The day of days.
Deep beneath the rock of the Cheyanne Mountain range the strange, flickering light of the active wormhole filled the Gate Room and the command and control center beyond it. Presided over by its commander the Atlantis Expedition stepped up the metal ramp and disappeared into the unknown. For what seemed like an eternity the halls of the Complex had been filled with more boxes of equipment and crates of materials than the designers had ever intended, let alone the scores of people who squeezed by between them through impossibly small spaces. Maelstroms of activity filled those spaces as plans were made and remade, information was exchanged and miscommunicated and clarified, and supplies were found and lost and found again as final preparations were made for the most daring endeavor of the Stargate Program to date.
In the end there were few words, just a hushed silence and curt orders from the colonel that sent the first teams through hot on the treads of a MALP that transmitted back a blurry feed of a wide room filled with Ancient architecture and telemetry of basic life support. Civilians followed with the second wave of soldiers, prompting looks of displeasure that were masked with varying degrees of success. There was nothing for it. Power supplies were uncertain, and time was of the essence. Trains of MALPs accompanied the embarking expedition, interspaced at vital intervals but the bulk of them held back, waiting for the command to pursue their creators into the unknown. There was a certain poetry to that.
Beyond, the embarkation room was made into a beachhead, tides of personnel exiting the ancient portal into a dimly lit space and quickly making way for those behind them. Bags of supplies, boxes of equipment, and the few MALP trains already arrived were pushed into hallways and crevices, anywhere they might be out of the way, mainly by civilians as they milled around the gradually widening military cordon. Hushed voices created a low murmur that echoed from two main halls lined with rooms that led away from the new Gate Room. Bisecting them was a central staircase leading upward, a conference room to the left and a command and control center to the right. Watched over by a residue of the military contingent, scientists swarmed over the dimly glowing consoles, their backs to a stairwell leading both up and down that echoed with the sounds of searching soldiers’ voices.
Perpendicular to the conference room Marsh stood the near director as she measured curtains in the one place she had seen so far that was so quaintly an office. Then again, she had not seen much yet. Even the walls of this place gave off an aura of grandiose scale. There were windows behind the Stargate, but they were high up and stained, giving away nothing until the highest ones which looked to be skylights of some sort, though they were dark now and gave off no light. It seemed whoever designed this place was a romantic too. Some things never changed.
The other woman was dressed in her JAG uniform, probably because she was holding out hope for first contact. Or sixth contact, depending on how you read the mission reports. Marsh thought she looked sharp, though she kept that to herself. West had a hand up to her earpiece and her voice filled the comm line, directing inquiries here and there even as her eyes took in the almost bare space that she had claimed for herself. She seemed to have put Marsh from her mind for a moment. Marsh didn’t mind, it was interesting to watch the woman at work.
Then she turned and watched as the influx continued. There were not many left by her count. Too few, in her opinion. Already the MALP trains were starting to out-turf the humans, their rattling carts beginning to overwhelm the dwindling number of controllers abandoned by their fellows to poke at Ancient gizmos. The useful fools. Speaking of useful… her eyes followed one straggler in particular as she stumbled through the gateway.
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