SG1-25 Hostile Ground(31)

Jacob shrugged. “We don’t know exactly, but they’ve been pulling ships out of our galaxy for over a year now. From a military standpoint,” he said, “it looks a hell of a lot like they’re falling back to defend a safer position.”

Mind racing, and not at all happy with the conclusions he was reaching, Hammond said, “At the negotiations today, Thor mentioned something about a threat in their galaxy.”

“Yes,” Jacob said. “That’s all they’ll say. But whatever this threat is, I’m beginning to wonder if they’ve still got the capacity — or even the will — to maintain the Protected Planet Treaty at all.”

“So this is just an excuse? A way to fall back without losing face?”

Jacob spread his hands. “Perhaps. Like I said, we don’t know any more than you do.”

“In which case,” Hammond said, starting to make the connections, “they’ve got no good reason to help us clear up this mess, have they? And that might just explain why they’re so damned insistent that Colonel O’Neill is the only man who can solve the problem.”

“They’re certainly making it difficult,” Jacob agreed.

“Sonofa —” He swallowed the curse, outraged, yet somehow unsurprised by the turn of events. “So what do we do?”

“Find Jack O’Neill,” Jacob said. “Find my daughter. And don’t give the little gray bastards a reason to pull the plug.” Then he leaned closer, across the table, and dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “Because there are plenty of Goa’uld out there looking at Earth with hungry eyes, George. And the only thing holding them back is that damn treaty.”



Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

They’d seen them coming. Of course they’d seen them coming. Daniel had already told them they’d been spotted the night before. Damn it. What had he been thinking?

Furious with himself, Jack backed up another step and tried to cover his whole team while figuring out how the hell to get out of this.

Everything, everything was going wrong.

There were people all around them, forming a loose but complete circle. They didn’t look aggressive, but the kick-ass weapons they carried — and what the hell were they? — definitely meant business. To his left, one of the men stepped forward. He was young — they were all young — but he had the swagger of a leader. His long braided hair was pulled back from his face and he wore a coat stitched together from the skins of whatever critters lived on this rock. A dark, close-cropped beard framed narrow features and a pair of piercing eyes marked him out as both smart and dangerous.

He looked like he knew what to do with the weapon he was aiming at Jack, but, despite the high-tech gun, he also had a bow slung across his back and a knife hanging from his belt next to two scrawny rabbits.

“Listen,” Jack said, keeping his weapon leveled and his finger hovering over the trigger. “We don’t want any trouble. Daniel — tell them.”

“I… uh…” Daniel sounded vague, distracted. “We’re explorers. We… oh…”

“Colonel?” Carter’s voice was urgent and he didn’t need to look to know that Daniel was about to hit the deck. Or the mud.

He had no choice; they couldn’t fight. Lowering his weapon, he lifted his hands away from it and said, “Stand down, Major. Daniel — probably lie down.”

“O’Neill?” Teal’c said.

His unease was obvious and Jack shared it. But there was no helping it — against this many armed people, with Daniel too sick to run or fight, they didn’t stand a chance. “You too, T.”

After a moment, he heard Teal’c’s staff weapon power down. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Daniel’s white face as Carter helped ease him to the ground.

Should have left him at the camp, he thought. Should have left Carter with him at the camp.

But then maybe they’d have been picked off two-by-two and it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference? At least this way he could keep an eye on them.

Shelving the fruitless second-guessing, he turned back to the stranger. “My name’s Jack O’Neill,” he said. “This is Carter, Teal’c and the guy down there is Daniel. We’re explorers. Actually, we’re lost explorers.”

The man didn’t lower his weapon, but he did speak. His voice was heavily accented, but the words were recognizable. “I am Aedan Trask,” he said. “I speak for my people. Why are you in our lands?”

“Like I said — we’re lost.”

“And where have you come from?” His sharp eyes were full of suspicion. “One of the southern camps? You dress and speak strangely.”