alchemist.
He’d been able to do it since he was eleven, though he hadn't known the scientific concepts behind his talent then. He’d just liked making things, changing them into different shapes or objects. Once he’d exhibited the ability, however, his whole life had changed. He’d been taken from the orphanage and put into a special school, run by the military, to teach him discipline and build character; to make him trustworthy and responsible, judicious with the power he wielded. There, he was taught by other alchemists how to harness his gift, but in a relatively short time he’d managed to outstrip them, going well beyond their capabilities.
That was when he’d seen that they were afraid of him.
That was when he’d stopped using alchemy willingly.
His reluctance to perform seemed to reassure them somehow, and in time, he’d been allowed to leave the school. He’d taken up the study of languages, which he loved, foolishly believing that if he had some other skill, his alchemical ability would be forgotten and he’d be able to live a normal life.
All he’d gotten was a reprieve.
Now, here he was again, the alchemist. This time, he knew, the military would never let him go. This had become his destiny, whether he wanted it or not.
Daniel looked into Colonel O’Neill’s eyes, distant and suspicious, and took the piece of sidewalk chalk from the older man’s hand. He marched across the field, selected a piece of concrete large enough for his purposes, and squatted down, drawing a simple, earth-based circle that probably looked impressive to an outsider.
After tucking the chalk into his shirt pocket, he placed both palms together and clapped, forming a circle with his arms. This wasn't necessary, but his teacher had used this method, using the clap to focus his attention and start the energy flow; for Daniel, it had become nothing more than a habit. Then, he placed his hands palms-down on the drawing. They started to tingle as the energy began to change in the object beneath his hands. The concrete seemed to melt, turning into a soft goo. Then it began to move, rising up into a vertical panel in front of his face. He pictured the wall in his head, and watched the raw materials align themselves with his vision, until the structure was completed.
He pulled his mind back from the object to let it solidify, and then drew his hands away to indicate he was done.
Daniel finally turned back to face his audience. Some of them were wide-eyed, their complexions lighter by a few degrees. O’Neill was not one of them.
"Nice," he observed, with only the barest trace of appreciation.
Sam was beaming. "Wow," she murmured. "I’ve never actually seen an alchemist work. That’s incredible."
Her praise almost made him proud. "Thanks," he told her quietly, walking back to the group. He turned to face his commanding officer and asked, "Will there be anything else, sir?"
"I think that’s enough," O’Neill agreed. "You haven’t gotten rusty, so that’s good."
Daniel tapped his temple with one dusty fingertip. "This doesn’t rust." More's the pity, he almost added.
O’Neill nodded. "That’s good, Jackson. Wouldn’t want you to forget how to move the pillars of heaven, in case we need you to do that."
At the same time a hard, cold object touched his temple, and without looking, he knew instinctively what it was. Someone was holding a pistol to his head. His heart skipped a beat.
This was another test, he knew. The colonel wouldn’t actually have him killed, would he?
But Daniel knew there were incidents in the past where soldiers had been killed with live fire. Sometimes officers went to prison for negligence. Sometimes the incidents were covered up, but since he was an alchemist and had just performed an alchemic feat, it would be incredibly easy for the group to lie and say he’d gotten out of hand and they’d had to kill him.
Too easy.
He swallowed hard, gazing into those steady, reserved brown eyes waiting to see how he’d react.
Daniel moved, pitching his head forward, pivoting, reaching up to grab the pistol barrel with his right hand. Sweating, heart pounding, he concentrated on the metal composition of the gun and applied just enough energy to excite the molecules, preparing them for change. The barrel softened in his grip and tilted upward, rendering the weapon useless.
Major Ferretti, who had been holding the pistol, wrestled with him for control of the weapon in the split second it took Daniel to act.
As soon as Daniel let go and stepped away, breathing hard, shaking from the surge of adrenaline pulsing through his system, he eyed the pistol to make sure he’d fixed it so it wouldn’t fire. He stepped backward from the group, uncertain if any of the rest of them would strike at him, too. He saw their faces, the fear and awe in Ferretti’s expression as he stared at the ruined pistol in his hand.
"Holy crap," the major whispered. Ferretti looked at the colonel, who just nodded, apparently not a bit surprised.
"They don’t need to draw circles for the smaller stuff," O’Neill explained to the others in the group. "Just the big stuff. And they have their limits; they’re not gods."
Daniel closed his eyes and shook his head. Evidently, the colonel knew a thing or two about alchemists after all. He wasn’t afraid of them, but it was obvious he didn’t trust them.
Any of them, including Daniel Jackson.
O’Neill gave the major a nod. "Good job, Ferretti. Turn that in at the armory for a replacement."
"What for?" Daniel demanded, his voice angry. "I can fix it."
The colonel and Ferretti exchanged a look, and O’Neill nodded. Ferretti handed over the gun and Daniel closed both hands over the bent section. Getting the alignment right was crucial, since the barrel needed to be straight and smooth. The previous internal rifling would be impossible for him to match, but as long as it fired properly, that would be all that really mattered. He concentrated, watching the barrel regain its proper shape, then when it had solidified, he aimed it at the ground and squeezed the trigger.
It refused to fire.
That was when he realized the safety was still switched on. Ferretti had probably been under orders not to hurt him, just to test him. His legs wobbling a little with relief, Daniel pushed the safety off and fired one round into the ground to be sure it was working, then handed the pistol back to the major.
"You keep that one," said the colonel. "You earned it." He gave Daniel a hard look. "Where are your gloves?"
That meant the test was officially over.
Daniel knew which gloves he meant. The teachers and students at the alchemist school had been required to wear them unless they were actively working. Laws had been written requiring alchemists to wear the gloves in government buildings and transportation hubs, on airplanes and buses. Out in the everyday world, some businesses required gloves on their premises, but most people were okay with not knowing.
He hated the gloves. They were black, with the alchemist symbol imprinted on the backs in white. By law, he was required to carry them with him, in case he needed to identify himself as an alchemist. For years he’d gotten away with keeping them hidden in a pocket, but he was no longer free to remain anonymous, now that he had that patch on his sleeve.
Reluctantly, he pulled the gloves from his trouser pocket. They were specially made with a non-conductive layer imbedded in the fabric that prevented unauthorized use of an alchemist’s ability. To Daniel, they were a harness, a hobble -- a prison for his hands.
"You’ll be required to wear these at all times, Jackson," he intoned. "You’ll take them off when we’re on the mission, so you’ll be able to react without hesitation, but on Earth, you’ll keep your hands covered. This is a government facility, and you’ve broken the law by not putting them on the second you stepped onto the base. That won’t happen again. Understood?"
The fear was still there, ever-present. Daniel stared at the gloves, hyper-aware of the chain around his neck and the patch on his sleeve. Not only were they marking him in every possible way as an alchemist, they were also providing a leash to keep him under their control. He kept quiet as he slipped the gloves onto his hands. They were lightweight and flexible, barely noticeable after a moment, but to him they felt claustrophobic.
He hated that he was so different from other human beings. In that moment, he’d have done anything to feel like an ordinary man, rather than a genetic freak. He stared at the ground, his head down as he let his covered hands fall to his sides. "Yes, sir," he replied thickly.
O’Neill turned to the rest of the team. "Back to the mountain, everybody. We’re burnin’ daylight." He got back into the Jeep in the passenger seat.
As Daniel slipped back behind the wheel, he wondered if O’Neill’s John Wayne quote had been intentional, or if that were just the way he talked. There was a lot he didn’t know about the man who would be pulling his leash, and he wondered if he’d be able to dig up any information on him. Daniel liked to know who he was working with, and since they all knew about him now, he wanted the scoop on everyone else.
When O’Neill gave him room to breathe, he headed straight for General Hammond’s office to request background information on the team that he would be supporting on a mission to another world.
* * * * * * * * * *
Daniel stood in the briefing room the next evening, watching the giant ring spinning around, hypnotized by the device. He’d come here as often as possible over the last few days, just to watch them dial that planet where they’d left the MALP. It was still transmitting information, and every time they re-established the connection, they got more data. Tomorrow morning, they’d get a breakdown of the rest of the reports before they left on their mission to explore the other side.
It was late, and he really ought to be in bed, but the excitement had him wired. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, startled for a moment to realize there was so much less of it now. He’d seen a stylist in Colorado Springs and she’d done a good job with the new cut -- just off the collar, just enough to meet regulations and get him mission-approved.
In a few hours, he’d be stepping through the giant ring onto a world somewhere across the galaxy.
"The Stargate’s mind-blowing, isn’t it?" called a woman’s voice from nearby.
Daniel glanced up at Sam, who joined him beside the window. "Stargate?" he asked.
"That’s what you called it, isn’t it, after that first briefing? The colonel liked the name, so it stuck." She turned to gaze down at the wheel locking into place with the final glowing chevron activated. The sideways flush blossomed out with a roar, and then the surface of the upright pool settled into placid ripples.
"Stargate," Daniel repeated. He liked the name, too. "So, where was it discovered? Who made it?"
She shrugged, and looked away, focusing on the room below. "I'm sorry, Daniel, I'm not allowed to discuss it. The brass have decided that's something you don’t need to know."
"That’s exactly what I need to know," he responded, "because the location and time period where it was discovered may give an indication where to look for some sort of translation key."
"I can’t give you that information," she told him unhappily, "because I don’t have the authority." She sighed. "One thing I can tell you is that we don’t know who built it. That’s something we were hoping you could tell us, from the writing on the cover stone."
Daniel sighed, reluctant to admit failure. "It’s a written language unlike any I’ve ever seen before, so without a codex of some kind, a Rosetta stone, if you will, I’m not sure I’m going to be much use with that." He cocked his head. "I can’t work miracles. Be sure to tell General Hammond that. I need some kind of reference, or I have no starting point."
He shook his head, and half turned to face her. "Which brings to mind other questions. Why would its creators bury it? Or, if they didn't, who did? That’s why the history is so important. Without it I have no frame of reference, for anything."
Sam met his curious gaze. "Well, we think it was buried approximately three thousand years ago, but that's really just an educated guess."
That raised Daniel’s eyebrows. "So whoever built it probably buried it," he mused. "But, why? Until I can translate the inner track, we can't be sure." He considered possibilities, head down now, chin in his hand as he concentrated. "Maybe the makers didn’t want it found. Maybe they’d been here for other reasons and seen the violence humanity was capable of, and buried it for their protection."
Sam cocked her head, thinking. "Then why not just destroy it, or take it with them when they left?" She shook her head. "No, I think whoever built the Stargate intended for us to find it one day. I mean, they left us an address to connect to the other side. Why would they do that if they didn’t think we’d check it out?"
Frowning again, Daniel pondered her reasoning. "Maybe they understood human nature all too well. ‘Don’t go through the ‘gate, but, in case you do, here’s how.’ "
She grinned. "Maybe that’s what the ancient writing says, Daniel," she teased, winking at him. Reaching out, she put a hand on his shoulder for a brief pat. "C’mon. Big day tomorrow. We should both be sleeping right now."
Daniel didn’t move out from beneath her touch, as he usually did with others who got too close. He liked Sam, liked the way her mind worked, and hoped they could be friends. "See you in the morning," he told her, and followed her out of the briefing room, heading for his quarters a few levels up. She stayed with him until he got off the elevator on his floor, and she continued on toward the surface.
on to Chapter Two, part II
back to Chapter One
Chapter: Two
Title: Down the Rabbit Hole
Authors: bluecove and aaaaaahz
Rating: PG-13
(with thanks to martyfan for the beta)
"Jackson."
The summons was abrupt and demanding. Daniel sat up in bed, completely disoriented, glancing around for his clock. The large, blurry red numbers indicated it was 5:30 am, and that pissed Daniel off mightily. He turned his head toward the shadow in his doorway and snapped, "Go away. It’s too early to be awake."
"Get your sorry ass out of bed," the voice commanded. "It’s examination day."
Daniel belatedly recognized his visitor, just as Jack O’Neill flipped the light switch.
He flung up a hand in front of his eyes, now tightly clenched against the overhead glow. Flopping back down on the bed, he shot back, "Forget it. I’m not going down the rabbit hole. Go explore Wonderland all you like, but count me out."
"If I had a choice in the matter," O’Neill retorted, his tone sharp with anger, "you’d be staying behind. Orders came from a lot higher up than General Hammond. Somebody up there apparently thinks you’re the only man for the job, so you’re going, and that’s final. Now, on your feet, Jackson, or I’ll come drag your ass outta bed."
Grimacing and groaning, keeping further protests and arguments to himself, he flung the covers back and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Struggling to blink, his eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness, he ordered his protesting body to stand, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand beside the clock. He shoved them onto his face with a weary sigh, and headed for the bathroom.
"Meet me in the gym, level seventeen," O'Neill ordered. "You’ve got a busy day ahead of you, kid."
"Don’t call me kid," Daniel snapped. "I’m twenty-six years old, Colonel, and I have a doctorate in linguistics."
"I’d have guessed a lot younger than that. Maybe it’s the hair. Which reminds me, you have twenty-four hours to get it cut, or I'll do it for you."
Daniel stuck his head out the door with a glare and a retort poised on his lips, but caught a glimpse of olive drab fatigues disappearing out into the corridor. He straightened, running a hand over his nearly shoulder-length hair. Mostly, he just forgot about it, and ended up letting it grow. He’d pay a visit to a stylist in town before he’d let some military barber at his head. The last thing he wanted was one of those nearly-shaved jobs the gung-ho types and new recruits got, and he suspected that any military barber, upon seeing the length of his current style, would smile and whip out the shaver in a New York minute.
He’d take care of his own haircut, and make sure it just met the regulations. Just.
Deciding against a shower, since he’d need one after the workout anyway, he took off his glasses and just washed his face. After dressing in some sweats and a baggy T-shirt, he repositioned his glasses on his nose, pulled on socks and running shoes, and left the room. Ignoring his growling belly, he stopped by the commissary just long enough to get some coffee, then headed for the elevator and pushed button number 17.
There was impatience and disapproval smoldering in O’Neill’s eyes when he arrived. Daniel set his empty coffee cup by the door, since he didn’t see a trash can anywhere, and presented himself for examination. The colonel’s workout was brutal but efficient, testing his hand-to-hand combat skills and finding them barely adequate, thanks to his previous training at the military school where he’d spent most of his teen years. He lifted weights and ran on treadmills to test his physical conditioning; Daniel had let that lapse over the last couple of years, but he wasn’t so far gone he couldn't participate in the mission.
Once that was over, Daniel showered and changed into the base-issued fatigues, ugly black boots and all. His long hair marked him as civilian personnel, but apparently that wasn’t enough. Jack affixed a black patch onto the left sleeve of his fatigue shirt with a winged, crowned white spear-point cross with entwined snake, the symbol of his station. Now everyone would know he was an alchemist at a glance.
Daniel ripped it free of its Velcro backing and tried to stuff it into his shirt pocket.
"You will wear that at all times," O'Neill ordered, his voice low and dangerous, filled with threat. "Everyone on this base needs to know you’re one of them."
He made the announcement with such force and obvious distaste that Daniel couldn’t help but respond. "I came here as a linguist," he argued, chin lifted in defiance, fingers still trying to stuff the patch into his pocket. "As far as I’m concerned, that’s all I am."
O'Neill didn’t argue further. He just snatched the patch out of Daniel’s grip, and slapped it back into place. Then he reached into his own shirt pocket and withdrew a beaded chain and set of dog tags, handing them over in silence.
Both of the tags were black on the back, imprinted with the alchemist symbol. The front of each was embossed with all the required information: his name, serial number, blood type, and his status as a civilian rather than military personnel. The tags were edged with thin black rubber to keep the metal plates from clinking as they struck each other with the wearer’s movement.
"Don’t take those off, either," O'Neill warned. "As long as you’re on active duty, you wear ‘em wherever you go, on this world or off. Period."
Daniel didn’t argue. He felt the weight of his servitude settling on his shoulders like lead, heightened by the chain now around his neck. He tucked the tags into his shirt and clenched his teeth.
"Now what?" he growled.
"Firing range," said O'Neill. "This way."
It didn’t take long to prove that Daniel was already a decent shot. He’d picked up the Beretta pistol and loaded it with ease, taken aim at the human silhouette target at the far end of the shooting gallery and emptied the clip efficiently into it, half the shots in the heart, the other half in the head. Military school had taught him well, and he never forgot hard lessons learned.
Nevertheless, Colonel O’Neil seemed surprised by his skill.
"That’ll do, Jackson," he said neutrally, accepting the empty weapon with a nod of approval.
After that, there was breakfast, which Daniel ate as though he’d never have another meal set in front of him. Relaxed and full, he followed the colonel to the elevators, where they went up to the surface. A group of men and women were waiting for them at the mouth of the tunnel.
O'Neill performed the introductions, and Daniel realized that this was the team he would be accompanying through that ring.
"Now that we all know each other," said O'Neill flippantly, turning back to face Daniel, "let’s see what the kid can do." He gestured toward a handful of waiting Jeeps parked nearby.
"I’m not--" Daniel started to argue until he realized O'Neill was baiting him. He decided to let it go, because the more he objected, the more this guy was likely to use that stupid noun. He sighed, and headed for the nearest vehicle, seating himself behind the wheel.
If O’Neill hadn’t expected that, he didn’t show it. He got into the passenger seat, with Sam and Major Lou Ferretti climbing into the back. The colonel just pointed at another OD-green Jeep ahead of them and said, "Follow that ugly-ass car." He turned to his cohorts in the back and mused, "Why can’t the Air Force have our vehicles painted like our planes? These make us look like we’re in the Army, for cryin’ out loud."
Carter answered what was obviously meant to be a rhetorical question. "Sir, I think these are Army vehicles."
Daniel grinned, and mentally pegged Captain Doctor Samantha Carter as Ms. Literal. He might actually have fun teasing her, provided she had a sense of humor.
The caravan headed away from the mountain, across vast fields of parking lots, down and around the slope on the backside, away from the city view. Very few buildings could be seen from the location where they parked, the Jeeps in a long line beside an open area lined with broken concrete. Some of the pieces were small and irregular, others large and flat.
This would be Daniel’s proving ground, to see what he could do as an alchemist.
He’d been able to do it since he was eleven, though he hadn't known the scientific concepts behind his talent then. He’d just liked making things, changing them into different shapes or objects. Once he’d exhibited the ability, however, his whole life had changed. He’d been taken from the orphanage and put into a special school, run by the military, to teach him discipline and build character; to make him trustworthy and responsible, judicious with the power he wielded. There, he was taught by other alchemists how to harness his gift, but in a relatively short time he’d managed to outstrip them, going well beyond their capabilities.
That was when he’d seen that they were afraid of him.
That was when he’d stopped using alchemy willingly.
His reluctance to perform seemed to reassure them somehow, and in time, he’d been allowed to leave the school. He’d taken up the study of languages, which he loved, foolishly believing that if he had some other skill, his alchemical ability would be forgotten and he’d be able to live a normal life.
All he’d gotten was a reprieve.
Now, here he was again, the alchemist. This time, he knew, the military would never let him go. This had become his destiny, whether he wanted it or not.
Daniel looked into Colonel O’Neill’s eyes, distant and suspicious, and took the piece of sidewalk chalk from the older man’s hand. He marched across the field, selected a piece of concrete large enough for his purposes, and squatted down, drawing a simple, earth-based circle that probably looked impressive to an outsider.
After tucking the chalk into his shirt pocket, he placed both palms together and clapped, forming a circle with his arms. This wasn't necessary, but his teacher had used this method, using the clap to focus his attention and start the energy flow; for Daniel, it had become nothing more than a habit. Then, he placed his hands palms-down on the drawing. They started to tingle as the energy began to change in the object beneath his hands. The concrete seemed to melt, turning into a soft goo. Then it began to move, rising up into a vertical panel in front of his face. He pictured the wall in his head, and watched the raw materials align themselves with his vision, until the structure was completed.
He pulled his mind back from the object to let it solidify, and then drew his hands away to indicate he was done.
Daniel finally turned back to face his audience. Some of them were wide-eyed, their complexions lighter by a few degrees. O’Neill was not one of them.
"Nice," he observed, with only the barest trace of appreciation.
Sam was beaming. "Wow," she murmured. "I’ve never actually seen an alchemist work. That’s incredible."
Her praise almost made him proud. "Thanks," he told her quietly, walking back to the group. He turned to face his commanding officer and asked, "Will there be anything else, sir?"
"I think that’s enough," O’Neill agreed. "You haven’t gotten rusty, so that’s good."
Daniel tapped his temple with one dusty fingertip. "This doesn’t rust." More's the pity, he almost added.
O’Neill nodded. "That’s good, Jackson. Wouldn’t want you to forget how to move the pillars of heaven, in case we need you to do that."
At the same time a hard, cold object touched his temple, and without looking, he knew instinctively what it was. Someone was holding a pistol to his head. His heart skipped a beat.
This was another test, he knew. The colonel wouldn’t actually have him killed, would he?
But Daniel knew there were incidents in the past where soldiers had been killed with live fire. Sometimes officers went to prison for negligence. Sometimes the incidents were covered up, but since he was an alchemist and had just performed an alchemic feat, it would be incredibly easy for the group to lie and say he’d gotten out of hand and they’d had to kill him.
Too easy.
He swallowed hard, gazing into those steady, reserved brown eyes waiting to see how he’d react.
Daniel moved, pitching his head forward, pivoting, reaching up to grab the pistol barrel with his right hand. Sweating, heart pounding, he concentrated on the metal composition of the gun and applied just enough energy to excite the molecules, preparing them for change. The barrel softened in his grip and tilted upward, rendering the weapon useless.
Major Ferretti, who had been holding the pistol, wrestled with him for control of the weapon in the split second it took Daniel to act.
As soon as Daniel let go and stepped away, breathing hard, shaking from the surge of adrenaline pulsing through his system, he eyed the pistol to make sure he’d fixed it so it wouldn’t fire. He stepped backward from the group, uncertain if any of the rest of them would strike at him, too. He saw their faces, the fear and awe in Ferretti’s expression as he stared at the ruined pistol in his hand.
"Holy crap," the major whispered. Ferretti looked at the colonel, who just nodded, apparently not a bit surprised.
"They don’t need to draw circles for the smaller stuff," O’Neill explained to the others in the group. "Just the big stuff. And they have their limits; they’re not gods."
Daniel closed his eyes and shook his head. Evidently, the colonel knew a thing or two about alchemists after all. He wasn’t afraid of them, but it was obvious he didn’t trust them.
Any of them, including Daniel Jackson.
O’Neill gave the major a nod. "Good job, Ferretti. Turn that in at the armory for a replacement."
"What for?" Daniel demanded, his voice angry. "I can fix it."
The colonel and Ferretti exchanged a look, and O’Neill nodded. Ferretti handed over the gun and Daniel closed both hands over the bent section. Getting the alignment right was crucial, since the barrel needed to be straight and smooth. The previous internal rifling would be impossible for him to match, but as long as it fired properly, that would be all that really mattered. He concentrated, watching the barrel regain its proper shape, then when it had solidified, he aimed it at the ground and squeezed the trigger.
It refused to fire.
That was when he realized the safety was still switched on. Ferretti had probably been under orders not to hurt him, just to test him. His legs wobbling a little with relief, Daniel pushed the safety off and fired one round into the ground to be sure it was working, then handed the pistol back to the major.
"You keep that one," said the colonel. "You earned it." He gave Daniel a hard look. "Where are your gloves?"
That meant the test was officially over.
Daniel knew which gloves he meant. The teachers and students at the alchemist school had been required to wear them unless they were actively working. Laws had been written requiring alchemists to wear the gloves in government buildings and transportation hubs, on airplanes and buses. Out in the everyday world, some businesses required gloves on their premises, but most people were okay with not knowing.
He hated the gloves. They were black, with the alchemist symbol imprinted on the backs in white. By law, he was required to carry them with him, in case he needed to identify himself as an alchemist. For years he’d gotten away with keeping them hidden in a pocket, but he was no longer free to remain anonymous, now that he had that patch on his sleeve.
Reluctantly, he pulled the gloves from his trouser pocket. They were specially made with a non-conductive layer imbedded in the fabric that prevented unauthorized use of an alchemist’s ability. To Daniel, they were a harness, a hobble -- a prison for his hands.
"You’ll be required to wear these at all times, Jackson," he intoned. "You’ll take them off when we’re on the mission, so you’ll be able to react without hesitation, but on Earth, you’ll keep your hands covered. This is a government facility, and you’ve broken the law by not putting them on the second you stepped onto the base. That won’t happen again. Understood?"
The fear was still there, ever-present. Daniel stared at the gloves, hyper-aware of the chain around his neck and the patch on his sleeve. Not only were they marking him in every possible way as an alchemist, they were also providing a leash to keep him under their control. He kept quiet as he slipped the gloves onto his hands. They were lightweight and flexible, barely noticeable after a moment, but to him they felt claustrophobic.
He hated that he was so different from other human beings. In that moment, he’d have done anything to feel like an ordinary man, rather than a genetic freak. He stared at the ground, his head down as he let his covered hands fall to his sides. "Yes, sir," he replied thickly.
O’Neill turned to the rest of the team. "Back to the mountain, everybody. We’re burnin’ daylight." He got back into the Jeep in the passenger seat.
As Daniel slipped back behind the wheel, he wondered if O’Neill’s John Wayne quote had been intentional, or if that were just the way he talked. There was a lot he didn’t know about the man who would be pulling his leash, and he wondered if he’d be able to dig up any information on him. Daniel liked to know who he was working with, and since they all knew about him now, he wanted the scoop on everyone else.
When O’Neill gave him room to breathe, he headed straight for General Hammond’s office to request background information on the team that he would be supporting on a mission to another world.
* * * * * * * * * *
Daniel stood in the briefing room the next evening, watching the giant ring spinning around, hypnotized by the device. He’d come here as often as possible over the last few days, just to watch them dial that planet where they’d left the MALP. It was still transmitting information, and every time they re-established the connection, they got more data. Tomorrow morning, they’d get a breakdown of the rest of the reports before they left on their mission to explore the other side.
It was late, and he really ought to be in bed, but the excitement had him wired. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, startled for a moment to realize there was so much less of it now. He’d seen a stylist in Colorado Springs and she’d done a good job with the new cut -- just off the collar, just enough to meet regulations and get him mission-approved.
In a few hours, he’d be stepping through the giant ring onto a world somewhere across the galaxy.
"The Stargate’s mind-blowing, isn’t it?" called a woman’s voice from nearby.
Daniel glanced up at Sam, who joined him beside the window. "Stargate?" he asked.
"That’s what you called it, isn’t it, after that first briefing? The colonel liked the name, so it stuck." She turned to gaze down at the wheel locking into place with the final glowing chevron activated. The sideways flush blossomed out with a roar, and then the surface of the upright pool settled into placid ripples.
"Stargate," Daniel repeated. He liked the name, too. "So, where was it discovered? Who made it?"
She shrugged, and looked away, focusing on the room below. "I'm sorry, Daniel, I'm not allowed to discuss it. The brass have decided that's something you don’t need to know."
"That’s exactly what I need to know," he responded, "because the location and time period where it was discovered may give an indication where to look for some sort of translation key."
"I can’t give you that information," she told him unhappily, "because I don’t have the authority." She sighed. "One thing I can tell you is that we don’t know who built it. That’s something we were hoping you could tell us, from the writing on the cover stone."
Daniel sighed, reluctant to admit failure. "It’s a written language unlike any I’ve ever seen before, so without a codex of some kind, a Rosetta stone, if you will, I’m not sure I’m going to be much use with that." He cocked his head. "I can’t work miracles. Be sure to tell General Hammond that. I need some kind of reference, or I have no starting point."
He shook his head, and half turned to face her. "Which brings to mind other questions. Why would its creators bury it? Or, if they didn't, who did? That’s why the history is so important. Without it I have no frame of reference, for anything."
Sam met his curious gaze. "Well, we think it was buried approximately three thousand years ago, but that's really just an educated guess."
That raised Daniel’s eyebrows. "So whoever built it probably buried it," he mused. "But, why? Until I can translate the inner track, we can't be sure." He considered possibilities, head down now, chin in his hand as he concentrated. "Maybe the makers didn’t want it found. Maybe they’d been here for other reasons and seen the violence humanity was capable of, and buried it for their protection."
Sam cocked her head, thinking. "Then why not just destroy it, or take it with them when they left?" She shook her head. "No, I think whoever built the Stargate intended for us to find it one day. I mean, they left us an address to connect to the other side. Why would they do that if they didn’t think we’d check it out?"
Frowning again, Daniel pondered her reasoning. "Maybe they understood human nature all too well. ‘Don’t go through the ‘gate, but, in case you do, here’s how.’ "
She grinned. "Maybe that’s what the ancient writing says, Daniel," she teased, winking at him. Reaching out, she put a hand on his shoulder for a brief pat. "C’mon. Big day tomorrow. We should both be sleeping right now."
Daniel didn’t move out from beneath her touch, as he usually did with others who got too close. He liked Sam, liked the way her mind worked, and hoped they could be friends. "See you in the morning," he told her, and followed her out of the briefing room, heading for his quarters a few levels up. She stayed with him until he got off the elevator on his floor, and she continued on toward the surface.
on to Chapter Two, part II
back to Chapter One