“So let’s talk about Asgard settlement sites,” Daniel said. He had volunteered his temporary office as meeting space, and Rodney and Ember were both frowning at a star map display on the screen set into one wall.
He would rather have been talking about the Wraith, he had to admit. They knew so little about the Wraith and their language and social structure, and now he had an opportunity to answer some of the questions no one had apparently even thought to ask. Probably because they were too busy trying not to be turned into breakfast.
But this was the lead he had, and he needed to follow it. Because it would fill in a valuable piece of the story of the exploration of the Pegasus galaxy, and because it might lead them to useful technology. Which ended up driving their exploration every time, no matter how strong a case he made for pure research.
Maybe he should have stuck to looking for evidence of Ancient settlements. It was just hard to ignore the possibility of uncovering an entirely new part of the story. And that was how he’d ended up going down a dozen different avenues in the last few years, the history of the Goa’uld and the Asgard and the Ancients, finding a hundred starting points for a lifetime’s worth of work. If only he had a hundred lifetimes.
Ember’s hands moved over the computer console, highlighting a series of worlds and displaying their gate addresses.
“All unexplored by us,” Rodney said. “And according to the Ancient database… uninteresting. One planet with a small human population, limited by the fact that most of the planet is water.”
“Most of our planet is water,” Daniel said.
“Most of the planet as in 99 % of it,” Rodney said. “There’s no major land mass, just a lot of small volcanic islands. It hasn’t been on our list because we figured the chances of anybody still being alive there were minimal, never mind the chances of their having anything we wanted.”
Daniel considered the display. “What about the others?”
“This one was briefly settled and then abandoned because the atmosphere was proving toxic to the crops people were trying to plant, and the native vegetation was toxic to humans. I’m not sure why this one even has a Stargate, since it’s covered so deep in ice that the only reason to go there is if you really like skiing.”
“What is skiing?” Ember asked, his head to one side.
“It’s a winter sport involving wearing curved sticks… ” Daniel began.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rodney interrupted impatiently. “My point is that there’s no reason to go there. And the other three don’t have Stargates at all.”
“Which gives us the best chance of finding unspoiled archaeological sites,” Daniel said.
“If you like doing archaeology in a spacesuit. There’s no guarantee there’s even breathable air there.”
“Two of these worlds have human populations,” Ember said. “Or did, long ago.”
“How do you know?” Rodney asked.
Ember looked at him as if the answer should have been obvious. “They were part of our hive’s feeding grounds. We culled both worlds.”
“What do you remember about them?”
“What do you expect me to remember?” Ember said, sounding a little frustrated. “It was thousands of years ago, and I never set foot on these worlds. Our clevermen are not part of culling missions. I only remember them at all because some of the blades who went down to the surface brought back interesting artifacts.”
“Interesting how?” Rodney asked.
Ember let out a slow breath. “My queen has instructed me not to provide you with information about any technology we possess that you might not.”
“And we’re not supposed to tell you what we’ve already found,” Daniel said. “Which makes this a lot harder.”
“It is understandable if our people do not trust each other,” Ember said. “But a complication, yes.” He folded his hands together, considering. Daniel noticed to his interest that there was a chip in the surface of one claw, and that the nail underneath was a far duller color. He wondered if it was some kind of artificial polish, or—
“One of our finds was a holographic projector,” Ember said abruptly. “Less sophisticated than the devices of the Lanteans, which surely you have had ample opportunity to study.”
“So it won’t do any harm to tell us about it,” Daniel agreed.
“It was a small thing that could be held in the hand. The image it produced was that of one of the creatures you call the Asgard.” Ember shrugged. “The device seemed to do nothing else. We assumed it was some kind of… ” He sketched with one claw uncertainly in the air, as if trying to find a word for some concept that didn’t fit neatly into Wraith. “Decoration,” he settled on finally.
And that was interesting, because the Ancient language that the spoken Wraith language had evolved from had certainly had words for “art” and “sculpture” and “portrait.” The Wraith had visual decoration — their clothes were heavily ornamented, and at close range showed details that were probably more perceptible to Wraith eyes than human ones. But not representative art. He wondered if that was a cultural taboo, and if so, where it had begun, and when the words had fallen out of their language.
And none of that got them any closer to finding out more about the Asgard. “If there are human populations on worlds the Ancients never settled, it’s very likely those are some of the sites where the Asgard were performing experiments on humans,” Daniel said.
“Or sites settled by the Travelers,” Rodney said.
“Maybe. I don’t know how long humans in the Pegasus galaxy have had access to spaceships of their own. The impression I got was that most of the Travelers’ technology was scavenged — stuff that the Ancients left behind, or maybe stuff they considered junk. I still think it’s our best bet, though.”
“Which means we’re checking out the worlds about which we know absolutely nothing,” Rodney said, frowning.
Daniel shrugged. “What are the odds of it being dinosaurs again?”
“Never say things like that,” Rodney said.
“Is this seat taken?”
Elizabeth looked up from her PDA. Every other table in the airport coffee shop was full, and only a handful of seats remained. A man hovered next to the table, his overcoat over his arm which was burdened with a briefcase, a paper cup of coffee in his other hand.
“No, not at all.” Elizabeth rearranged her papers to share half the table, moving her own coffee cup closer, and then bent over her PDA again.
The man sat down and unfolded the Washington Post which he read while he stirred nondairy creamer into his coffee without looking at it. He was thirty-five maybe, good looking in a rugged, dark-haired way, wearing a well-cut conservative suit. Business traveler, she thought. The headline screamed “Will They Impeach?” He was turned at a slight angle, so it was hard to read the article where it dipped below the fold. Something about House sources on the likelihood of a party line vote…
“Here.” He handed her the page with a smile. “You can have the first section. I’m done with it.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth was faintly embarrassed. “I didn’t…”
“I’m done with the first page.” He picked up the second section. “You shared your table. I’ll share my paper.” He smiled and unfolded the second section, disappearing behind it.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. She bent over the first section, reading the article with half her mind. It was unusual to share. It broke the unwritten code. You don’t see other people, don’t talk to them. Everyone maintains the polite fiction that they aren’t in a crowd and that other people aren’t tripping over their rolling bags. You don’t make eye contact. You certainly don’t share your paper as if the person sitting across from you in a Dulles coffee shop was an actual human being. It’s impolite.