Her hand fell away from the window, and for a moment John caught a glimpse of something familiar in her bearing: a combination of resignation tinged with despair. He'd seen it plenty of times from military comrades, maybe even worn it himself, when setting out on a mission that carried an inescapably tragic consequence as part of its unwritten rules of engagement.
The moment passed swiftly, illusive to the point where he began to suspect it was a reflection of his concern for his teammates more than anything else. Given that Rebecca had been on this case for several years, she'd no doubt witnessed her own personal set of tragic consequences.
"Up until now," she said, "the Bureau had theorized that our suspects-the group's followers call themselves cambion, by the way, and their priests are known as Watchers-were searching for a metaphorical gateway to a place in the heavens where they believed themselves to have originated."
"That was the name of a cult, wasn't it?" He recalled the news stories, maybe ten years back. "Heaven's Gate? They committed mass suicide in order to hitch a ride on a comet."
"A spaceship hidden in the tail of the comet, but close enough. They weren't unique, aside from their matching sneakers. Dozens of cults, even a popular religion making the rounds of Hollywood, preach variations on the same UFO theme." With a sardonic smile, she added, "Dr. Jackson just enlightened me as to why I'd never been able to access any substantive information on the Seth cult from a few years ago. Turns out the leader really was a reptilian alien who'd turned his followers into zombies. Go figure."
Leaning his shoulder against the window, John consciously warned himself to disregard the fact that Rebecca was a beautiful woman and focus on her role, no matter how temporary, as a professional colleague. "So what led you to believe that this Lilith cult is trying to get to the Stargate? Leaving aside the fact that there's no way they could succeed, since the security around here is tighter than Fort Knox and Bill Gates's house combined."
The corner of Rebecca's mouth turned up. "All belief structures-religions, cults, call them what you will-share certain underlying premises that fulfill the needs of their followers: namely, the concept that the world was created by superior beings or forces, as well as the recognition of mortality and the desire to transcend it-before or after death."
"By separating the consciousness, or soul, or whatever, from the mortal body." As she'd said, a common theme. "Around here we call it Ascension. There are even some folks in the program who've dipped their toes in that pool once or twice. Thing is, that doesn't really answer my question."
She lifted her eyebrows, and he wondered if she recognized the parallel to their first encounter, when she'd been the one calling him out on his various avoidance tactics. Surely she did; it was her job, after all. "I'm still working on that answer myself," she said, glancing at the cup in her hand as if surprised to find it there. "If you're asking me how to find these… Wraithlike people, until I'm able to put this new information into the proper context, all I can tell you is the chain of events up to this point."
"I'll take what I can get," John said.
"Generous of you." Turning away from the gate room at last, Rebecca placed her neglected coffee on the side table and laid out the case in standard law enforcement style. "As far as we've been able to ascertain, the first victim was a television network executive associated with the production of a low budget sci-fi series. The Los Angeles D.A.'s office assumed that an irate, unstable fan had carried out one of the death threats leveled against the network for canceling the show."
John grimaced. "You're talking about Wormhole X-theme." He'd only heard about the series when some of Atlantis's more warped minds had campaigned to have it added to the city's DVD library. He still had trouble believing that anyone had actually thought it might serve as a cover story for the real Stargate program. After seeing the pilot episode, he hadn't been sure whether to laugh his ass off or sandblast the experience out of his brain.
"I understand the character of Dr. Levant was modeled on Dr. Jackson." Rebecca's gaze shifted, like she might be comparing John against what she knew of the show, and he promptly raised his hands in surrender.
"Don't look at me. I was still in the operational Air Force when they dreamed up that fine example of quality broadcasting„
Her faint smile let him know that he'd been had. "In any event, I can take you through the details later, but for the moment I'll cut to the chase. Based on the pattern and victimologies of subsequent murders spread out over the last six years, it's become evident that this cult has identified Cheyenne Mountain as their Mecca. Apparently they were right."
Before John could ask how they might have found their way to that conclusion, Daniel Jackson appeared in the doorway, a stack of dusty books under his arm. "Good. You're both here." Without another word, he turned and continued down the hall.
By now John was accustomed to dealing with scientist quirks of all stripes. He waited patiently, giving Rebecca a shrug when she cast him a questioning glance.
Sure enough, Jackson was back in the doorway six seconds later. "Why is it that nobody ever follows me when I ask them toy"
"You forgot to have that part of the conversation out loud," John informed him helpfully.
"Ah." Jackson didn't seem bothered. "Come with me, please?"
"Sure thing." Pushing off from the window, John held out a hand toward Rebecca in an `after you' gesture. Looking once again like she'd fallen down the proverbial rabbit hole, the agent obliged.
During his brief tour of duty at the SGC, John had stuck his head into most of the facilities in the Mountain, but Jackson's office was one of the places he'd never had cause to visit. Probably for the best, he decided as he viewed the room now-he might have destabilized something just by stepping inside. Egyptian artifacts and Ancient technology were jumbled together on every horizontal surface in the room, a few larger pieces of each shoved into corners. A dry erase board leaned against one wall, covered with smudged hieroglyphs, gate symbols, and sharp, dense Ancient lettering in various colors. On its face, the collection looked incongruous, but of course the archeologist had spent years connecting the dots between those fragile pieces of papyrus and the graceful Ancient devices that lay alongside.
Jackson deposited the books in his arms into a padded duffel bag perched on a chair. "General Landry's finishing up a call," he began, rifling through a stack of papers, which appeared to consist mostly of overdue notices from half a dozen libraries. "He-"
A cell phone chirped. Startled out of her incredulous exploration of the office, Rebecca reached into her pocket. "Got your own cell tower down here?" she muttered.
"Something like that," said Jackson, obviously not surprised by the disruption. He set down the papers, tugged another heavy volume off a nearby bookshelf, and laid it in the bag.
Rebecca read the number of the incoming call off her phone's display and frowned before putting it to her ear. "Larance."
Trying to find a place to stand where he couldn't possibly knock into anything in the cluttered room, John almost missed her quiet, shocked, "Sir!"
He glanced up to see her spine stiffen and her mouth open and close twice without sound. It wasn't tough to guess that Landry had gone over her head.
Her side of the conversation was limited to a few periodic interruptions. "Yes, sir…yes, I understand that, but… of course, sir."
Had it not been for Landry's arrival John would have smiled. Instead, he straightened as well. "What's our mode of transport over to the desert, General?"
"C-20's waiting at Peterson," Landry replied, taking only one step inside the office doorway. Maybe all the piles of random stuff intimidated him as well. "You'll have to refuel but it's the best we can do."