Changing of the Guard 3: Be All That You Can Be 1/22 [PG13] xover
Ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Mon, 24 Sep 2001 08:45:43 GMT
Disclaimer and notes in part 0/22
Changing of the Guard 3:
Be All That You Can Be
by Ecolea
Prologue
The fighting seemed to go on forever. There were too many of
them. Jaffa and their Goa'uld master, all firing simultaneously
down into the ruins. There was no place to escape and no one had
as yet figured out how to use the alien weapons, if that's even
what they were, to defend the site. It might have made a
difference, but the team would never know. Eventually there was
silence and the bodies lay scattered on the ground.
Lord Zipak'na smiled thinly. "Take them all," he ordered his
Jaffa. "Revive them in the sarcophagus, then bring them to me."
The men saluted and did as he bid then Zipak'na strolled around
the cavern, nodding thoughtfully to himself. The Tau'ri were
useful for many things. Not least of which was as hosts. But
this... He grinned evilly, running a hand over a small pile of
hoarded weapons. A mere fraction of the vast cache that filled
the underground chamber. Certainly the Tau'ri were useful.
Especially when it came to finding things no one knew had been
lost...
Part One
Chapter One
"So what do you think?" Jack asked as Methos closed the last file
and laid it aside.
The ancient Immortal leaned back in his chair and glanced up at
the two other men seated at the conference table. "I think
General Hammond is right," he nodded briefly to the SGC's
commanding officer. "None of these Immortals are suitable."
O'Neill frowned, but nodded for him to continue.
"I'm sorry, Colonel, but being Immortal and willing to fight on
the say so of one man does not a soldier make," Methos explained.
"MacLeod's intentions are honorable, and I've no doubt the men on
this list are equally honorable, at least to his mind, but they
are still very much involved in the Game."
"What has that got to do with anything? They won't be involved in
it here."
"But they will be involved in it on the outside," General Hammond
quietly pointed out. "We can't train a team to be held in reserve
as a strike force just so that one or more can go out and get
themselves killed while waiting for orders."
"Exactly," Methos agreed. "It's risky enough just giving them the
knowledge of the Stargate, but what if they were to fall to an
unscrupulous Immortal and that knowledge was passed on through
their Quickening? What you need are men and women who are for all
intents and purposes out of the Game. Those whose lives are
essentially stable."
"And who are mentally stable," O'Neill added with a sigh.
Methos smiled wryly. "There aren't many of those," he stated
softly. "We live on the knife's edge, Jack. Forced to kill
whether we want to or not just to stay alive. And when any day
could be your last every day becomes a battle to survive. That
has a tendency to make for unstable personalities. Short fuses,
quick tempers, violent reactions to seemingly innocuous events.
The men on this list are too willing to fight."
"What you're saying is that there's really no chance of putting
together an Immortal strike force," O'Neill stated resignedly.
"Not through MacLeod's recommendations, no."
General Hammond raised an eyebrow. "Then whose, Captain?"
Methos sighed wearily. He really didn't want to do this. Put
together a team of Immortals who would fight at the behest of
mortals. It went against everything he'd ever believed to expose
others of his kind, but the complete loss of two SG teams in the
last week had given everyone something to think about. Both teams
had been working on a project to excavate what appeared to be a
repository of weapons and technology left behind by an obviously
advanced civilization. The Goa'uld had shown up and a fight had
ensued. What those at the SGC hadn't known when the teams
seemingly escaped through the Stargate was that they were
infested with new Goa'uld symbiotes. It had been a simple twist
of fate which had brought one member of SG-1 to the gate room
only moments before the others arrived. Major Carter, by dint of
having been possessed by one of the Tok'ra on a mission long
before Methos had joined the team, had been able to sense the
naquada tainted life forms hiding within her colleagues to sound
the warning.
They'd lost twenty good people, along with a find of tremendous
value and nearly been invaded. A circumstance which could have
been avoided if an Immortal team had been available to both
secure the site and defend the mortals excavating it. At the very
least the Immortals could never have been taken over by the
parasitic Goa'uld. Their Quickenings would have perceived the
symbiotes as foreign bodies the instant they tried to invade and
destroyed the creatures. Even Methos could now see how Immortals
would be better suited to some missions than the more fragile
mortals. Especially when the Goa'uld had no clue as to the
existence of Immortals or of what they were capable.
Finally Methos responded to the general's question. "I suppose I
can come up with a few names. Older Immortals mostly. Like
Ramirez and Ptahsennes. They're perfect examples of what I mean.
They're well past the hunting stage of the Game and they have a
stake in the future of this world -- not because they believe in
some nebulous Prize, but because this is the only home they've
known for thousands of years."
The general nodded thoughtfully. He'd never met the pair of
Immortals, but he'd liked what he'd read in their files. Steady
men with a mature mindset. Just what a strike force needed.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Jack asked quietly.
Methos shook his head. "No. But I can see it needs to be done."
Hammond cleared his throat. "Very well, Captain. You put together
your own recommendations and I'll look them over. We'll discuss
it further then."
"I can't do that, sir," Methos said quietly. "Not without first
discussing it with them. Just because they're out of the Game
doesn't mean they won't take my head if they feel I've threatened
them in any way."
"I see," Hammond responded faintly annoyed. What Methos was
suggesting was so far outside of protocol as to be considered
treasonous.
"No, sir. I don't think you do. Ramirez came into contact with
Tok'ra, and through him, Ptahsennes did as well. But they are
exceptions. Men willing to believe because they saw the proof
with their own eyes, or implicitly trust those who did. Immortals
are by nature secretive and wary. Especially in an age where we
can so easily be identified and exploited if our existence should
be discovered. To come out in the open they will need to feel
absolutely secure in the knowledge that what we are will not be
used against us. That means there will have to be a trade off.
"The individuals I have in mind," Methos went on carefully, "are
older and more stable, true. But they are survivors of more
dangerous upheavals in the history of humankind than you can
imagine. It will make them distrustful. If not of your
intentions, but those of your successors. I can pretty much
guarantee their acceptance -- if we do this my way. But they
won't appreciate being targeted first. They'll feel betrayed and
laid open. And because they are older they need to be handled the
old fashioned way."
"And what way is that?" Jack wanted to know.
"With great respect and honesty," Methos explained. "Secret for
secret. Risk for risk. You've got just as much to lose by telling
them your secrets as they have in your knowing theirs. They'll
feel honored rather than hunted and be obligated to help."
"MacLeod didn't have any such problems," Hammond pointed out.
"He wouldn't," Methos agreed. "But MacLeod is young and
passionate about many things. He wants to fight the Goa'uld and
believes everyone should want to as well. I concur, but not at
the risk of making an enemy out of a friend. That these men," he
pointed to the files on the conference table, "don't know they've
been investigated is immaterial. If they ever find out they'll
come for MacLeod's head -- regardless of whether he's their
friend and did it for all the right reasons. MacLeod hasn't seen
that what he's done will be perceived as a betrayal, but they
will feel it is. And I would like to avoid that."
Hammond nodded once. "I don't like it," he said firmly. "But I'm
willing to test your theory with one Immortal. To start," he
clarified as Methos frowned. "You'll take Colonel O'Neill with
you. He'll determine just how much information can be safely
given out. If it works, I'll decide then whether or not you may
approach the others in the same manner. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Methos agreed as the general rose, dismissing them
both.
Better than he'd hoped, Methos thought smugly as they left the
conference room, immediately deciding just whom to approach
first. He hid a smile from O'Neill as the other man stopped to
talk with the new commander of SG-6.
Poor Jack, he thought, bemused. The colonel was definitely in for
a few surprises.
***
The rain tapered off to an annoying drizzle just as they pulled
into a parking space outside Le Blues Bar. It was early evening
and as they stepped inside Methos noted only a handful of patrons
besides the regulars nursing their drinks.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," drawled Joe Dawson as
Methos and Jack ambled over to the bar. Dawson poured a couple of
drafts and O'Neill nodded his thanks as he took a sip. "So, what
brings you to my humble tavern?" he addressed the Immortal.
"I'm looking for someone," Methos explained. Joe glanced at the
man beside him and raised an eyebrow. "Joseph Dawson meet Jack
O'Neill. Colonel Jack O'Neill."
The Watcher nodded warily. "A pleasure."
"Nice place," O'Neill commented, glancing toward the small stage
where the band was just beginning to set up.
"A little booze, a little blues," Joe shrugged. "What more can a
man ask for in life?"
"Not much," O'Neill agreed then nodded once to Methos.
"Like I said," the Immortal began again. "I'm looking for
someone."
Dawson frowned, perplexed. "MacLeod's at the barge."
"We know that," O'Neill said tersely and Joe's frown deepened as
he figured out the obvious.
The Watcher looked from O'Neill to Methos. "Telling tales out of
school, Adam?"
"Not me. You're the one with the old wartime buddies," Methos
shrugged. "I'm just interested in the whereabouts of an old
acquaintance of mine."
"Yeah, right," Dawson muttered, ignoring Jack as the colonel
reached over the bar and grabbed a napkin, pulling out a pen to
doodle on it. "Look, Adam. Like I said. The chronicles aren't
your personal Rolodex."
"This isn't about the Game, Joe."
Dawson nodded and leaned forward on his elbows. "Then you won't
mind telling me what it is about then, will you?"
"He can't," O'Neill interjected, signing his name with a flourish
and handing the folded napkin to Dawson. "Not yet, anyway."
"What's this?" Joe asked, eyes going wide with astonishment as he
read his full name and serial number on the cover.
O'Neill said nothing as he grabbed a handful of peanuts and sat
back with his drink.
With another frown Joe opened the napkin, noting a long series of
citations from what looked to be his old rules and regulations
manual, then read:
"By Order of the President of the United States, Joint Chiefs,
Department of Defense, Joseph P. Dawson is hereby Reactivated
into the United States Armed Forces, United States Marine Corp,
Rank of Sergeant; Pursuant to the above referenced regulations in
a matter of National Security until such time as said services
are no longer required."
"You gotta be kidding me!" Joe yelped lowering his voice to an
angry whisper when several patrons turned to look their way.
"This isn't legal. It isn't signed by the President. And besides,
it's written on a damn napkin!"
"Got a fax machine?" O'Neill asked casually.
Dawson rolled his eyes. "In the office," he twitched his head
toward the rear of the bar. Without a word O'Neill headed back,
leaving Methos alone with the indignant Watcher.
"What the hell are you trying to pull, Methos? Bringing him
here!"
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger, Joe. I'm just following orders."
"Yeah, that's what they said at Nuremberg." Dawson shook his head
disgustedly and went to serve another customer. A few minutes
later O'Neill emerged from the rear of the bar looking happy and
relaxed. He tossed a sheet of paper to Dawson, who stared at it
and paled.
"But it's a damn napkin!" he repeated, dumbfounded.
"Signed, sealed and delivered," O'Neill grinned. "Now, you wanna
get out that Rolodex, Sergeant?"