Fic Post: Five Minutes to Midnight
"Five Minutes to Midnight"
By Rigel
Fandom: Stargate SG1
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, nor do I intend to profit from them.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Cameron Mitchell, Team
Category: AU, Apocafic, Gen
Content Warnings:: None
Spoilers: Season 9 to “Ripple Effect”
Word Count: 3074
Summary: "You need more time, but there is none to spare."
Thanks: Thanks to my super awesome beta team Bunne (katiefoolery), Jenn (surrealphantast) and Gillian (crazedturkey) - many cyber cookies and chocolate for all your helpful comments and encouragement.
Author’s Notes: Written for the LJ spacepirate_fic ficathon. (despite having to really squint for the pirateage :P) For annerbhp - Happy Birthday! Enjoy my very first SG1 fic!
"Like a drop of sea water, like a grain of sand,
so are these few years, among the days of eternity." Sirach 18:8
"Lieutenant Colonel, on my mark."
You grip the key firmly between thumb and forefinger and twist it the required half turn to the right as General Landry does the same. The display lights up with a faint hum of activity, and the numbers on it flash at you, beginning their rapid un-spooling toward the point of no return.
“Self destruct is set, sir. We have five minutes on the clock.”
Your radio message is relayed to O’Neill and you wait for his acknowledgment, which is terse and cuts out abruptly.
Usually you'd make a joke, or a smart comment about the current situation, but for something like this, you fall back on your training and military protocol and observe the correct procedure for activating the failsafe program.
The seconds tick past and you exchange glances again with Landry, hoping to God that the ZPM still has enough juice to make a difference, so that none of this will be necessary.
Your Grandma believed in the power of prayer; you're still not too sure, but at this point you're willing to give it a shot.
You can picture in your mind exactly how this is all going to go down.
O’Neill is seated in the chair of the Ancients beneath the ice in Antarctica, his mind focused solely on the destruction of the Ori ships which have made their way to Earth. The weapon stirs to life beneath his fingers, drawing on the stored energy of the power cell. Drones surge forth from the glacial fissure to swarm over the threat in the skies, tearing them to pieces. The debris is scattered far and wide - just like before, only without the complimentary visit to the spinal unit on your part.
You will it to happen, as though your visualizing it will make it so. General Landry coughs, and clears his throat - jolting you back to the present moment.
The emergency lighting overhead casts a lambent red glow over the deepest level of the SGC, and you shift uncomfortably on your feet. Silence has always unnerved you. You waver between wanting it to be over, and for time never to end. You let your hand hover over the keys, ready to enter the override and try not to think about the bloodied cast the light gives to your skin.
The minutes fade away, but you still hold your breath hoping for some kind of miracle as the clock marks the final seconds.
The call you are waiting for never comes.
**
The deck of the Prometheus is reassuringly solid beneath your cheek. You are grateful for its presence, even as you run your tongue around the top of your mouth to check for loose teeth.
Asgard beaming technology might be advanced enough to disassemble you into minute particles and then put you back in the same condition that you left, but the jarring sensation of the transfer has a way of putting you off balance.
Well that, and the unnerving feeling that you have at being literally snatched away from the gaping jaws of death.
You curl your fingers against the metal surface briefly: it feels real. Definitely real.
You make a show of nonchalantly dusting off your BDUs as Landry helps you to your feet, but the attention of the throng of people on the bridge is elsewhere.
O’Neill is seated at a console and cradles his head in his arms. Sam stands behind him with a hand on his shoulder, her expression unreadable.
Colonel Pendergast relays orders to the crew who punch buttons and mutter technobabble over their headsets to one another.
You briefly glimpse the hanging orb of the planet through the forward window, before the bright blue of the ocean gives way to the subtle glow of the matter stream in hyperspace.
If you had known it would be the last time you ever saw Earth, you might have locked it away more firmly within your memory.
**
The crate is imposing, looming over you - but you run your hand over the rough pine anyway. It’s packed away in the cargo hold, slotted in between the pallets of foodstuffs and emergency supplies. You fancy that you can sense the rare elemental naquadah buried beneath the layers of insulation that are incorporated into its makeup.
The Gate is the one so-called constant in your life that hasn’t changed. Only now it lies dormant, the iris bolted firmly into place. This was not what you had in mind when you dreamed of exploring the galaxy.
The reminder of failure is bitter. The realization that it wasn’t your fault, wasn’t anyone’s fault, is harder to stomach.
It wasn’t supposed to end this way.
Sam asks where you go every morning, her tone of voice concerned, inviting your confidence; you tell her it’s to look over the X-302s and make sure they are still combat ready.
You do that too, but you come here first.
**
You attend the briefing every morning. It's familiar - a routine, despite the fact that they're now conducted standing in a cramped storage locker that was hastily converted, and had no room for a large table with comfortable chairs and generous mugs of coffee. Can't forget the coffee - you'd do just about anything for a coffee right now.
You give the same report every day - another planet unsuitable for habitation, or a world already touched by the Ori - and listen avidly to all the others, because maybe this day it will be different. Maybe today will bring news of a viable weapon, a way to defeat the Ori at last - anything to make this last desperate effort worth it.
You try not to think too much about the logistics of keeping over five hundred personnel alive on a ship meant for a crew of 115. Your job is to support whatever measures the geniuses on board decide is best.
"The CO2 scrubbers are at forty percent of their full capacity. Since we reconfigured the exchange cycles there has been a marked increase in efficiency, so breathable air isn't so much of an issue. The more immediate problem is potable water; we're consuming more than we projected in the simulations, so we’ll need to..."
Sam delivers her analysis in a matter-of-fact way. She appears collected, as she always does, but you can see the slight slump of exhaustion in her shoulders and the tense lines around her mouth.
She meets your eyes for a moment, before they flick back to the page from which she is quoting her statistics. You're no science geek, but even you can understand these figures.
You need more time, but there is none to spare.
**
The never-ending uniformity of the ship feels claustrophobic. You've taken to jogging through the corridors on the lower decks in an attempt to distract yourself, turning right at all the junctions to make a wide circuit that takes you past just about every habitable space aboard the ship - but, if anything, it just reinforces the limits of your new home.
You run alone, preferring the early hours of the morning when most people are yet to come on shift. It’s quiet, there’s just you and the games you challenge yourself to: this time you’ll complete a lap in less than ten minutes.
You let your mind drift, thinking of nothing.
You set a steady pace, the rhythm of your booted feet reminding you of hours spent at drill - now a lifetime away. You feel the tenseness in your body begin to loosen as you put all of your pent up energy into keeping the momentum.
You turn into one of the straights, and see the flash of a body in green BDUs as it rounds the corner up ahead of you.
"Jackson!"
You gulp down air as the effort to catch up strains at your limits, but as you turn into the next corridor, he eludes you again - glimpsed dashing past out of the corner of your eye.
You slow, puzzled, until it dawns on you that the only sounds you can hear are those of your boots striking the grating and your own harsh breathing.
There’s no-one there, the logical part of your mind knows this.
You shake your head to clear it; obviously you’ve been on this boat for too long, but you can’t get rid of the feeling that you’re being watched by unseen eyes as you finish out your circuit.
**
Daniel, more often than not, is huddled against a bulkhead completely absorbed by some dusty and esoteric tome, or frantically typing on a data pad that rests on his knees. He is obsessed with finding some sort of clue, any hint of something he could have missed that can destroy the Ori, and make it possible to return.
You remember how he sorted through his collection as this last mission was planned. How he carefully weighed each volume in his hands, reluctantly putting some aside and packing those that remained.
He had laughed at your remark about your personal item being a spare change of pants. You had been buoyed by your recent success, sure that the ZPM would work - how could it not?
You come to a halt next to him, propping one leg up against the wall to stretch out your muscles. Have to keep fit and limber - it's something to do.
"Anything?"
"Well…" He ruffles a hand through already disheveled hair. "There's some interesting footnotes to some of the apocryphal writings of Cornelius Agrippa. He was a sixteenth Century alchemist searching for a way to interpret the word of God, as he saw it anyway, written in the skies."
Daniel also looks tired - heck everyone does - but he hides it well too, burying himself in endless translations and trying to make sense of some of the more abstracted references he and others managed to dig up in those last frantic months.
"You know he invented a whole Celestial Alphabet, derived from Hebrew of course, but based also on star constellations," he says.
"Like the symbols on the Gate?" you ask, pleased that you can follow his train of thought.
"Well, no, not really. He and his followers thought that using this alphabet to interpret the secret messages in the sky would bring them to face-to-face with the messengers of God. I doubt that they’d think to use them to open a wormhole to another planet."
"And this is related how, exactly, to us?" You arch one eyebrow and brace yourself for something that you'll never quite understand. The best you can hope for is something that you’ll get the general gist of.
"Well I was getting to that." He gives you an exasperated look before continuing. “It’s all kind of related to the belief that if you know someone’s true name you have power over them. They were searching for the names of the angels, and the secret words that would summon them."
"Angels." You echo him, trying not to let the incredulity you feel creep into your voice. "Gabriel and his golden trumpet are somehow going to get us out of this mess?"
Although, on reflection, stranger things have happened. You did read all those mission reports after all.
"No, not literally angels. You have to look more at the original definition of their purpose.” He holds his index finger up. "One, they are creatures of pure energy and light. Two, they travel between our world and a higher plane of existence..." He extends another finger and swirls his hand vaguely upwards. "- to commune directly with a greater power."
You just give him one of your all purpose blank looks that always seem to convey your non-comprehension in these matters.
"Ascended beings. You know, the Ancients."
The connection clicks into place for you, like finding the sweet spot in a slipstream midair.
"Agrippa believed that the proper words of power could summon them and bind them to your will. So, since the Ori are essentially a branching off of the Ancients, the same should hold true for them."
"Well summon away and I'll personally tell them to go to hell, or heck -" You break of to grin. "- maybe have them do all that paperwork I was supposed to have done this year." The thought of some of the more unpleasant tasks you could set a Prior to if he were at your beck and call makes you rather happy.
Daniel gives an enigmatic smile. "I'll keep looking, you might just get lucky."
You resist making the double entendre that comes to mind.
Too easy by far.
**
Teal'c is your wingman, dipping the left wing of his X-302 at you as you fly in formation toward the main landmass of the planet designated PBX-963.
The initial orbital sweep indicated the lack of a Stargate as well as any significant technology. But analysis of the aerial photo survey showed agrarian cultivation - or, in your terms, farms.
O'Neill ordered you to take a closer look.
The ocean is vast, stretching to the horizon on either side of the cockpit. Two moons hang overhead, one of them the barest sliver of white against the blue of the sky.
You long to breathe in the air of an unfamiliar world, to experience its intangible sweetness, rather than the stale recycled oxygen aboard the Prometheus which always tastes faintly of metal.
"Cameron Mitchell, I suggest the lower valley, near the mouth of the river. It is there that we are likely to find settlement."
You agree and bank right, adjusting your course and feeling the slight pull of gravity before it is offset by the inertial dampeners.
In four fly-overs you determine the presence of several grain silos, a complicated series of irrigation ditches and a sprawling collection of simply built houses with thatched roofs.
You can barely make out the blurred figures of people who have dropped their tools and burdens to point at the sky.
"Should we not land and attempt a trade negotiation?"
"Negative, we'll return to the Prometheus."
You are careful to log the precise coordinates of the silos into the onboard computer before you break past the atmosphere.
**
You rinse your mouth again, watching the trickle from the faucet slowly run into the drain.
Away.
Peaceful sleep has again eluded you; the shadows beneath your eyes seem even more prominent when reflected back at you by the mirror.
You press the back of your hand against your forehead, wiping away the faint clammy feeling that has clung to your skin for the past few minutes.
The memory of the dream passes as soon as you startle awake, but every time you feel as though you have been trying to grasp at an oiled string floating in a pool of dark water.
Your own face looks back at you with a grave expression.
You drop your eyes, and sluice the cool liquid through your fingers.
**
"Again."
Teal'c pulls you to your feet with a bemused expression. You wince slightly, annoyed that you let him past your guard again.
"Have we not sparred enough for this day?"
"Tired of kicking my butt already are you?"
His lips curve slightly as he replies. "On the contrary Cameron Mitchell. I always enjoy matching skills with you."
"Yeah, a little too much for my liking. I think I'm beginning to get the feeling you like seeing my face collide with your fist."
Another sly smile. "I have had much opportunity of late."
You give a rueful shake of your head - he definitely enjoys this too much.
He pivots back into a ready crouch stance, gloves held up near his face. You run through the sequence of Sodan moves again in your mind. This time you will get the timing right.
He's still smiling though, even if it's more with his eyes than his expression.
Damn.
**
The only good thing you can say about it is that at least it's a hot meal. You let the grain mush slide from your spoon back onto the plate. It definitely looks unappetizing, like some sort of congealed gruel.
"Not hungry?" Sam sits herself across from you, and unexpectedly leans over to filch a spoonful from your plate.
"Here, you eat it." You slide it over to her and rest your elbows back on the table.
"You really should finish this. I can get my own."
You wave a hand at her, dismissing the offer. After a slight hesitation she begins eating, relaxing slightly as she chews, a contented expression creeping across her features.
"Watch out for the gritty bits," you warn her, enjoying the sudden look of consternation on her face and her hasty search through the mush with the spoon.
"Grit?"
"Seems like there was a fair bit of sand included in that harvest. Just think of it as extra protein."
She rolls her eyes. "Hardly. Besides, beggars can't be choosers."
You have no answer for that.
You sit together in companionable silence for a while; it feels comfortable, like this is how things should always be.
You watch her, without making it look like you’re watching her. Several times she opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind. You know what she wants to say, it’s been a long time coming.
She reaches out and covers one of your hands with her own. "We did the right thing." She meets your eyes, an unspoken doubt hidden behind her own.
You look at Sam, and see again the reflected Sams stretching back in the dark pools of her pupils. What was, what could have been - the myriad possibilities that you know exist.
"Did we?"
"You know we did."
She's right, and you've told yourself this. You would do anything to save your world, even if it cost another. And even though your best plan had failed, it was still worth the price.
You’ve told yourself this, but you can't forget the look he gave you. Your other self, and your unbidden conscience - you’ve begun to see him everywhere, like a ghost or some kind of phantasm dogging your steps.
"We're alive, and that's what counts."
You squeeze her hand in agreement.
**
End.
Further Notes:
Daniel’s musings on Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa are fairly factual (although adapted slightly for Ancient emphasis.) In particular, his writings on Occult Philosophy are endlessly fascinating, and for those interested are located here at the Esoteric Archives.
The passage Daniel was referring to is:
"The Celestiall souls send forth their vertues to the Celestial bodies, which then transmit them to this sensible world. For the vertues of the terrene orb proceed from no other cause then Celestiall. Hence the Magician that will worke by them, useth a cunning invocation of the superiors, with mysterious words, and a certain kind of ingenious speech, drawing the one to the other, yet by a naturall force through a certain mutuall agreement betwixt them, whereby things follow of their own accord, or sometimes are drawn unwillingly." Book Two: Celestial Magic
This fic also has a bonus deleted scene (Sam/Cam, PWP) located here
By Rigel
Fandom: Stargate SG1
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, nor do I intend to profit from them.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Cameron Mitchell, Team
Category: AU, Apocafic, Gen
Content Warnings:: None
Spoilers: Season 9 to “Ripple Effect”
Word Count: 3074
Summary: "You need more time, but there is none to spare."
Thanks: Thanks to my super awesome beta team Bunne (katiefoolery), Jenn (surrealphantast) and Gillian (crazedturkey) - many cyber cookies and chocolate for all your helpful comments and encouragement.
Author’s Notes: Written for the LJ spacepirate_fic ficathon. (despite having to really squint for the pirateage :P) For annerbhp - Happy Birthday! Enjoy my very first SG1 fic!
"Like a drop of sea water, like a grain of sand,
so are these few years, among the days of eternity." Sirach 18:8
"Lieutenant Colonel, on my mark."
You grip the key firmly between thumb and forefinger and twist it the required half turn to the right as General Landry does the same. The display lights up with a faint hum of activity, and the numbers on it flash at you, beginning their rapid un-spooling toward the point of no return.
“Self destruct is set, sir. We have five minutes on the clock.”
Your radio message is relayed to O’Neill and you wait for his acknowledgment, which is terse and cuts out abruptly.
Usually you'd make a joke, or a smart comment about the current situation, but for something like this, you fall back on your training and military protocol and observe the correct procedure for activating the failsafe program.
The seconds tick past and you exchange glances again with Landry, hoping to God that the ZPM still has enough juice to make a difference, so that none of this will be necessary.
Your Grandma believed in the power of prayer; you're still not too sure, but at this point you're willing to give it a shot.
You can picture in your mind exactly how this is all going to go down.
O’Neill is seated in the chair of the Ancients beneath the ice in Antarctica, his mind focused solely on the destruction of the Ori ships which have made their way to Earth. The weapon stirs to life beneath his fingers, drawing on the stored energy of the power cell. Drones surge forth from the glacial fissure to swarm over the threat in the skies, tearing them to pieces. The debris is scattered far and wide - just like before, only without the complimentary visit to the spinal unit on your part.
You will it to happen, as though your visualizing it will make it so. General Landry coughs, and clears his throat - jolting you back to the present moment.
The emergency lighting overhead casts a lambent red glow over the deepest level of the SGC, and you shift uncomfortably on your feet. Silence has always unnerved you. You waver between wanting it to be over, and for time never to end. You let your hand hover over the keys, ready to enter the override and try not to think about the bloodied cast the light gives to your skin.
The minutes fade away, but you still hold your breath hoping for some kind of miracle as the clock marks the final seconds.
The call you are waiting for never comes.
**
The deck of the Prometheus is reassuringly solid beneath your cheek. You are grateful for its presence, even as you run your tongue around the top of your mouth to check for loose teeth.
Asgard beaming technology might be advanced enough to disassemble you into minute particles and then put you back in the same condition that you left, but the jarring sensation of the transfer has a way of putting you off balance.
Well that, and the unnerving feeling that you have at being literally snatched away from the gaping jaws of death.
You curl your fingers against the metal surface briefly: it feels real. Definitely real.
You make a show of nonchalantly dusting off your BDUs as Landry helps you to your feet, but the attention of the throng of people on the bridge is elsewhere.
O’Neill is seated at a console and cradles his head in his arms. Sam stands behind him with a hand on his shoulder, her expression unreadable.
Colonel Pendergast relays orders to the crew who punch buttons and mutter technobabble over their headsets to one another.
You briefly glimpse the hanging orb of the planet through the forward window, before the bright blue of the ocean gives way to the subtle glow of the matter stream in hyperspace.
If you had known it would be the last time you ever saw Earth, you might have locked it away more firmly within your memory.
**
The crate is imposing, looming over you - but you run your hand over the rough pine anyway. It’s packed away in the cargo hold, slotted in between the pallets of foodstuffs and emergency supplies. You fancy that you can sense the rare elemental naquadah buried beneath the layers of insulation that are incorporated into its makeup.
The Gate is the one so-called constant in your life that hasn’t changed. Only now it lies dormant, the iris bolted firmly into place. This was not what you had in mind when you dreamed of exploring the galaxy.
The reminder of failure is bitter. The realization that it wasn’t your fault, wasn’t anyone’s fault, is harder to stomach.
It wasn’t supposed to end this way.
Sam asks where you go every morning, her tone of voice concerned, inviting your confidence; you tell her it’s to look over the X-302s and make sure they are still combat ready.
You do that too, but you come here first.
**
You attend the briefing every morning. It's familiar - a routine, despite the fact that they're now conducted standing in a cramped storage locker that was hastily converted, and had no room for a large table with comfortable chairs and generous mugs of coffee. Can't forget the coffee - you'd do just about anything for a coffee right now.
You give the same report every day - another planet unsuitable for habitation, or a world already touched by the Ori - and listen avidly to all the others, because maybe this day it will be different. Maybe today will bring news of a viable weapon, a way to defeat the Ori at last - anything to make this last desperate effort worth it.
You try not to think too much about the logistics of keeping over five hundred personnel alive on a ship meant for a crew of 115. Your job is to support whatever measures the geniuses on board decide is best.
"The CO2 scrubbers are at forty percent of their full capacity. Since we reconfigured the exchange cycles there has been a marked increase in efficiency, so breathable air isn't so much of an issue. The more immediate problem is potable water; we're consuming more than we projected in the simulations, so we’ll need to..."
Sam delivers her analysis in a matter-of-fact way. She appears collected, as she always does, but you can see the slight slump of exhaustion in her shoulders and the tense lines around her mouth.
She meets your eyes for a moment, before they flick back to the page from which she is quoting her statistics. You're no science geek, but even you can understand these figures.
You need more time, but there is none to spare.
**
The never-ending uniformity of the ship feels claustrophobic. You've taken to jogging through the corridors on the lower decks in an attempt to distract yourself, turning right at all the junctions to make a wide circuit that takes you past just about every habitable space aboard the ship - but, if anything, it just reinforces the limits of your new home.
You run alone, preferring the early hours of the morning when most people are yet to come on shift. It’s quiet, there’s just you and the games you challenge yourself to: this time you’ll complete a lap in less than ten minutes.
You let your mind drift, thinking of nothing.
You set a steady pace, the rhythm of your booted feet reminding you of hours spent at drill - now a lifetime away. You feel the tenseness in your body begin to loosen as you put all of your pent up energy into keeping the momentum.
You turn into one of the straights, and see the flash of a body in green BDUs as it rounds the corner up ahead of you.
"Jackson!"
You gulp down air as the effort to catch up strains at your limits, but as you turn into the next corridor, he eludes you again - glimpsed dashing past out of the corner of your eye.
You slow, puzzled, until it dawns on you that the only sounds you can hear are those of your boots striking the grating and your own harsh breathing.
There’s no-one there, the logical part of your mind knows this.
You shake your head to clear it; obviously you’ve been on this boat for too long, but you can’t get rid of the feeling that you’re being watched by unseen eyes as you finish out your circuit.
**
Daniel, more often than not, is huddled against a bulkhead completely absorbed by some dusty and esoteric tome, or frantically typing on a data pad that rests on his knees. He is obsessed with finding some sort of clue, any hint of something he could have missed that can destroy the Ori, and make it possible to return.
You remember how he sorted through his collection as this last mission was planned. How he carefully weighed each volume in his hands, reluctantly putting some aside and packing those that remained.
He had laughed at your remark about your personal item being a spare change of pants. You had been buoyed by your recent success, sure that the ZPM would work - how could it not?
You come to a halt next to him, propping one leg up against the wall to stretch out your muscles. Have to keep fit and limber - it's something to do.
"Anything?"
"Well…" He ruffles a hand through already disheveled hair. "There's some interesting footnotes to some of the apocryphal writings of Cornelius Agrippa. He was a sixteenth Century alchemist searching for a way to interpret the word of God, as he saw it anyway, written in the skies."
Daniel also looks tired - heck everyone does - but he hides it well too, burying himself in endless translations and trying to make sense of some of the more abstracted references he and others managed to dig up in those last frantic months.
"You know he invented a whole Celestial Alphabet, derived from Hebrew of course, but based also on star constellations," he says.
"Like the symbols on the Gate?" you ask, pleased that you can follow his train of thought.
"Well, no, not really. He and his followers thought that using this alphabet to interpret the secret messages in the sky would bring them to face-to-face with the messengers of God. I doubt that they’d think to use them to open a wormhole to another planet."
"And this is related how, exactly, to us?" You arch one eyebrow and brace yourself for something that you'll never quite understand. The best you can hope for is something that you’ll get the general gist of.
"Well I was getting to that." He gives you an exasperated look before continuing. “It’s all kind of related to the belief that if you know someone’s true name you have power over them. They were searching for the names of the angels, and the secret words that would summon them."
"Angels." You echo him, trying not to let the incredulity you feel creep into your voice. "Gabriel and his golden trumpet are somehow going to get us out of this mess?"
Although, on reflection, stranger things have happened. You did read all those mission reports after all.
"No, not literally angels. You have to look more at the original definition of their purpose.” He holds his index finger up. "One, they are creatures of pure energy and light. Two, they travel between our world and a higher plane of existence..." He extends another finger and swirls his hand vaguely upwards. "- to commune directly with a greater power."
You just give him one of your all purpose blank looks that always seem to convey your non-comprehension in these matters.
"Ascended beings. You know, the Ancients."
The connection clicks into place for you, like finding the sweet spot in a slipstream midair.
"Agrippa believed that the proper words of power could summon them and bind them to your will. So, since the Ori are essentially a branching off of the Ancients, the same should hold true for them."
"Well summon away and I'll personally tell them to go to hell, or heck -" You break of to grin. "- maybe have them do all that paperwork I was supposed to have done this year." The thought of some of the more unpleasant tasks you could set a Prior to if he were at your beck and call makes you rather happy.
Daniel gives an enigmatic smile. "I'll keep looking, you might just get lucky."
You resist making the double entendre that comes to mind.
Too easy by far.
**
Teal'c is your wingman, dipping the left wing of his X-302 at you as you fly in formation toward the main landmass of the planet designated PBX-963.
The initial orbital sweep indicated the lack of a Stargate as well as any significant technology. But analysis of the aerial photo survey showed agrarian cultivation - or, in your terms, farms.
O'Neill ordered you to take a closer look.
The ocean is vast, stretching to the horizon on either side of the cockpit. Two moons hang overhead, one of them the barest sliver of white against the blue of the sky.
You long to breathe in the air of an unfamiliar world, to experience its intangible sweetness, rather than the stale recycled oxygen aboard the Prometheus which always tastes faintly of metal.
"Cameron Mitchell, I suggest the lower valley, near the mouth of the river. It is there that we are likely to find settlement."
You agree and bank right, adjusting your course and feeling the slight pull of gravity before it is offset by the inertial dampeners.
In four fly-overs you determine the presence of several grain silos, a complicated series of irrigation ditches and a sprawling collection of simply built houses with thatched roofs.
You can barely make out the blurred figures of people who have dropped their tools and burdens to point at the sky.
"Should we not land and attempt a trade negotiation?"
"Negative, we'll return to the Prometheus."
You are careful to log the precise coordinates of the silos into the onboard computer before you break past the atmosphere.
**
You rinse your mouth again, watching the trickle from the faucet slowly run into the drain.
Away.
Peaceful sleep has again eluded you; the shadows beneath your eyes seem even more prominent when reflected back at you by the mirror.
You press the back of your hand against your forehead, wiping away the faint clammy feeling that has clung to your skin for the past few minutes.
The memory of the dream passes as soon as you startle awake, but every time you feel as though you have been trying to grasp at an oiled string floating in a pool of dark water.
Your own face looks back at you with a grave expression.
You drop your eyes, and sluice the cool liquid through your fingers.
**
"Again."
Teal'c pulls you to your feet with a bemused expression. You wince slightly, annoyed that you let him past your guard again.
"Have we not sparred enough for this day?"
"Tired of kicking my butt already are you?"
His lips curve slightly as he replies. "On the contrary Cameron Mitchell. I always enjoy matching skills with you."
"Yeah, a little too much for my liking. I think I'm beginning to get the feeling you like seeing my face collide with your fist."
Another sly smile. "I have had much opportunity of late."
You give a rueful shake of your head - he definitely enjoys this too much.
He pivots back into a ready crouch stance, gloves held up near his face. You run through the sequence of Sodan moves again in your mind. This time you will get the timing right.
He's still smiling though, even if it's more with his eyes than his expression.
Damn.
**
The only good thing you can say about it is that at least it's a hot meal. You let the grain mush slide from your spoon back onto the plate. It definitely looks unappetizing, like some sort of congealed gruel.
"Not hungry?" Sam sits herself across from you, and unexpectedly leans over to filch a spoonful from your plate.
"Here, you eat it." You slide it over to her and rest your elbows back on the table.
"You really should finish this. I can get my own."
You wave a hand at her, dismissing the offer. After a slight hesitation she begins eating, relaxing slightly as she chews, a contented expression creeping across her features.
"Watch out for the gritty bits," you warn her, enjoying the sudden look of consternation on her face and her hasty search through the mush with the spoon.
"Grit?"
"Seems like there was a fair bit of sand included in that harvest. Just think of it as extra protein."
She rolls her eyes. "Hardly. Besides, beggars can't be choosers."
You have no answer for that.
You sit together in companionable silence for a while; it feels comfortable, like this is how things should always be.
You watch her, without making it look like you’re watching her. Several times she opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind. You know what she wants to say, it’s been a long time coming.
She reaches out and covers one of your hands with her own. "We did the right thing." She meets your eyes, an unspoken doubt hidden behind her own.
You look at Sam, and see again the reflected Sams stretching back in the dark pools of her pupils. What was, what could have been - the myriad possibilities that you know exist.
"Did we?"
"You know we did."
She's right, and you've told yourself this. You would do anything to save your world, even if it cost another. And even though your best plan had failed, it was still worth the price.
You’ve told yourself this, but you can't forget the look he gave you. Your other self, and your unbidden conscience - you’ve begun to see him everywhere, like a ghost or some kind of phantasm dogging your steps.
"We're alive, and that's what counts."
You squeeze her hand in agreement.
**
End.
Further Notes:
Daniel’s musings on Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa are fairly factual (although adapted slightly for Ancient emphasis.) In particular, his writings on Occult Philosophy are endlessly fascinating, and for those interested are located here at the Esoteric Archives.
The passage Daniel was referring to is:
"The Celestiall souls send forth their vertues to the Celestial bodies, which then transmit them to this sensible world. For the vertues of the terrene orb proceed from no other cause then Celestiall. Hence the Magician that will worke by them, useth a cunning invocation of the superiors, with mysterious words, and a certain kind of ingenious speech, drawing the one to the other, yet by a naturall force through a certain mutuall agreement betwixt them, whereby things follow of their own accord, or sometimes are drawn unwillingly." Book Two: Celestial Magic
This fic also has a bonus deleted scene (Sam/Cam, PWP) located here