BtVS Crossover with Stargate SG-1
Buffy and the Goa'ulden Spaceship
Summary: Buffy's horizons are expanded.
Disclaimer: I'm trespassing on Buffy and Stargate, but not cashing in, so it's fair use.
Spoilers: All of Buffy and Stargate at least to Season 8.
Rating: T ( R ), mostly for language. .
My Navy-speak is probably not completely correct, but it should be close enough for government work. And rather than pepper my dialog with footnotes, I put a glossary at the end for the convenience of the reader.
The Navy says publicly that ships such as I describe here can go faster than thirty knots, but they don't say how much faster. Forty knots seems reasonable to me, but it's just a wild guess.
I should apologize for starting yet another story when I have several incomplete ones. But that's how the muse struck me. I intend to complete all of the previous stories, sooner or later.
This is distributed under the Creative Commons license, others may play here as long as correct attribution is maintained. No commercial application is allowed or even possible.
Daniel Jackson lounged in his laid-back chair and sighed. He was bored out of his mind, but General Hammond had threatened to court-martial him if he didn't take the weekend off. When Daniel reminded the General that he couldn't court-martial civilians, Hammond just glared at him. "What am I supposed to do?" he had whined. The General replied, "Relax, refresh, read a novel, clean your apartment, go to the movies, do what millions of people do on the weekend."
So, what to do? Well, he started to alphabetize one of his bookcases, but that got old in a hurry. Then he washed the dishes, but he had only three dirty dishes so besides being boring it didn't take long. He glanced at the TV schedule: situation normal, nothing remotely interesting. He decided to check the mail: a couple of bills, boring, a quarter pound of advertisements, really boring, a letter for his neighbor that ended up in his box—crap this was dull—only one more, this one with foreign stamps, hmm, it was from England, from a Dr. Giles. Wait, could that be Rupert Giles? The Curator of Myths and Antiquities at the British Museum? It was, and Daniel ripped open the envelope with his first glimmer of excitement for the weekend. He read:
My dear Daniel,
I hope you won't think me presumptuous for asking for your help on a matter when we haven't spoken for many years (I quite enjoyed your lecture on a possible extra-terrestrial origin of Egyptian myths, even though there is no doubt that I'm in a minority) but I find myself needing your particular expertise on an archaeological linguistic puzzle.
First, since I didn't have your address I goggled, or perhaps googeled, for it; I trust you have no objections to my tracking you down. (Actually, I had one of my able assistants mine the infernal machine, as I still harbor a distrust of electrons) and I find you are living the good life in Colorado Springs; a beautiful town I understand.
Second, I am no longer with the British Museum, haven't been since shortly after the last time we spoke. I have been involved with a private firm called Council Antiquities, Ltd., and in fact I am now the CEO; mostly due to the fact that the majority of our members were victims of a terrorist attack in London a few years ago, perhaps you heard of it?
Before I took over as head of Council Antiquities, the policy here was to acquire as much as possible without regard as to whether or not anyone was available to study and classify the objects. One of my first orders of business has been to inventory our vaults and warehouses and at least catalog all of our acquisitions. One such object appears to be an Egyptian Burial Urn, nicely preserved and sealed, packed along with a box of mysterious objects. It was inscribed with a few Sumerian and Akkadian phrases, but the majority of the inscription is in a language unknown to me or anyone else here at the Council.
Enclosed you will find photographs of the objects, including translations that fell within our expertise, as well as the writing that mystified us. It would give me great pleasure if you could identify and decipher any of these phrases. You may consider this an offer of consultation and present us with an invoice upon satisfactory completion.
Daniel reflected on the letter with some foreboding and shook pictures out of the envelope. When he looked at them, he shot up out of his chair as if electrified.
At oh five hundred I climbed up to the bridge. I always enjoyed watching the sun rise over the ocean, even though I also enjoyed being grumpy along with my first cup of coffee.
"Captains on the bridge!" the quartermaster sounded off.
"Good morning Captain," said Lt. Franklin brightly and far too perkily for that hour, " we are steady on zero niner zero at twelve knots on charlie bravo eighteen."
I grunted at her as I took a sip from my coffee cup and grabbed the latest dispatches from DesRon 9, then wandered out onto the port bridge wing, idly reading the usual dull communications.
Time passed the way it usually does at sea: deliberately, without hurry. As the sky slowly brightened, I watched some seagulls fly around looking for handouts. One landed on a lifeline behind the signalman's deckhouse for a few minutes, then flapped lazily away when a couple of sailors plodded out and prepared to swab the deck. I could hear the sound of the waves slapping against the hull of my ship and the soft whine of the gas turbines driving the twin screws. I could smell the tantalizing aromas of breakfast floating out from the messdecks as well as hear sailors all over the ship prepare for another day at sea. We were lazing along, looking for something. I could hear Lt. Franklin ordering the course change for the next leg of our search pattern as I took in the early morning sun. I didn't know what we were looking for, I only knew we had a couple of civilians on board and I had orders to search an area of ocean off the California coast. The admiral told me I would know what it was when I found it, and if I didn't find it, it would be better if I didn't know what it was. Seemed like twisted logic to me, but what do I know?
Suddenly, I heard one of the watchstanders say, "CIC reports Bogey Foxtrot at one eight six, altitude ten thousand, speed seven...say again Jonesy? What! You're sure?"
I leaned into the open door of the bridge and interrupted this conversation, "Just repeat what he said sailor, now!"
"Sir, CIC reports Bogey Foxtrot at zero eight six true, niner zero miles, eighteen thousand feet, at seventeen thousand knots!"
"Urk?" I said foolishly, then hastily added, "Captain has the conn!" and stepped into the bridge.
"Aye sir, Captain has the conn!" repeated the OOD. I could see the quartermaster frantically writing in the log out of the corner of my eye.
"CIC reports Bogey Foxtrot is at constant bearing decreasing range!"
"CIC recommends course zero eight zero at flank speed!"
"Quartermaster recommends course two seven zero at flank speed!"
I ordered, "HELM, left rudder to one eight zero, LEE HELM, revolutions for thirty five knots. Quartermaster of the watch, sound General Quarters!"
"Coming to one eight zero, aye!"
"Thirty five knots, aye!"
I went back out on the bridge wing and stared at the horizon where this unknown flying object was probably flaming out—I was assuming it wasn't a missile aimed down my throat. I figured that this must be what was what I was looking for, I hoped it wouldn't hit us. I listened to the ship while I watched though my binoculars, I could hear the the 1MC echoing throughout as the quartermaster shouted, "GENERAL QUARTERS, GENERAL QUARTERS, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, THIS IS NOT A DRILL, ALL HANDS TO GENERAL QUARTERS!"
I could feel the deck vibrate from the thundering feet of the crew as they rushed to their duty stations, grumbling about their breakfasts getting interrupted.
The watchstander reported, a little breathlessly, "Sir, Combat reports Foxtrot is down to twelve thousand knots, fourteen thousand feet, six five miles at one eight five, still constant bearing, decreasing range! No IFF detected! CPA is one minute!"
I started calculating in my head, it wouldn't be long before—ah there it was, a bright golden speck in the sky, well above the horizon, coming out of a cloud bank. It didn't seem like it was moving that fast since it was head on, but I checked it's shadow on the sea and suddenly didn't like my position anymore.
"HELM!" I shouted through the water-tight door from the bridge wing, "LEFT RUDDER. COME TO TWO FIVE ZERO! LEE HELM FLANK SPEED!"
"Coming left to two five zero, aye!"
"Flank speed, aye!"
The ship leaned alarmingly to the right as the gas turbines wound further up. I could see that the newer members of the bridge crew wondered if we were going to continue the roll right down to the water, but the ship righted herself and we barreled away at right angles to the incoming bogey.
I heard voices coming from the fo'csle, I looked down and saw the civilians gazing at the horizon from just abaft the anchor windlass. I shouted down at them, "Clear the weather decks you fools!" As the ship accelerated and turned she rocked and pitched wildly over the ocean and I watched in horror as a wave came over the bow and washed clean over them. Incredibly, the younger woman had managed to hold on to a firmly welded stanchion, and even more amazingly she'd held on to her companion. Worthless landlubbers! I thought angrily, if they'd gotten washed overboard my career would've crashed, but at least the they'd have been dead!
"Chief," I said to the Chief Quartermaster who had just made it to the bridge, pass the word to have those idiots on the fo'csle brought to the bridge!"
"Aye aye cap'n," he answered, completely unsurprised by the unpredictable behavior of civilians.
"Combat reports Foxtrot at one thousand feet altitude, speed nine hundred knots, still at constant bearing decreasing range!"
A different watchstander reported, a little breathlessly, "EW reports that there are no detectable electronic emissions from Foxtrot!"
"Fire Control reports weapons ready!"
I stared though my binoculars for a moment then ordered, "ALL STOP, RUDDER AMIDSHIPS!"
My orders were repeated back to me as we slid through the water in near silence. From more than thirty knots it would take quite awhile before we actually came to a stop, the thin profile of my frigate provided the ability to easily cut through the waves. I could see more of this thing coming at us now. It was a weird shape, triangular mostly, like a flying pyramid. I had a hard time imagining that it could fly at all, much less fly at astonishing speed. It looked like it should have all the aerodynamic qualities of a stack of bricks.
I shouted into the bridge, "HELM, RIGHT RUDDER TO ONE NINER ZERO! LEE HELM, REVOLUTIONS FOR TWENTY KNOTS!"
II timed my order just right and finally shouted, "ALL STOP, RUDDER AMIDSHIPS!' And I watched in utter amazement as a golden pyramidal spaceship landed gently in the water beside my ship.
At that moment, the two civilians were escorted onto the bridge by the Chief Bo'sun. Their shoes squished as they walked and they dripped saltwater all over the deck, much to the quartermaster's irritation. They looked like drowned rats with their hair plastered to their skulls. I really didn't have time for them, but I guessed it was their business floating next to us. "Ms. Kennedy and Ms. Rosenberg! Didn't you know where your General Quarters duty station was located?"
The younger one, looking quite charming in her wet shirt, still coughing up salt water, replied, "Um, (cough, hack) no actually."
"Not so much, but I probably couldn't have found it anyway, even I knew," said the other, delightfully redheaded one.
"Oh," I said, "well, that was my responsibility to make certain you knew the rules. For future reference, this is your GQ station. Now, what the hell do you know about that thing floating off the port bow?" I pointed off to the left and noticed that there were more sailors than usual on deck, most of them also pointing excitedly towards the spaceship.
Willow Rosenberg answered, "It's classified to an astonishing degree, Captain. But I can tell you that it is crewed by United States Air Force officers and civilian consultants. I suggest you put a boat in the water to take them off."
"There should be eight. Plus one on a stretcher. Unless they met with disaster."
"Why the hell did they land out here?"
"Oh, umm, you see, they don't want anyone to see the spaceship. And it turns out that there aren't any satellites overhead right now, right here. They'll sink it after getting off."
"What? Surely they'd want to study it?"
"Well yeah, someone will be by to collect it later on. It won't be damaged by being parked underwater for a short time, or long time either."
"Hmm," I said. Then I turned to the Chief bosun, who was looking about as boggled as I had ever seen a Chief Boatswain's Mate. "Chief, launch the workboat. And get those lollygagging sailors on deck back to work, this is not a Carnival cruise!"
"Holy shit!" exclaimed Daniel as he looked at the photographs from Giles. He picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for General Hammond.
"General, this is Daniel. There might be a Goa'uld loose in England! SG-1 needs to deploy!"
"Dr. Jackson, I thought you were going to take the weekend off," Hammond replied testily.
"Yes sir, and I was and did. But I got a letter from the CEO of Council Antiquities, Ltd. He used to be a curator at the British Museum, and he came across some Egyptian artifacts. He couldn't translate or identity some of the items so he wants to hire me for the job. General, he has a Goa'uld containment device, a stasis urn like the one we found in the Chicago museum. It came with a crate filled with zat guns, hand devices, and a healing device. And some stuff I can't identify. Anyway, Sam needs to look at it. We have to go, right now!"
"All right Dr. Jackson, come on into the mountain and bring the evidence. I'll call the rest of SG-1."
"So, who is this Rupert Giles?" asked Colonel O'Neill as SG-1 found their seats around the conference table.
"Dr. Giles is the current head of Council Antiquities, LTD."
"And that is--?" asked Sam.
"Oh, they're a leading firm involved in collecting and authenticating antiques," said Daniel.
"I am glad you cleared that up DanielJackson," said Teal'c, "for we wouldn't have known otherwise."
Daniel spared a glance at Teal'c's stern visage. He suspected the Jaffa was making sport of him, but he was too anxious to go into it further. "They specialize in ancient artifacts as well as anything that has mythological connotations. Here, look at these pictures he sent me."
SG-1 and General Hammond all frowned deeply as they passed around and looked at the photographs of the Stasis Urn.
"Well hell," said O'Neill, "I guess we're off to jolly olde England."
"Yes Colonel," said General Hammond, "unfortunately, you'll have to leave your weapons behind. Our British cousins don't look kindly on armed Americans traipsing about their countryside – I can't imagine why not. And you'll go in civilian clothes. Plan your approach carefully, perhaps the easiest thing to do would be to simply buy the objects outright. These people appear to be antique dealers so that shouldn't present too much of a problem. I'll try to get you some native backup, but it may take some time to find the right department in Her Majesty's Government. I used to have a phone number, but they had some kind of reorganization recently."
"Hey Gilesey wilesey, what's cookin'?"
Giles looked up from his desk and said, "Dawn, must you butcher my name in such a cavalier fashion?"
"So I should butcher your name in some non-cavalier fashion? Like: IlesGa, or Monsieur Ghilees, or Ruperto, howzabout Gee-Man...?"
"Dr. Summers," Giles interrupted stiffly, "your further examples are not in the least humble or in any other way non-cavalier! Now, if you please, what do you need that warrants disturbing my morning tea?"
"Spoilsport. Got an email for you. I printed it out and everything, and I didn't use color this time since you made all those pithy comments about my color sense last week. I really hate wasting the paper though, I wish you'd learn to read your computer screen."
"Dawn, the tactile sensation of an important message printed carefully on fine paper is to be treasured, not scorned."
"You know, that's just what they said about cuneiform inscribed in clay, which I'm sure would work fine for all your text-messaging needs. And hey, you wouldn't have to worry about viruses any more!"
"Dawn, the message please."
"This message came in through the Council Antiquities server, but it's addressed to Dr. Rupert Giles, CEO. What's wrong with lavender text, anyway? Here." She plopped a single page down in front of Giles.
"Oh," said Giles, "it's from Daniel Jackson. Hmmm, he's coming here, with some associates, to look at our Egyptian artifacts."
"Is he nearby or something?"
"No, he's flying over from Colorado Springs."
"Yes. He'll be here this evening. I wonder what could be so urgent about thousand year old museum grade collectibles?" mused Giles.
"Maybe we'd better look at that thing again before the Air Force confiscates it or something."
"HA! You did read it! After you assured me you'd be able to handle my correspondence without invading my privacy."
"Giles! I can't print out your emails without reading them first! If I didn't check them out you'd get huge piles of advertisements for penis enlargement pills! And breast enlargement cream! And colorful condoms ribbed in new and unusual patterns guaranteed to rub your girlfriend the right way! And Viagra! Lots and lots of Viagra! And all of Viagras competitors! God, you'd think there was a worldwide epidemic of morbid flaccidity! Of course I wouldn't know if you need or want any of this stuff, but I assume you'd rather I didn't hand you advertising like that because I know how this subject embarrasses you so!"
"Ah, I see," he replied while polishing his glasses. "It doesn't embarrass me Dawn, it's just an inappropriate topic for, uh, the office. But I appreciate your able winnowing of the chaff, I shan't complain again."
"Why thank you ever so much, Giles," said Dawn with an affected and very faux English accent. This amused Giles no end because Dawn was capable of perfectly mimicking any accent she'd ever heard.
"However, you do have a point about the artifacts. Is Willow around? Perhaps we should inspect them with some serious magical talent on hand."
"Yeah, she's in the library with Buffy."
"Buffy is in the Watcher's Library? What on earth for?"
"Don't know. She and Willow were thick as thieves this AM."
"I feel an urgent need to visit the library, care to join me?"
"Oh you know me, I'm always ready for some down and dirty studying."
They went down one floor to the large and airy New Watcher's Library and found Buffy and Willow, researching. Giles raised his eyebrows and said, "Good lord Buffy, did I miss an impending apocalypse? Did the Earth move? Was there a memo?"
"Ha ha, Giles," said Buffy, "very funny, I'm sure. You've seen me help with the researchy stuff before."
"Yes, but only under the most dire and extreme circumstances. Hence my worry."
Willow looked up and said, "I asked for her help. I was reading the Dawnster's Egyptian translations and there are references to all sorts of strange weapons that I didn't even know what they were in English much less Sumerian and I wasn't getting anywhere figuring out the which from the what so I enlisted our weapons expert."
"Ah, very good. Actually, we're here on the same subject. It seems my request for translation services from an expert in the field has struck a nerve, as it were. Dr. Jackson will be here this evening, along with a team from the U. S. Air Force, to examine our find."
"Huh? What's the Air Force want with Egyptian artifacts?" asked Willow.
"Yeah," said Buffy, "what could possibly interest the military? I guess it's lucky they aren't Army, at least, but still, I feel a wiggins comin' on."
"Willow, have you actually inspected the items for any magical residue?" asked Dawn.
"No, it hadn't occurred to me. I suppose we better go right now, huh?"
(1) CIC: Combat Information Center. Staffed by Operations Specialists who spend a lot of time looking at radar screens and plots. They also have a lot of computers these days. They used to be called Radarmen, informally known as scope dopes.
(2) Constant Bearing Decreasing Range: Collision course. But it depends on how long to the CPA . Two ships traveling not quite parallel to each other can can have a Constant Bearing Decreasing Range, but if the time to CPA is measured in days, it doesn't really matter, because someone will steer away long before they get too close. But if the CPA is a few minutes, (or worse, seconds!), especially if the velocity is high, you could have a critical problem.
(3) CPA: Closest Point of Approach.
(4) Bogey: Navy jargon for unidentified flying contact.
(5) Skunk: (or SCUNK) Navy jargon for unidentified surface contact.
(6) IFF: Identification Friend or Foe, an electronic device.
(7) The ship in this story is very similar to the USS Ingraham, FFG 72. The modern Frigate class is similar to what used to be called Destroyer Escorts, but are far more capable.
(8) "Another Fine Navy Day!" Usually said sarcastically and suggesting a day that's truly FUBAR.
(9) Foxtrot Uniform: The polite phonetic pronunciation of saying "Fuck You"
(10) FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Repair. Used in all services.
(11) OOD: Officer of the Deck (or Day if it's not a ship)
(12) Three-Striper: Refers to the three gold stripes a full Commander wears on his sleeves.