Mission 1: Closer to Fine. Part 2 - New Players
Unfortunately, our intrepid GM has been swallowed up by an onslaught of real-life work. However, Obezyanchik promises to answer all your questions about the President and her political affiliation as soon as it clears up
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Dec. 19, 2010
At 7:00 local time the next morning, the military plane landed at an air base outside St. Petersburg. SG-17 piled out into the bitter cold, still exhausted – nobody had managed to get much sleep on the plane, and the fact that it was still dark outside, and would be for several more hours, wasn’t helping. Ked’rec tugged his black watch cap down to cover the tattoo on his forehead that marked him as a Jaffa. As far as anyone in Russia was concerned, he would be just an ordinary person. An ordinary person who always wore a hat pulled down low on his forehead, who had only one name and no official military rank.
Waiting for them on the landing strip was a young woman, bundled up in the Russian military’s standard-issue overcoat. “Good morning,” she greeted them in accented but almost-fluent English. “I am Senior Lieutenant Sokolov. I will be driving you to Yusupov Palace.”
“We’re staying in a palace?” Lt. Reinhart gasped, eyes going wide.
“No,” Sokolov replied, barely suppressing a grin. “The museum that you will be working in is a palace. It was owned by the Yusupov family until the Revolution. You will be staying at a hotel nearby.”
“Oh.” Reinhart’s cold-pinkened cheeks flushed deeper, and he ducked his head into the fur-lined hood of his parka as he turned to follow the rest of the group across the tarmac to the waiting jeep.
Once they were safely in the jeep, Kathleen asked, “So what’s the history of this palace? When was it built?”
“In the eighteenth century,” Sokolov answered. “The Yusupovs were a prominent aristocratic family, very close to the Romanovs.” The jeep lurched into motion and took off, spinning around the corner onto the road at a frightening speed and precarious angle. Ked’rec’s expression never changed, but he reached out a hand to grip the door handle as the jeep merged into St. Petersburg’s morning rush hour traffic: thousands of other cars, all driving with as much speed and as little regard for things like lights and lanes as Lt. Sokolov.
“So when did the palace become a museum?” Kathleen kept her eyes entirely on Sokolov, not daring to look out the window.
And I thought Boston drivers were bad… she thought to herself.
“In the late 1980s. It was a school for most of the Soviet period, and they did not restore the interior for several decades. It was even longer before they restored the basement. That is where the wax museum is – on the site where the Starets was killed.”
“Starets?” repeated Reinhart.
“It means ‘old man’ or ‘wise man,’ right?” Kathleen offered.
“That is right,” replied Sokolov. “It was a name commonly used for Rasputin. A nickname, I think the word is?”
Reinhart’s eyes widened. “This is the building where Rasputin was killed?”
“Well, they started to kill him here, I guess,” Kathleen said, with a dry laugh. “He was famously hard to kill.” The smile faded from her face as the wheels started to turn in her mind. “Oh, wait. Rasputin. Famous for his long life, and for being difficult to kill. Oh,
fascinating..”
Sokolov turned her head to give Kathleen a curious look. “What is it?” Horns honked and tires squealed as the jeep started to drift out of its lane.
“Nothing!” Kathleen cried hastily, not daring to distract Sokolov from the road any more. “Nothing – don’t worry – let’s just get there!”
I think I like this place, Orieth thought, turning Joe’s lips up in a faint smile as they looked out at the erratically speeding traffic.
They know how to drive.
The jeep lurched around one final corner, turning off the Moika River Embankment into an alley that led around the corner of Yusupov Palace into a rear parking lot. Police caution tape ringed the palace’s broad neoclassical façade, and sawhorses formed a barrier that reached out into the street, making the traffic lanes even narrower, more precarious, and more crowded. “We are telling the public that there has been a chemical spill, and therefore the museum must be closed,” Sokolov explained as she skidded the jeep into a parking spot.
“Chemical spill? Yeah, that usually works as a cover story.” Kathleen was finally able to give a genuine grin, now that the peril of driving through St. Petersburg’s rush hour traffic had passed.
Sokolov led SG-17 through a back entrance and down a set of stairs that must have been the servants’ entrance a hundred years before. The sound of raised voices broke off abruptly as the door opened to reveal four men: two young Russian soldiers, each with his arms full of dusty boxes; a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and glasses, wearing a threadbare brown jacket; and an older man in an ornate military uniform, who could only be General Andreyev.
At the sound of the door opening, General Andreyev turned swiftly towards it, a smile instantly pasting itself on his face. “Ah! You are here! Welcome to St. Petersburg. May I introduce Dr. Hramov, an archaeologist from St. Petersburg State University.”
A shiver of apprehension ran through Joe, and he knew that it wasn’t his own emotion.
Get a grip.
They have been arguing!Orieth fluttered in Joe’s mind.
The archaeologist – he’s very angry. Is it wise to enter? We must be prepared to run if the conflict escalates…
The two younger soldiers hurried to the other side of the room with their boxes, eager to look busy, and to be anywhere else in the room other than between their bickering superiors. Dr. Hramov didn’t even acknowledge the presence of the team from the SGC, continuing instead to speak to Andreyev in angry Russian.
Kathleen could understand him, though. “So, this is why you have been delaying in letting me go through the passage?” Hramov fumed. “You were waiting for these Americans to come in and take credit for our discoveries? If you think that I will give them a
single artifact –“
Hramov broke off, tangled in his own vehement splutterings, and Kathleen seized the opening. “Good morning,” she said, with a friendly smile and in almost-perfect Russian. “I’m Major Kathleen Fitzgerald. I’m very glad that you’ll be here to work with us – I’m looking forward to hearing what you’ve already discovered. It will be so helpful to have your advice.”
Hramov’s listened, eyes widening, both impressed and wary – how much of his rant might she have understood? Still, by the end of her speech, Hramov had softened visibly, as much from her use of Russian as from her conciliatory words. “Pleased to meet you, Major,” he said in Russian, then switched into English as he turned to give a still-cautious glance to the rest of SG-17. “I hope we will be able to work together on this project. Please, come this way. I will show you the seal, and what we have found so far.”
Andreyev let his breath out in a relieved sigh as the others followed Hramov across the room and through a door into an unfinished part of the basement. The roughly plastered walls gave way to stark gray stone and dirt floors, roofed with exposed wooden beams. Near the far side of the room was a large chunk of sandstone, about three feet on a side, its dusty red edges standing out sharply against the muted wintry gray of the basement.
Joe shivered again, feeling the faint tingle of the presence of naquadah from somewhere beyond and below the sandstone. It was one thing to be told that some instrument in some lab had detected it, and another to actually
feel it himself.
“So what have you been able to figure out about this inscription?” Kathleen asked, already standing with Dr. Hramov by the sandstone block.
“Well, it is definitely Goa’uld. And we think it is dating from the early part of the twentieth century.”
Ked’rec raised an eyebrow. “Is that not rather late for a Goa’uld inscription?”
“Yes!” Kathleen agreed instantly, blinking down at the inscription in surprise. “But not unheard of,” she added, starting to turn the information over in her mind. “After all, Seth was wandering around Earth for thousands of years – there may very well have been another one stranded here.” She took a step closer to the sandstone block, squinting down at it. “Let me see…’All who pass through this door must kneel before...’” She broke off in her slow translation, glancing up at the others. “I don’t recognize that symbol. Have any of you seen it before?”
“I don’t recognize it,” said Joe. And then he opened his mouth again, to say, “Neither do I.” Orieth could speak in Joe’s voice, if he wanted.
Hramov stared. Joe let out a faint, raspy chuckle at the archaeologist’s confusion, relieved to have something else to think about besides the tingling sensation that the naquadah was sending through his body.
Risking our cover like that is unwise! Orieth scolded.
I had already given the answer – there was no need to repeat ourselves. And it’s not funny!
I laughed. Joe thought back.
You didn’t sound very amused, to tell the truth.
Kathleen was already pushing ahead to cover up the awkward silence. “So…um…an unfamiliar symbol, and then ‘and worship her glorious countenance. Traitors will be…struck down.’ There’s that unfamiliar symbol again, and then ‘will live forever.’” She looked up at the others, eyes troubled “That symbol looks like it should be a name. Could this be a new Goa’uld?”
“If it were any sort of major one, we would have heard of it,” Orieth said, in Joe’s voice.
Let me do the talking! It will be much safer for both of us. And I won’t risk using my real voice. “Therefore, I think it unlikely that it would be anyone powerful…”
“So,” said Kathleen, “it looks like we’ve got a new player on the board.”