The Cheyenne Mountain Irregulars: A Stargate Story Hour. Updated 7/20
GreenArmadillo
First Post
Lefferts said:I like how you non-chalantly threw this one in here. Is she democrat, republican, or 3rd party?
3rd Party? In 2010? This is Sci-Fi, but there are limits! j/k
Seriously, the SG-verse appears to hold its elections one year earlier than the real world does, so one could presume that she is whichever party the current guy isn't (would have won the Nov 2007 elections to be in power in 2010), unless the politics of SG-1/CMI Earth are strikingly different from real Earth when it comes to mounting a primary challenge against your own party's incumbent.
Fun briefing scene, as always, Ladybird! And it's an interesting hook - it seems like the sort of thing a new SG-team might be dispatched to investigate.
Ladybird
First Post
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
---
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.”
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
---
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.”
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Ladybird
First Post
Episode 1: Closer to Fine. Part 3 - Down the Hatch
The sandstone block sat at the top of a square shaft leading down through the dirt floor of the basement to a dusty surface about ten feet below. A light at the top of the shaft illuminated a rope ladder that the Russians had rigged up, and shone dimly down to the red sandstone floor that lay beneath the gray rock and dirt walls of the shaft.
“I leave it in your hands, SG-17,” said General Andreyev. “You may contact me at the Stargate Headquarters if you need any further assistance.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kathleen. “And thank you.” A sudden flash of movement at the corner of her eye drew her attention away from General Andreyev, and she held out a restraining arm in front of Hramov, who was already moving towards the shaft. “Hold on, Doctor. Not so fast.” He began to protest, but she pushed ahead. “We have no idea what’s down there, or how dangerous it is. What we do know is that our team is much better equipped to deal with it. I want you to stay in back. It’s for your own safety,” she persisted, raising her voice over the beginning of Hramov’s sputtering objections. “We will go first, and we will be in charge, and if we tell you to get back, you will listen. Understood?” She held his gaze steadily, until finally, grudgingly, the archaeologist nodded and withdrew to the rear of the group, a frown settling on his face.
Letting out a relieved breath, Kathleen turned back to the rest of the team. “All right, Ked’rec, you go first. Make sure that it’s safe.” As the Jaffa slung his staff weapon across his back and turned towards the ladder, she added, “And just in case – when you get to the bottom, kneel.”
Ked’rec gave a sharp, silent nod. He set one foot on the top rung of the rope ladder, then pushed off the side into the air. A foot touched one side of the stone wall, a hand the other, as he somersaulted down the narrow passageway, nimbly slipping past the stone walls in a flurry of motion to finish on his knees at the bottom, weapon raised.
Even Hramov looked impressed.
“Well?” Kathleen called.
“It appears to be safe, Major Fitzgerald. The room is deserted. There are three doors and more inscriptions, but no sign of any danger.”
“All right – down we go,” ordered Kathleen. “Reinhart, you’re next, then Mr. Healy, then Dr. Hramov.”
Leading from behind, Joe thought, with a scornful mental sniff.
She could be watching our backs, Orieth suggested mildly.
Joe’s only response was another snort, this time aloud, as he clambered down the rope ladder.
The shaft opened up into a rectangular room, built of the same incongruous red sandstone that made up the inscribed block. Three tall sandstone doors indented the wall, each inscribed with Goa’uld-looking hieroglyphics. Kathleen and Orieth could tell, though, that only one of the doors had symbols that actually meant something. “It says the same thing as the inscription on the capstone,” said Kathleen. “Stand back, Dr. Hramov.” she interrupted herself to say, stepping in front of the scientist again. “Don’t touch anything until we’ve had a chance to check it out. Mr. Healy,” she said, turning back to Joe, “why don’t you see if there are any mechanical devices on these doors – booby traps, anything like that.”
Joe stepped up to the center door and knelt down, his knees letting out only the slightest of protesting creaks. One hand went up to the sandstone surface, and his fingers fanned out across it, feeling over the contours of the carved symbols. Don’t you start, he warned Orieth. Not now.
I would not dream of distracting you, Orieth replied, faintly hurt. Although if this were built by a Goa’uld, I would be rather more familiar with these sorts of mechanisms than you are. Therefore, if you require any assistance…
Shut up.
Joe closed his eyes, banishing everyone else from his world for a moment, and letting himself slip almost into the same state of mental quiet that he got when he worked on his car. “Got it,” he said aloud, after a long moment, and reluctantly opened his eyes and turned back to look at the others. “There are three slits, right here.” He pointed to a spot on the center door. “Looks like something could come out of them.”
Kathleen narrowed her eyes, peering across the room at the door, but not going any closer. “Like what?”
Joe shrugged. “Dunno. Knives, maybe.” He jerked his head back at the opposite wall. “They’d hit back there.”
Ked’rec knelt in a smooth crouch, running a hand lightly over the wall at the spot where Joe had indicated. “There do not appear to be any marks on this wall. If the trap has indeed been set off in the past, it was either did not hit the wall hard enough to leave a mark, or something that would not leave a mark at all.”
“I’d like to spring the trap, ma’am,” Joe said.
Kathleen shook her head quickly. “Negative, Mr. Healy. What if it’s gas that comes out of those holes?”
Again, Joe shrugged. “I can take it.”
Kathleen hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I guess you can,” she agreed quietly. Then she raised her voice again and said, “All right, Dr. Hramov, back upstairs.” With a resigned sigh, the archaeologist turned to climb back up to the main room. If it were possible to slouch up a rope ladder, Hramov would have been doing it.
“The rest of you, too,” Joe said. “Better if I’m the only one down here when whatever it is happens.” With equal reluctance, the rest of the team returned to the main room, leaving Joe downstairs.
Alone in the subterranean tunnel – well, as alone as he ever was – Joe knelt behind an upturned crate, bending down behind the wooden slats to protect himself from whatever might come out of the door. In one hand, he held a long stick, which he extended gingerly towards the buttons on the center door.
Upstairs, Kathleen leaned over the edge of the hatch, peering anxiously down at Joe. Reinhart held his breath. The stick touched the buttons, with a faint hollow sound of wood against stone…
…and nothing happened. Joe could barely hear the soft click from deep within the stone door that came just before the door swung loose and opened a tiny crack.
“Nothin’ there,” Joe called up to the others. Still cautious, though, he leaned forward to use the stick to pry the door open a little further. “Yeah, there’s the trap. I can see it now.” He stood up, letting the crate clatter to the ground with an abruptness that made Hramov jump at the noise echoing off the sandstone walls. A few moments was all that it took for Joe to disable the mechanism on the opposite side of the stone door. “Would’ve been blades,” he added. “Little springloaded things. Would’ve gotten you right in the chest. All clear now.”
“That was amazing!” Hramov gushed, clambering awkwardly back down the ladder even before Joe had finished the ‘all clear.’ “Where did you learn to do that? Never have I seen such a thing!”
Joe shrugged. “School.”
“What kind of school teaches that?”
School of hard knocks, pal, Joe thought, but all that was out loud was the dry chuckle that he produced with his own amusement.
“And here they were always telling us that American technical schools were never as good as Soviet ones,” Hramov chattered on, rushing up to stand next to Joe. “Perhaps they were not so bad after all! You must have gone to a wonderful technical school! Will you show me how you did that?”
Still at the top of the ladder, Kathleen directed Ked’rec down next with a quick hand gesture, drawing Reinhart aside for a moment. “Lieutenant,” she said quietly, “I’d like you to keep an eye on Dr. Hramov. Make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble. Or cause any.”
Reinhart nodded. “Already planning on it, ma’am.”
“Good.” Kathleen’s head was turned towards the opening in the floor, directed at the sound of the archaeologist’s voice even though he could not be seen. “There’s something about him that I don’t trust.”
“If I can speak frankly, ma’am – I don’t entirely trust him either.”
Meanwhile, Hramov was still gushing at Joe. “You are most skilled! Are you sure you cannot teach me how you did that?”
Without a word, Joe turned his back on the archaeologist, barely glancing up as Reinhart scrambled down the ladder.
“Is it all clear, Mr. Healy?” Kathleen asked, climbing carefully down after the lieutenant.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Then in we go.”
The sandstone block sat at the top of a square shaft leading down through the dirt floor of the basement to a dusty surface about ten feet below. A light at the top of the shaft illuminated a rope ladder that the Russians had rigged up, and shone dimly down to the red sandstone floor that lay beneath the gray rock and dirt walls of the shaft.
“I leave it in your hands, SG-17,” said General Andreyev. “You may contact me at the Stargate Headquarters if you need any further assistance.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kathleen. “And thank you.” A sudden flash of movement at the corner of her eye drew her attention away from General Andreyev, and she held out a restraining arm in front of Hramov, who was already moving towards the shaft. “Hold on, Doctor. Not so fast.” He began to protest, but she pushed ahead. “We have no idea what’s down there, or how dangerous it is. What we do know is that our team is much better equipped to deal with it. I want you to stay in back. It’s for your own safety,” she persisted, raising her voice over the beginning of Hramov’s sputtering objections. “We will go first, and we will be in charge, and if we tell you to get back, you will listen. Understood?” She held his gaze steadily, until finally, grudgingly, the archaeologist nodded and withdrew to the rear of the group, a frown settling on his face.
Letting out a relieved breath, Kathleen turned back to the rest of the team. “All right, Ked’rec, you go first. Make sure that it’s safe.” As the Jaffa slung his staff weapon across his back and turned towards the ladder, she added, “And just in case – when you get to the bottom, kneel.”
Ked’rec gave a sharp, silent nod. He set one foot on the top rung of the rope ladder, then pushed off the side into the air. A foot touched one side of the stone wall, a hand the other, as he somersaulted down the narrow passageway, nimbly slipping past the stone walls in a flurry of motion to finish on his knees at the bottom, weapon raised.
Even Hramov looked impressed.
“Well?” Kathleen called.
“It appears to be safe, Major Fitzgerald. The room is deserted. There are three doors and more inscriptions, but no sign of any danger.”
“All right – down we go,” ordered Kathleen. “Reinhart, you’re next, then Mr. Healy, then Dr. Hramov.”
Leading from behind, Joe thought, with a scornful mental sniff.
She could be watching our backs, Orieth suggested mildly.
Joe’s only response was another snort, this time aloud, as he clambered down the rope ladder.
The shaft opened up into a rectangular room, built of the same incongruous red sandstone that made up the inscribed block. Three tall sandstone doors indented the wall, each inscribed with Goa’uld-looking hieroglyphics. Kathleen and Orieth could tell, though, that only one of the doors had symbols that actually meant something. “It says the same thing as the inscription on the capstone,” said Kathleen. “Stand back, Dr. Hramov.” she interrupted herself to say, stepping in front of the scientist again. “Don’t touch anything until we’ve had a chance to check it out. Mr. Healy,” she said, turning back to Joe, “why don’t you see if there are any mechanical devices on these doors – booby traps, anything like that.”
Joe stepped up to the center door and knelt down, his knees letting out only the slightest of protesting creaks. One hand went up to the sandstone surface, and his fingers fanned out across it, feeling over the contours of the carved symbols. Don’t you start, he warned Orieth. Not now.
I would not dream of distracting you, Orieth replied, faintly hurt. Although if this were built by a Goa’uld, I would be rather more familiar with these sorts of mechanisms than you are. Therefore, if you require any assistance…
Shut up.
Joe closed his eyes, banishing everyone else from his world for a moment, and letting himself slip almost into the same state of mental quiet that he got when he worked on his car. “Got it,” he said aloud, after a long moment, and reluctantly opened his eyes and turned back to look at the others. “There are three slits, right here.” He pointed to a spot on the center door. “Looks like something could come out of them.”
Kathleen narrowed her eyes, peering across the room at the door, but not going any closer. “Like what?”
Joe shrugged. “Dunno. Knives, maybe.” He jerked his head back at the opposite wall. “They’d hit back there.”
Ked’rec knelt in a smooth crouch, running a hand lightly over the wall at the spot where Joe had indicated. “There do not appear to be any marks on this wall. If the trap has indeed been set off in the past, it was either did not hit the wall hard enough to leave a mark, or something that would not leave a mark at all.”
“I’d like to spring the trap, ma’am,” Joe said.
Kathleen shook her head quickly. “Negative, Mr. Healy. What if it’s gas that comes out of those holes?”
Again, Joe shrugged. “I can take it.”
Kathleen hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I guess you can,” she agreed quietly. Then she raised her voice again and said, “All right, Dr. Hramov, back upstairs.” With a resigned sigh, the archaeologist turned to climb back up to the main room. If it were possible to slouch up a rope ladder, Hramov would have been doing it.
“The rest of you, too,” Joe said. “Better if I’m the only one down here when whatever it is happens.” With equal reluctance, the rest of the team returned to the main room, leaving Joe downstairs.
Alone in the subterranean tunnel – well, as alone as he ever was – Joe knelt behind an upturned crate, bending down behind the wooden slats to protect himself from whatever might come out of the door. In one hand, he held a long stick, which he extended gingerly towards the buttons on the center door.
Upstairs, Kathleen leaned over the edge of the hatch, peering anxiously down at Joe. Reinhart held his breath. The stick touched the buttons, with a faint hollow sound of wood against stone…
…and nothing happened. Joe could barely hear the soft click from deep within the stone door that came just before the door swung loose and opened a tiny crack.
“Nothin’ there,” Joe called up to the others. Still cautious, though, he leaned forward to use the stick to pry the door open a little further. “Yeah, there’s the trap. I can see it now.” He stood up, letting the crate clatter to the ground with an abruptness that made Hramov jump at the noise echoing off the sandstone walls. A few moments was all that it took for Joe to disable the mechanism on the opposite side of the stone door. “Would’ve been blades,” he added. “Little springloaded things. Would’ve gotten you right in the chest. All clear now.”
“That was amazing!” Hramov gushed, clambering awkwardly back down the ladder even before Joe had finished the ‘all clear.’ “Where did you learn to do that? Never have I seen such a thing!”
Joe shrugged. “School.”
“What kind of school teaches that?”
School of hard knocks, pal, Joe thought, but all that was out loud was the dry chuckle that he produced with his own amusement.
“And here they were always telling us that American technical schools were never as good as Soviet ones,” Hramov chattered on, rushing up to stand next to Joe. “Perhaps they were not so bad after all! You must have gone to a wonderful technical school! Will you show me how you did that?”
Still at the top of the ladder, Kathleen directed Ked’rec down next with a quick hand gesture, drawing Reinhart aside for a moment. “Lieutenant,” she said quietly, “I’d like you to keep an eye on Dr. Hramov. Make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble. Or cause any.”
Reinhart nodded. “Already planning on it, ma’am.”
“Good.” Kathleen’s head was turned towards the opening in the floor, directed at the sound of the archaeologist’s voice even though he could not be seen. “There’s something about him that I don’t trust.”
“If I can speak frankly, ma’am – I don’t entirely trust him either.”
Meanwhile, Hramov was still gushing at Joe. “You are most skilled! Are you sure you cannot teach me how you did that?”
Without a word, Joe turned his back on the archaeologist, barely glancing up as Reinhart scrambled down the ladder.
“Is it all clear, Mr. Healy?” Kathleen asked, climbing carefully down after the lieutenant.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Then in we go.”
Obezyanchik
First Post
Lefferts said:I like how you non-chalantly threw this one in here. Is she democrat, republican, or 3rd party?
Democrat. Actually, the President in CMI is an analogue of a real person, even though that person isn't what you will think of as presidential material. I haven't decided what particular divergences made her President in CMI; it doesn't make political sense. It's an homage to a person I find interesting.
You may have seen Lt. General Claudia Kennedy (ret.) when she introduced General John Shalikashvili (ret.) at the DNC 2004. I watched her intro, looked up her background, and decided we could use a second President Kennedy in CMI.
My hope was that we could sneak that little "she" in there quietly, so I'm glad you liked the effect. I don't have more backstory for you on this at this point, but who knows, I might eventually. If I ever dig myself out from under the mound of real life concerns that has eaten me, that is.
sniffles
First Post
Aw, makes me sad. I was in an aborted Stargate campaign. Too many other campaigns running, not enough free time.
Shadows of Greatness: A Forgotten Realms Campaign
http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=131593
Shadows of Greatness: A Forgotten Realms Campaign
http://www.enworld.org/showthread.php?t=131593
Last edited:
Ladybird
First Post
Episode 1: Closer to Fine. Part 4: More Questions than Answers
A shadow fell across the red sandstone wall of the corridor: a standard-issue Air Force uniform cap, silhouetted by the dim beam of a flashlight. Below it, a distorted shape stretched back into the darkness, long and thin, then fading into a large amorphous blob.
Ked’rec’s calm, even voice sounded incongruously loud in the stony silence of the hallway. “There is nothing here.” He straightened up, resting one end of the long pole he was carrying on the ground, so that the hat on other end of the pole hovered above his head, and looked back over his shoulder at the rest of the group.
“Can I have my hat back, then?” Reinhart asked. He was trying hard to sound casual, but couldn’t quite keep the plaintive note out of his voice. Was this some tease-the-newbie act, or was it a realistic safety measure?
“Not till we’re sure there’s nobody here,” Joe answered flatly.
Kathleen confirmed the statement with a nod, giving Reinhart a sympathetic smile. “Plus, we don’t know what kind of automated systems they might have set up down here,” she explained, “or what their security devices are set to detect. Better that your hat gets hit with an anti-intruder device than one of us does.” The young lieutenant sighed and nodded, and the group continued on their cautious way down the hall. To anyone approaching from further down the corridor, the shadow of the hat and pole would look as if it were being cast by someone much taller than any of SG-17 actually were – and as if it were being cast by someone about five feet in front of the group.
After a few hundred feet, the corridor ended in a doorway. The sharp silent signal of Ked’rec’s raised hand brought the group to a halt, and the Jaffa nudged the hat-and-pole cautiously around the edge of the doorway, waiting for a long moment before lowering it and saying, “All clear.”
On the other side of the doorway, the ceiling lifted up, reaching away into the darkness and sending the group’s footsteps echoing hollowly around the walls. Kathleen shone her flashlight up – the ceiling had to be at least 30 feet high, ending in a closed-off hatchway.
“From the height of the ceiling, it looks as if it would be on a level with the surface.” It was Joe’s voice, but the speech pattern was unmistakably Orieth’s.
“Right,” said Kathleen slowly, her attention still fixed on the ceiling as the wheels started to turn in her mind. “This is probably how they brought in all their building materials. See the break there? That looks like the place where it would open up.”
“Nothing else in here.” Joe’s flat, terse tone was back. “The other end of the corridor just goes back to the left-hand door.
“Then I think it’s time to go back to the beginning and try the right-hand door,” The beam from Kathleen’s flashlight traveled back down to earth as she finally ended her intent study of the ceiling. “That’s the only place that we haven’t explored yet.”
As soon as the group had circled back to the entry chamber, with its three doors and ominous inscription on the right-most one, Kathleen instructed, “All right, Dr. Hramov. Back upstairs.” Reluctantly, the archaeologist started back up the ladder into the basement.
“Reinhart, you too. And Ked’rec,” Kathleen added after a brief pause.
“And you,” Joe prompted.
“No, I’ll stay down here to back you up, Mr. Healy.” They might count a Tok’ra or a rebel Jaffa as a traitor, she thought, but I haven’t betrayed anyone.
Joe regarded Kathleen warily for a moment. “Are you sure?”
She held his gaze steadily. “Yes, Mr. Healy.” By way of demonstration, she picked up the crate behind which he had been crouching before, holding it out to him. “You need to be really careful on this one,” she added, with a significant glance at the inscription.
Worship her glorious countenance; traitors will be struck down, Orieth thought wearily. Really, it could just be a fancy way of saying ‘kneel before your god.’ Which to a Goa’uld is like saying ‘pass the chips.’
Kathleen blinked in surprise at Joe’s sudden fit of chuckling. “Mr. Healy, is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Joe answered with a shrug.
She watched him for one more confused, concerned moment, and then together, Joe and Kathleen knelt down behind the upturned crate, while Joe reached out with the stick to push the buttons on the right-hand door to trigger its lock.
Kathleen didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she let it out as the door swung silently open. “All clear,” she called up to the others.
Behind the door, there was hardly enough space for Ked’rec to hold out Reinhart’s hat on the pole before the hallway ended in a large chamber. It was furnished with heavy wooden tables and chairs, looking incongruously European against the Egyptian-style architecture of the sandstone passages. Even more out of place was what sat on one of the tables: a notebook, two quill pens, and an inkwell that had long since overflowed and dried up, leaving a scatter of black dust on the wooden surface. And a small metal object, about the size of the digital camera that Kathleen was already pulling out of her backpack to snap pictures of the room in its undisturbed condition. But this object had a wide viewscreen of some shimmering substance that was not glass, and its case wasn’t made of any metal that any of them had seen before, except for Orieth. “A Goa’uld tablet reader?” he said in astonishment, starting towards the table.
“Hold on!” Kathleen said, nearly at the same time that Hramov cried, “Stop!” With only a brief glance at the archaeologist, Kathleen explained, “We need to get pictures of what this looks like first, before we move anything.” She started to make her way around the room, carefully framing the table in the viewscreen of her camera. Hramov watched in grudging respect – at least she knew how to treat an archaeological find. The rest of the team moved in, edging carefully around the tables and chairs as they began to survey the room’s contents.
“Major Fitzgerald? This notebook is not written in Goa’uld,” Ked’rec’s voice held a faint note of puzzlement.
Kathleen lowered her camera, moving over to look at the notebook. “No, it’s in…that looks like pre-Revolutionary Russian script. Dr. Hramov, am I right? Ugh, it’s a pain to read.”
“It is not so difficult if you know what to do,” Hramov replied, with a superior smirk. “And yes, it is the old-style writing.”
“Uh…ma’am? You’re going to want to get a picture of this…” Reinhart was standing by the second table, his hands hovering above it as if he had just stopped himself from reaching out to touch it. The entire table was covered by an enormous tablet of the same red sandstone that formed the walls, its surface inscribed with symbols.
“What language is this?” Hramov asked, leaning over to get a better look. “It does not look like standard Goa’uld script.”
“It isn’t,” Orieth replied, a slight frown coming over his face. “There are a few borrowings from Goa’uld, but otherwise the characters are almost entirely different.”
Kathleen put the camera down again, looking at the tablet with her own eyes instead of through the viewscreen. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it either. Although that bit looks like it might say…hm. If it were just Goa’uld written in different characters, then that pattern could fit…” Reinhart tried to follow the quick motion of her finger as it traced through the air over the tablet, but she was following some pattern that made sense only in her own mind, becoming increasingly lost in thought. “And if that means that,” she murmured, “then…”
Unless I am greatly mistaken, Orieth thought, she could be at this for quite a while. And unless I am even further mistaken, the source of the naquadah readings that the scientists were picking up is somewhere to the right.
Another locked door. Joe shrugged in response to his own thoughts. Doesn’t look too much worse than the others. I can probably get it. He shivered a little as he let his senses follow Orieth’s towards the source of the naquadah. Never gonna get used to that.
Yes, you will, Orieth responded soothingly.
I wasn’t talking to you. And then, almost as an afterthought, Shut up.
“It is Goa’uld,” Kathleen declared, the sudden sound of her voice drawing Joe and Orieth out of their internal dialogue. “But it’s written in different characters – I don’t know what they are. Plus, part of it is encrypted.”
“Can you not break the code?” Ked’rec asked, from where he stood keeping watch by the door.
Kathleen shook her head. “Not here. This isn’t an A=1, B=2 kind of cipher – it’s going to take some serious computer-power for me to crack it. I’ll send it back to the SGC and have some of our people back there start working on it.”
“You will send the tablet?” There was a rising note of alarm in Hramov’s voice. “You will take it –“
“No, Doctor,” Kathleen sighed patiently, holding up her camera. “I’ll send pictures. The tablet isn’t going anywhere right now.” She offered a conciliatory grin. “Plus, do you want to carry that thing up the ladder? Now, the notebook, we can take with us – “
“No!” Hramov’s shout echoed off the stone walls of the chamber. “You must not take it!”
Reinhart took a wary step towards the archaeologist, and Kathleen looked hard at Hramov as she said evenly, “All right, then, we’ll leave it here for now. But we’ll have to come back for it. We need to know what’s in there. Same with the tablet reader.”
“All right,” Hramov agreed, after a long, unhappy pause. Kathleen kept her eyes steadily on him, until after a moment more, the archaeologist backed away from the table, gaze dropping to his feet.
What was that all about? Kathleen thought. “Right. Let’s keep going, then. Mr. Healy? Which door do you think leads to what we’re looking for?”
“That one.” Joe jerked his head towards the door to the right, then reached out and tested it. “Locked,” he grunted. “Maybe trapped, too. I’ll check.”
Another trap? Really, this is getting a little old, Orieth thought as Joe’s hands worked over the door.
Shut up.
A shadow fell across the red sandstone wall of the corridor: a standard-issue Air Force uniform cap, silhouetted by the dim beam of a flashlight. Below it, a distorted shape stretched back into the darkness, long and thin, then fading into a large amorphous blob.
Ked’rec’s calm, even voice sounded incongruously loud in the stony silence of the hallway. “There is nothing here.” He straightened up, resting one end of the long pole he was carrying on the ground, so that the hat on other end of the pole hovered above his head, and looked back over his shoulder at the rest of the group.
“Can I have my hat back, then?” Reinhart asked. He was trying hard to sound casual, but couldn’t quite keep the plaintive note out of his voice. Was this some tease-the-newbie act, or was it a realistic safety measure?
“Not till we’re sure there’s nobody here,” Joe answered flatly.
Kathleen confirmed the statement with a nod, giving Reinhart a sympathetic smile. “Plus, we don’t know what kind of automated systems they might have set up down here,” she explained, “or what their security devices are set to detect. Better that your hat gets hit with an anti-intruder device than one of us does.” The young lieutenant sighed and nodded, and the group continued on their cautious way down the hall. To anyone approaching from further down the corridor, the shadow of the hat and pole would look as if it were being cast by someone much taller than any of SG-17 actually were – and as if it were being cast by someone about five feet in front of the group.
After a few hundred feet, the corridor ended in a doorway. The sharp silent signal of Ked’rec’s raised hand brought the group to a halt, and the Jaffa nudged the hat-and-pole cautiously around the edge of the doorway, waiting for a long moment before lowering it and saying, “All clear.”
On the other side of the doorway, the ceiling lifted up, reaching away into the darkness and sending the group’s footsteps echoing hollowly around the walls. Kathleen shone her flashlight up – the ceiling had to be at least 30 feet high, ending in a closed-off hatchway.
“From the height of the ceiling, it looks as if it would be on a level with the surface.” It was Joe’s voice, but the speech pattern was unmistakably Orieth’s.
“Right,” said Kathleen slowly, her attention still fixed on the ceiling as the wheels started to turn in her mind. “This is probably how they brought in all their building materials. See the break there? That looks like the place where it would open up.”
“Nothing else in here.” Joe’s flat, terse tone was back. “The other end of the corridor just goes back to the left-hand door.
“Then I think it’s time to go back to the beginning and try the right-hand door,” The beam from Kathleen’s flashlight traveled back down to earth as she finally ended her intent study of the ceiling. “That’s the only place that we haven’t explored yet.”
As soon as the group had circled back to the entry chamber, with its three doors and ominous inscription on the right-most one, Kathleen instructed, “All right, Dr. Hramov. Back upstairs.” Reluctantly, the archaeologist started back up the ladder into the basement.
“Reinhart, you too. And Ked’rec,” Kathleen added after a brief pause.
“And you,” Joe prompted.
“No, I’ll stay down here to back you up, Mr. Healy.” They might count a Tok’ra or a rebel Jaffa as a traitor, she thought, but I haven’t betrayed anyone.
Joe regarded Kathleen warily for a moment. “Are you sure?”
She held his gaze steadily. “Yes, Mr. Healy.” By way of demonstration, she picked up the crate behind which he had been crouching before, holding it out to him. “You need to be really careful on this one,” she added, with a significant glance at the inscription.
Worship her glorious countenance; traitors will be struck down, Orieth thought wearily. Really, it could just be a fancy way of saying ‘kneel before your god.’ Which to a Goa’uld is like saying ‘pass the chips.’
Kathleen blinked in surprise at Joe’s sudden fit of chuckling. “Mr. Healy, is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Joe answered with a shrug.
She watched him for one more confused, concerned moment, and then together, Joe and Kathleen knelt down behind the upturned crate, while Joe reached out with the stick to push the buttons on the right-hand door to trigger its lock.
Kathleen didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she let it out as the door swung silently open. “All clear,” she called up to the others.
Behind the door, there was hardly enough space for Ked’rec to hold out Reinhart’s hat on the pole before the hallway ended in a large chamber. It was furnished with heavy wooden tables and chairs, looking incongruously European against the Egyptian-style architecture of the sandstone passages. Even more out of place was what sat on one of the tables: a notebook, two quill pens, and an inkwell that had long since overflowed and dried up, leaving a scatter of black dust on the wooden surface. And a small metal object, about the size of the digital camera that Kathleen was already pulling out of her backpack to snap pictures of the room in its undisturbed condition. But this object had a wide viewscreen of some shimmering substance that was not glass, and its case wasn’t made of any metal that any of them had seen before, except for Orieth. “A Goa’uld tablet reader?” he said in astonishment, starting towards the table.
“Hold on!” Kathleen said, nearly at the same time that Hramov cried, “Stop!” With only a brief glance at the archaeologist, Kathleen explained, “We need to get pictures of what this looks like first, before we move anything.” She started to make her way around the room, carefully framing the table in the viewscreen of her camera. Hramov watched in grudging respect – at least she knew how to treat an archaeological find. The rest of the team moved in, edging carefully around the tables and chairs as they began to survey the room’s contents.
“Major Fitzgerald? This notebook is not written in Goa’uld,” Ked’rec’s voice held a faint note of puzzlement.
Kathleen lowered her camera, moving over to look at the notebook. “No, it’s in…that looks like pre-Revolutionary Russian script. Dr. Hramov, am I right? Ugh, it’s a pain to read.”
“It is not so difficult if you know what to do,” Hramov replied, with a superior smirk. “And yes, it is the old-style writing.”
“Uh…ma’am? You’re going to want to get a picture of this…” Reinhart was standing by the second table, his hands hovering above it as if he had just stopped himself from reaching out to touch it. The entire table was covered by an enormous tablet of the same red sandstone that formed the walls, its surface inscribed with symbols.
“What language is this?” Hramov asked, leaning over to get a better look. “It does not look like standard Goa’uld script.”
“It isn’t,” Orieth replied, a slight frown coming over his face. “There are a few borrowings from Goa’uld, but otherwise the characters are almost entirely different.”
Kathleen put the camera down again, looking at the tablet with her own eyes instead of through the viewscreen. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it either. Although that bit looks like it might say…hm. If it were just Goa’uld written in different characters, then that pattern could fit…” Reinhart tried to follow the quick motion of her finger as it traced through the air over the tablet, but she was following some pattern that made sense only in her own mind, becoming increasingly lost in thought. “And if that means that,” she murmured, “then…”
Unless I am greatly mistaken, Orieth thought, she could be at this for quite a while. And unless I am even further mistaken, the source of the naquadah readings that the scientists were picking up is somewhere to the right.
Another locked door. Joe shrugged in response to his own thoughts. Doesn’t look too much worse than the others. I can probably get it. He shivered a little as he let his senses follow Orieth’s towards the source of the naquadah. Never gonna get used to that.
Yes, you will, Orieth responded soothingly.
I wasn’t talking to you. And then, almost as an afterthought, Shut up.
“It is Goa’uld,” Kathleen declared, the sudden sound of her voice drawing Joe and Orieth out of their internal dialogue. “But it’s written in different characters – I don’t know what they are. Plus, part of it is encrypted.”
“Can you not break the code?” Ked’rec asked, from where he stood keeping watch by the door.
Kathleen shook her head. “Not here. This isn’t an A=1, B=2 kind of cipher – it’s going to take some serious computer-power for me to crack it. I’ll send it back to the SGC and have some of our people back there start working on it.”
“You will send the tablet?” There was a rising note of alarm in Hramov’s voice. “You will take it –“
“No, Doctor,” Kathleen sighed patiently, holding up her camera. “I’ll send pictures. The tablet isn’t going anywhere right now.” She offered a conciliatory grin. “Plus, do you want to carry that thing up the ladder? Now, the notebook, we can take with us – “
“No!” Hramov’s shout echoed off the stone walls of the chamber. “You must not take it!”
Reinhart took a wary step towards the archaeologist, and Kathleen looked hard at Hramov as she said evenly, “All right, then, we’ll leave it here for now. But we’ll have to come back for it. We need to know what’s in there. Same with the tablet reader.”
“All right,” Hramov agreed, after a long, unhappy pause. Kathleen kept her eyes steadily on him, until after a moment more, the archaeologist backed away from the table, gaze dropping to his feet.
What was that all about? Kathleen thought. “Right. Let’s keep going, then. Mr. Healy? Which door do you think leads to what we’re looking for?”
“That one.” Joe jerked his head towards the door to the right, then reached out and tested it. “Locked,” he grunted. “Maybe trapped, too. I’ll check.”
Another trap? Really, this is getting a little old, Orieth thought as Joe’s hands worked over the door.
Shut up.
Obezyanchik
First Post
sniffles said:Aw, makes me sad. I was in an aborted Stargate campaign. Too many other campaigns running, not enough free time.
Well, I hope you enjoy ours, because it suffers from similar pressures but it sure is fun!
GreenArmadillo
First Post
Which to a Goa’uld is like saying ‘pass the chips.’
Best line ever. And somehow, this strikes me as a good running gag for a Gou'ald sit-com.
Scene: Apophis, Baal, and Osiris are sitting in the living room watching TV. The front door opens, and Anubis walks in.
Anubis: Your God has returned! Kneel before me!
*beat*
Osiris: Pass the chips.
*Baal sighs and hands over the chips.*
Best line ever. And somehow, this strikes me as a good running gag for a Gou'ald sit-com.
Scene: Apophis, Baal, and Osiris are sitting in the living room watching TV. The front door opens, and Anubis walks in.
Anubis: Your God has returned! Kneel before me!
*beat*
Osiris: Pass the chips.
*Baal sighs and hands over the chips.*
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