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magibrainChapter Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.
Index post: [Fic] Beneath a Beating Sun - Index
A shroud hung over the SGC.
On paper, the next days passed like any other. With the exception of those not released for active duty, personnel resumed their rotations. Post-casualty investigations provided only minor hiccups in the scheduled rhythm of SGC life, and certain persistent duties were simply reassigned. From a technical stance, the base moved on as it always had.
On closer inspection, the veneer of normalcy dissolved. No one could move through Level 19 without seeing the techs clearing out Sam's lab, or through Level 25 without seeing her on-base quarters similarly gutted. And while pleasantries were still exchanged, jokes still told and chats still had, a terrible undercurrent saturated everyone's manner.
It centered itself around distinct points: the Infirmary, Hammond's office, Daniel's lab. And, of course, the places the late Major had frequented – the MALP bay, the assorted labs and manufacture docks. It became a disease, afflicting most strongly those who knew her well, who had worked beside her or counted on her council and advice. The six degrees of separation narrowed down – within Stargate Command, no person or system existed too far removed to grieve. In her absence, her presence was fully realized – departments as varied as technical maintenance and theoretical physics review adjusted to her loss.
Three unscheduled offworld activations occurred. Two teams came through, and one unidentified wormhole opened – and each time found SG-1 looking up at the siren, running to the control room as they were able or tensing in the Infirmary if they weren't, hanging on every shift in the Stargate's light.
Sam never returned.
Jack was granted probationary Infirmary release, though still confined to a wheelchair and to the base. In broken sessions he completed his debriefings, his part in the investigation and his formal mission report. Daniel spent his nights on-base as well, to be on hand in case anything happened for good or ill.
Quietly, from his office, Hammond planned a funeral.
He left his door open, making himself available to any who'd come calling. A few had, awkwardly asking about the services and honors. He provided what consolation circumstances would permit.
After a few days, Daniel appeared at his door.
As with all the others, he stood for a moment without knowing what to say. He didn't know what he was looking for, what he could contribute, how close to this he wanted to be. At last, he said the only thing that came to mind.
"I heard you were planning the services."
"Organizing," Hammond said. "Major Carter will receive full military honors. I've only been trying to nail down the specifics."
"I imagine there must be a lot of those."
"Coordinating times, locations, compiling guest lists," Hammond said. "Deciding which recording of Taps to use."
Daniel stiffened. "Recording?"
Hammond shook his head. The situation was caused by necessity, not disrespect or disregard, but these people had had enough necessity already – necessary orders, necessary actions, necessary deaths. "Traditionally, taps has been played either by bugler or recording," he said. "There are very few buglers in active service now – none of whom have the proper clearance to go offworld."
Daniel had looked incredulous, but it changed to uncertainty, at that. "Offworld?"
"Combat pilots in the US Air Force are entitled to a fly-by in Missing Man Formation," Hammond explained. "Given her history with the F-302 project, it seems only fitting that they perform the maneuver – and to fly the F-302s, we have to use the Beta Site."
Daniel looked down. "Have you decided who will give the eulogy?"
"I'm not sure that's for me to decide," Hammond said.
-
Daniel found Jack in Sam's office surveying the progress, wheelchair abandoned in one corner. Boxes lined the counters, and Sam's latest project had been wheeled away – the shelves had been bared of books, and stood against the walls like grey skeletons. "Are you going to speak?" he asked.
The question startled him. "What?"
"At the funeral," Daniel said. "Are you going to speak?"
Jack picked a pair of pliers from one of the boxes, turning it over. "What would I say?"
"You can't say you don't have anything."
"I didn't." Jack beat the pliers absently against his palm. "I sent her to die, Daniel. I know you don't see it that way, but I do. I have to. I'm not sure I should be the one to say anything."
"I'm not sure it should be anyone but you," Daniel said.
"What about Jacob?"
Daniel looked away. "Yeah."
Jack replaced the pliers, letting one hand rest on the box. "What about you?"
Daniel stopped a wounded laugh. "I'm not sure it should come from me."
"Why not?"
"How am I supposed to stand there and... lament someone's death?" Daniel asked. "What kind of an authority could I be? I don't know what the word means any more."
Jack watched him. "It wasn't your fault," he said.
"It wasn't yours, either."
"Yeah, well." Jack brushed off his hands. "I guess that's where we disagree."
Daniel looked at the floor. Someone had swept the concrete spotless. Empty.
"We can't find Jacob," Jack said. "We can't contact the Tok'ra. His daughter is–" he stumbled. "...she's dead and we can't tell him. Her brother declined to come to a military funeral – the letter he wrote isn't exactly cordial. As I understand, he's planning a private memorial."
Daniel grimaced. Mark had made no secret of his disdain for the armed forces, and, when asked, Sam had made no secret of her disappointment in that fact. From Mark's perspective, undoubtedly, one more member of his family had been taken from him by the Air Force, and he had no desire to see them put on rites for her death. And yet...
"She deserves better than that," Jack said. "She should have family there. Blood relations."
"We're not good enough?" Daniel asked, recognizing the question's petulance but unable to not ask.
Jack ran his hand along the edge of the box, staring at the equipment that, in her absence, seemed impossibly mundane. She'd spent so much time here, on one project or another – it seemed she'd spent her life here, filling the room with unabashed enthusiasm. After a time, long enough to lose the question, Jack spoke. "Who is?"
Daniel's eyes travelled from the box to his face. "What?"
Jack didn't flinch, didn't cringe or look away. "Who is?" he repeated, stronger now. "Good enough. To do what? Make this worth it? Make this right?" He spread his hands, looking around the gutted lab. "If the Joint Chiefs of Staff showed up at her funeral it wouldn't be good enough, Daniel. She's dead for no good reason and anything after that is just a – consolation prize." He shoved the box across the table, setting its contents clanking against each other. He spun on his heel and stormed toward the door.
Daniel started after him. "Jack, your ch–"
"I'm not going far," Jack growled, and he didn't. He stopped just outside, leaning on the threshold with his back to the lab.
Daniel approached, studying Jack's face in profile. He couldn't see much – Jack hadn't come this far without learning how to mask his own emotions. Daniel opened his mouth to say something, closed it when he found he had nothing to say.
Jack glared at the opposite wall, similarly at loss. No good reason wasn't entirely true. He'd barely made it out alive, as it was – the wheelchair stood in testimony to that. Without the shield they'd have lost valuable minutes, valuable people. Half of the scientists and techs. Himself and Edwards. Teal'c, almost certainly. Carter would have agreed, had he asked her – ordering her to fix the shield, ordering her away from the 'gate, had been the right decision. Or the only decision. Or just the least wrong.
But nothing changed the fact that, with full knowledge of the risks, he'd ordered her off on her own. Directly or indirectly, he was responsible for her death.
Good enough. He didn't know what the words could mean. Everything got muddled – values and morals and the best and worst intentions. These memorials weren't good – they were all they had. And for the task, the duty, the honor of delivering a eulogy, he knew he wasn't good enough. But in the absence of anyone closer, perhaps he was the least bad.
He stepped back into the lab. "If there's no one else to speak, I'll do it," he said, taking his wheelchair again. "But it shouldn't be me."
-
There was no one else.
In deference to O'Neill's position or their own insecurities, no one accepted the burden. As a matter of course a laptop was brought to his Infirmary bed, curtains half-drawn to give him privacy and what little peace could be offered. He opened the computer like a munitions case, with distrust and wary respect for what lay inside.
Eulogies. He hated eulogies, as he'd come to hate everything meant to commend a life that had ended – and in his line of work ended early, most often. In themselves, they were nothing distasteful. But they represented a finality he'd never been able to accept. He had written eulogies and brief statements before, albeit rarely, and never for a situation like this.
As hours passed, auxiliary papers piled up beside him. Mission reports, performance evaluations, correspondence – anything that could give him some idea of how to begin or proceed. When he could find nothing external to prompt him he looked inside, only to be confronted with a tangle of all manner of things – guilt and pride and frustration and anger and respect, intertwined like rough chords and layered on a deep well of darkness. He retreated from it, pushed away the introspection and closed himself off from even his own empathy. The brief wonder had shaken him – everything beneath his sternum had been hollowed out, filled up with caverns of a deep and present emptiness.
At last, he wrote: precisely. Precision in the details, the facts, the records. A mechanical process of transfer from one report to another, an attempt to build a memorial from prerecorded lines. The words filled the screen, but didn't satisfy him.
Again, he thought, (It shouldn't be me.)
After he had struggled through most of a page, he looked up to see Teal'c standing at his bedside. The man had presence and more than his share of mass, but he could still approach silently – his own courtesy wouldn't allow direct interruption. "Teal'c," Jack greeted. He didn't want to know how long he'd stood there.
"You have decided to speak," Teal'c said.
"Yeah."
Teal'c nodded, tacit approval.
"I'm starting to wish I hadn't," Jack said, not entirely truthfully. He hadn't wanted to from the beginning.
Teal'c approached, sitting down on an infirmary stool. "I have thought on what I might say, were I to speak," he said.
"Come up with anything good?"
Teal'c looked at the open document, skimming the lines. Neither approval nor disapproval showed on his face. "Major Carter represented an enigma to me," he said. "At the time I met her I found the notion of female warriors foreign, even repugnant. I was at first offended that I would be asked to work alongside a female of the Tau'ri."
Jack snorted. "What changed your mind?"
"A great many things. As I worked in the service of this world, over time I came to see her not as a human female but an icon. I came to understand that she represented all those things the Goa'uld lacked."
"Intelligence, grace, wit, charm?" Jack suggested.
Teal'c frowned at the interruption. "Indeed," he said darkly. "But after many months I came to realize that even this assessment did her a disservice."
"So what was next?"
"Words and qualities denote specifics," Teal'c said. "Things easily definable. No combination of these could define Major Carter. I recognized her by the way I experienced her presence, the manners by which she taught me both directly and implicitly. Though I feel now that I knew her, nothing I can say could transfer that knowledge."
Jack exhaled. "That doesn't help me."
"No," Teal'c agreed. "You have been asked to do the impossible. To do her justice you must speak of that which placed her beyond all others. A ritual which will not allow you to express those things is flawed."
"That helps me even less," Jack said. "Do you have a better idea? Some – ritual that will work right?"
"I know of none," Teal'c admitted.
Jack waved at the screen. "What do you think?"
Teal'c considered. "It will suffice," he said.
"It's bad," Jack paraphrased. "It's pointless and obvious and shallow but I don't know how to fix it."
"That, I cannot help you with." Teal'c stood again. "I believe you have it within you. However, you must find it on your own."
-
The day of the memorial dawned cool and cloudy in Colorado Springs, though the forecast from the beta site showed clear skies. The funeral had been scheduled for late evening, beta site time – which meant early afternoon Earthside, which further meant that morning found Colonel O'Neill in the Infirmary, fending off the two nurses and one doctor who insisted on helping him into his dress uniform. They crowded him, straightening seams and adjusting cuffs – he'd barely managed to take charge of his decorations, swiping them from Lt. Kaspar when he'd left to retrieve his service cap. The more assistance they provided, the more infuriated he became.
...and then Lt. Brightman pushed out a wheelchair that looked ever so slightly more formal than the one he'd used thus far.
Jack gave it a look generally bestowed upon live symbiotes, catching Fraiser's eye with a jerk of the head. "Is this a joke?"
"Not at all," Fraiser said.
"No," Jack said, trying not to fumble his medals or Kaspar would take over again.
"I'm afraid it's not negotiable, Colonel. Doctor's orders."
"I'm fine."
"No, Colonel, you're not," Fraiser said. "You're going through a latent phase. You still don't have your stamina back up, and your immune system is depressed. You can't be exerting yourself."
"I'm fine," Jack snarled again. "You think I'm not strong enough to stand up through my own second in command's funeral?"
"I think that as your doctor I would be remiss to let you try," Fraiser said, folding her arms. O'Neill outranked her, loomed over her by at least a head – and still couldn't find a single advantage. The woman had the power of her office and a will as adamant as his own.
"What are you going to do," he deflected. "You can't very well force me. Or do you plan on tying me to the chair?"
"Worse," she said. "I'll tell Daniel."
Jack winced his eyes shut. Because as much as it sounded like a joke, it wasn't – if Daniel thought Jack might injure himself, even through exhaustion, he would hang over his shoulder the entire time. Fraiser would already be escorting him from a distance, but Daniel – Daniel had no problem fussing to his face. Constantly. Insistently. In the end, all involved knew Jack would give in just to lessen the annoyance.
"Or," Fraiser continued, laying a trump card like nuking a sentry, "I can – and will – have you confined to the Infirmary for the duration. Radiation poisoning is not a minor condition, and you've already aggravated it by exerting yourself as much as you have."
His eyes flew open, the magnitude of her threat penetrating his anger. "What?" he demanded.
Fraiser met his eyes, refusing to give ground.
"I. Am. Going," Jack said, snapping off the end of each word.
"With the wheelchair," Fraiser said, more smoothly but no less harshly.
Inwardly, he seethed. Usually these arguments had some subtlety – an absurd interplay hiding levity understood by both parties. As much as Jack groused and griped, he was in the argument as much for the game as for infirmary release. For Fraiser's part, a good argument served to mollify the Colonel by giving him the chance to argue instead of overriding his authority out of hand. This time, she'd pulled the big guns without prelude.
He could go to Hammond, of course, but Fraiser could overrule Hammond. And, rather than argue with his chief medical officer, the General would more likely tell Jack to use the damn chair. This was a fight in which he literally had no allies, as Fraiser knew. Even if he did stay behind and sulk, in a perverse way, she'd have won.
Daniel stepped into the Infirmary, stopping when he saw the standoff. Jack looked at him, expression darkening before he turned to Fraiser.
"Give me my cover," he growled, and one of the nurses handed his service cap over. Whoever had dug it out for him had gone over it with a lint brush and polish – it looked better than regulation. "I'm standing for the eulogy."
Fraiser nodded. She wouldn't deny him that – to do so would have been cruel beyond concerned. The battle had ended and she was the victor, though as always the victory was bitter. She didn't need to tear him down as well. "Understood."
Jack sat stiffly in the wheelchair, brushing imaginary dust from its armrest. "Which I have to go print, by the way," he excused himself, nodding with a bare minimum of civility. "Doctor. Doctor. I'll see you both in the gateroom."
Jack took the wheels, turning them with such aggression Daniel jumped out of the way. He disappeared into the hall, and a dark cloud followed.
Daniel sidled, looking out after him. So many things had gone wrong, obvious and subtle. Jack had to bear the weight of all of them, especially his own perceived failures – the chair was emblematic of the sum. "How's he doing?"
"Physically?" Fraiser sighed. "He's slowing his own recovery by trying to do things too fast. Mentally, emotionally... he's distracted, and more irritable than I've ever seen him. I think most of it is the mix of circumstance. I hope it is. I don't want to refer him to MacKenzie, but if there's a problem, I will." She looked up at Daniel, studying him quickly with a practiced eye. "How are you doing?"
"I don't know yet," Daniel answered, truthfully. "How are you?"
Fraiser paused on that. Odd as it seemed, no one had asked – Hammond had checked in, offered his condolences, but tended to stand on the sidelines rather than step in on his own. People had known of her friendship with Sam – but she wasn't on SG-1, hadn't gone into danger with her twice a week, hadn't become closer than siblings in the trenches of one Goa'uld hell or another. Of the people who knew how close they'd been O'Neill was too preoccupied with his own grief to notice anything else, and Teal'c and Hammond were too reserved to approach. She'd fallen into the same grey shroud of mourning that suffused the SGC, as all sympathy – including her own – focused on SG-1.
"It hasn't sunk in yet," she said. "I keep noticing that she's gone, and then I wonder why, where she is. And then it hits me... but it hasn't sunk in."
"I know," Daniel said, pulling off his glasses to clean them. "I keep thinking this can't be real. I know it is, but I don't believe it. I just want–" his voice snared up, and he hesitated before replacing the glasses on his head. "Sometimes I just want to grab people and shake them and tell them that she can't be gone, because it's so obvious. I think it's because no one saw her–" he couldn't finish the sentence. "It just doesn't seem real."
"Sometimes it never does," Fraiser said. "Sometimes you wish it never does."
She looked up. Daniel's face was carved in mourning – that same, gentle grief he displayed to so many in empathy, worn like a coat or a mantle. Behind it the real pain lay concealed, an injury bleeding inside, invisible. He hadn't asked for anything – taken it when it was offered, but never asked. He would just keep going, offering all he could, until the wounds had healed or killed him.
"General Hammond will be waiting in the gateroom," she said. "Come on. Let's go."
-
The eulogy printed, but not without a struggle. Jack had gone back four times, canceling the printer as it worked, making corrections, moving lines, re-reading them as they came still hot from the printer head. The other denizens of the computer lab gave him wide birth, eventually emptying the room. He didn't notice. In the end he held a document just as dissatisfying as the one he'd begun with.
Teal'c was waiting in the hallway when he wheeled out. "You are prepared?"
Jack glared down at his papers. "Prepared is such a strong word for it."
"You are in a poor mood."
"Yes, Teal'c, I am. Very observant," Jack said. "Was there a point to that?"
Teal'c scowled. "At this point your anger can only serve to injure those who look to you for comfort or guidance. It is unbefitting that you should attend a memorial so incensed."
"I always get angry at funerals. You're asking me to break a fine, long-standing tradition."
"Were we on Chulak I would be within my rights to bar you from the ceremony altogether," Teal'c said.
"For crying out loud!" Jack exploded. "You're the second person today who's threatened to ground me from this thing! Is there something the world wants to tell me, or is this someone's idea of a joke?"
"There is indeed," Teal'c returned. "I understand your anger. You have every right to seek revenge against Anubis. But to attend her funeral with your heart filled with hate, to allow that anger to divert your attention and taint the ritual, indicates that you honor neither her nor her sacrifice."
Jack gaped. When he spoke again his voice turned low and rough, threatening and dark. "I cannot believe you just said that to me."
Teal'c stood his ground.
"You think the fact that I'm mad means I don't–" he spluttered. "You, of all people – you want to stand there and look me in the eye and–"
Teal'c said nothing.
"Well what the hell am I supposed to feel?" Jack roared. "Joy?"
"You know perfectly well of what I speak," Teal'c said. "If you are to attend, do so to honor her. Not your own injuries."
He left before Jack could shoot back. Jack stared at him, betrayal and incredulity tangling at the center of his chest.
He hadn't lied – anger and funerals had married in his life long ago, and darkly, he appreciated that. The anger could wrap around him like a MOLLE, carry the coping strategies, deflect the grief. Analgesic rage. No, it probably wasn't healthy for himself or for anyone else, but–
But what?
In everything he allowed himself to believe, what little he had faith in, he'd come to understand that the role of commander went hand-in-hand with protector. In his actions that translated physically: absorbing what risks he could, sharing what he couldn't, taking first watch, guarding his team members' backs. But he'd failed in that role, on '542.
At this point, your anger can only serve to injure those who look to you. Teal'c had struck a nerve with terrible precision. He'd never asked to become a confidant, a pillar of emotional support; he wasn't equipped for the role and never had been. He could barely see out of his own problems, let alone heal the wounds of others. He'd run from Sara after Charlie, run from Carter after Daniel – he knew they needed him as much as he could be said to need them, but there was nothing he could do. Maybe that made him a coward. That, he didn't know.
He hadn't completely blacked the last days out. He was perfectly aware that he'd lashed out at everyone within reach, Daniel, Teal'c and Fraiser especially so. Probably the three people who needed his sympathy most.
As a defense mechanism, his anger was more valuable than anything. Within his duties, it became unforgivable. He'd injured those he was meant to protect, and that was worse than failing them.
Well, he reflected, if Teal'c considered bitter guilt and shame appropriate emotions for a funeral, he'd certainly succeeded in his job.
He wheeled toward the gateroom. He'd been dressed down by Hammond more than a few times over the course of his career, and none of them had compared to the treatment he'd just received from someone technically under his command.
"Jack!"
...of course, now would be the moment Daniel showed up.
He tacked on a poker face as Daniel caught up with him, taking the chair handles as a matter of course. "We thought you were going to be late. What was taking so long?"
"Teal'c had something to tell me," he said, as Daniel propelled him at a fast clip down the hallway and into the gateroom. The guest list and honor guard were already assembled. He sighed. "Daniel, I may be confined to this thing, but I'm still capable of making it through the 'gate on my own power."
He caught Teal'c out of the corner of his eye. The Jaffa didn't look at him or change posture or expression, but Jack felt chastised nonetheless.
"...if it makes you feel better," he conceded, "you can push me up the ramp."
Daniel would probably take it as a covert admission of need – ironic, since for once he'd said exactly what he meant. But that was the price one paid for being the Jack who cried "fine."
Hammond noted his presence, then nodded to the operator on duty. The Stargate spun to life, in stature and gravity akin to those assembled before it.
-
Hammond had asked that all personnel attending the services go through at once – opening the 'gate was no small expenditure, and only profound respect and sympathy among the program's supporters granted allowance for the Stargate to be opened once, by request, for funerals of active-duty deaths. So, while the honor guard would proceed out of the base to practice, one of the newly-complete storage rooms had been converted into a lobby for a pre-ceremony wake.
Sam's life had centered to much on her work that, with Mark Carter's refusal to attend, few people without security clearance had even been considered. Most of the guests were scientists from the SGC or Area 51, soldiers she had served with, coworkers. At least one representative of every SG team able to be on-world had attended, more from those to which she had been assigned at some point. General Kerrigan had come from the Air Force Academy, General Vidrine and Major Davis from the Pentagon. Of the few civilians admitted most were scientists. One, of course, was Cassandra Fraiser, traveling through the Stargate for the fourth time in her life.
Invitations had also been sent to what few offworld friends had been deemed close enough to attend – Jonas Quinn from Langara, Warrick from Hebridan. A message had even been sent to Thor of the Asgard, though in honesty no one expected him. Numerous attempts had been made to find the Tok'ra, each as fruitless as the last. They'd made it very clear they didn't want to be found.
Jack escaped as soon as he could. No one had absolved him – he barely thought it right to be there, and couldn't take condolences. So he wheeled out of the half-finished base, past the makeshift hangars with their compliment of F-302s, into the open air.
The Beta Site, soon to be rechristened the Alpha Site after the destruction of its predecessor, had been built in the shade of a low mountain range. Wide spaces had already been cleared and leveled, but the surrounding countryside remained untouched – gentle foothills smoothing into a wide plain, low crabgrass and sandy soil phasing into trees in the distance. Not the best environment for taking a wheelchair, but not enough to deter him. Shallow ruts followed him from the base's door into the wilderness.
He stopped with his back to it, near enough to tell when he was needed. And then he just sat, letting his mind wander over nothing, letting thoughts come and go as they were wont to. P4X-650 had few native animal species – insects, mostly, who already droned in the sinking sun. Long shadows lengthened, reaching local-westward.
He could hear the honor guard practicing far away, Taps slow and fragile against the air. He looked at the sky near the sun, watching the light turn from gold to amber. Here they had a sky to cushion the sun, and enough air to breathe. Here was life, even only plant life, as far as the eye could see.
Footsteps approached from behind him, and he flinched. (Daniel,) he guessed. (Come to see if I'm all right.)
It wasn't Daniel's voice that hailed him. "Jack?"
Outwardly, he froze. Inwardly his heart tried a strategic withdrawal through his throat, his breath tried to hasten too fast and caught, and adrenaline like bile climbed behind his tongue. Every instinct threw itself to fight or flee.
Right hand closing down over the wheel, he turned. "Jacob!"
In the evening sun, it was hard to tell who was paler. Jack looked like he'd seen an avenging angel. Jacob, like he'd seen the devil. "Jack, what the hell happened here," Jacob asked, voice hanging between too many emotions to rise above a whisper. "I got a message, I went to Earth, and they told me–"
"Jacob," Jack said, hand tightening on the wheelchair. He wanted to stand. He wanted to go to attention, brace for a dressing-down, fall into protocol and not look the man in the eye. Carter had been good at that; letting protocol take blows for her. Jack was the type to shed it at the earliest opportunity. "General Hammond should–"
"Jack," Jacob said. "What happened to my daughter?"
Jack looked to the ground, searching for guidance in the coarse dirt. He had too many things to say – apologies, condolences, defenses, requests for forgiveness. Some he could never say, some he would never. For now he couldn't offer more than an explanation, and someone to blame. "We came under attack by Anubis," he said. "I ordered her to shore up our defenses, buy us time for an evac. And she did... and we got out. ...and she didn't."
He'd expected, at the corner of his mind, that Jacob would explode at him. What ever happened to leaving no man behind? How could her CO evac before her? What had he been thinking, giving the order? He'd been prepared for those. He'd asked himself the same things.
Instead he saw Jacob's feet turn, take three steps off. He didn't look up to see the General's expression, but he didn't need to. When Jacob turned back, it was clear in his voice. "How?" he asked. "Exactly."
"We were on PV1-542," Jack said. "This pulsar planet. There was so much radiation – only these shields kept us safe. When Anubis attacked, they went down. She tried to fix one and didn't make it out in time."
"And what happened to you?" Without looking at his face, Jack couldn't read him. Maybe it was an accusation. Maybe it just sounded like one, because it felt like everything was.
"Radiation," he said. "When I came through the 'gate." (When I came through without her.)
Jacob said nothing.
Jack inhaled, slowing his breathing and squaring his shoulders.
"I am sorry to hear," Selmak said. "I offer my sincerest condolences for the loss your team has felt."
Jack looked up sharply. Jacob's face – Selmak's face, now – was lined with deep sympathy, eyes gentle. Jacob had disappeared inside, whether by his own request or by Selmak's initiative. Either way, it displayed more than emotion – something Jacob was as loathe to do as Jack.
"Jacob," he forced, looking through Selmak to find him. "I am so sorry."
Selmak's eyes flashed. "We will see you at the ceremony," he said, and retreated into the evening.
-
After the guests and honor guard had arrived, after the flag had been positioned and all invited had been arranged into neat rows, after all protocol for the arrival and initiation of a funeral had been dispensed, Jack stepped up to the podium.
The sun rested on the horizon, sunset spreading like a slow ache across the sky. Desperate unease had settled on his skin, chilling him in the temperate air. He didn't look at Jacob. (He should be the one standing here,) he thought. (Not me.)
"Major Samantha Carter," he began, "arrived at the SGC a Captain, seven years ago, assigned to SG-1 by Presidential order at its formation. From her first mission she was an integral part of both the team and the program. In that time she has gone on over seven hundred missions offworld, including eight as acting CO, thirty-nine on special assignment as technological advisor, and over ninety overseeing missions she, in fact, proposed. To say that she contributed greatly to our endeavors would be an understatement.
"Five days ago she died in the line of duty."
He paused, letting the words settle in the air. He hated the way it sounded: cold, clinical, a recitation of facts. The only things he wrote were mission reports – he couldn't be asked, couldn't be expected to stand here and do justice to a great woman's life. But he had been.
"It would be difficult if not impossible to find someone more qualified, more respected, or more... well liked than Major Samantha Carter," he went on. "She served the SGC in many capacities, each one vital. As a scientist, she was responsible for many of the SGC's advancements. She kept the Stargate running, solved problems none of us could have foreseen. As a soldier, as an executive officer, she performed valiantly on and off the field of battle. As an ambassador she represented Earth, reflecting great credit upon the SGC and the United States of America."
He found it harder to say each word. This cold distillation bordered on mockery – a stranger could have written it, and delivered it with as much effect.
"Her death–"
He stopped.
He couldn't let this stand as her memorial – let those assembled think that this was what her life had meant to him, to anyone. He stared down at his speech, read over and over the lines. At last he winced, and put the papers aside. He cleared his throat.
He'd have liked to deliver a masterpiece. A speech whose heights of elegance would be hailed as a literary wonder, recorded and held in awe until PSR-PV1 had burned to a dense, cold ball. Instead, (tell the truth) was all his mind provided.
"I wrote that her death came as a shock and her loss would be keenly felt," he said, "but that doesn't do it justice – not to her, not to her sacrifice. Truth is, I don't know what will. I could list all her accomplishments and still not come close to defining what she was or what she meant to the program, or to my team. In the time she spent with us she served as scholar, soldier, diplomat... she opened new worlds to us. Usually literally. She saved us – she saved Earth – more times than I can count. ...if there was any shock in the way she died, it was that there was a problem so colossal even she couldn't come up with a solution. ...she was our miracle worker.
"I think Major Carter's service record would speak for itself, beginning to end. It would paint a picture of a dedicated, decorated officer, highly commended, of unparalleled patriotism and competence. But those of us who knew her know how much more she was than just a fine officer. She made the SGC come alive. She could make the impossible seem easy, the technical seem fascinating..."
He almost smiled with the pang that shot through him.
"She never lost her sense of wonder. To the end, that was what motivated her. And unlike some in her position, she was never impatient or arrogant. She was literally one of the best people I've ever known.
"I can't say," he continued, "What she meant to us. To all of us. What I can say is that for seven years it was my honor to serve as her commanding officer, and in all that time she never ceased to amaze me. She died saving others, and only she could have managed what she did. To the end, she was a consummate officer, an incredible scientist, and a stalwart friend."
He stopped again, realizing the task's futility. He could go on like this for hours if not years and not come any closer to his goal. Teal'c was right – pinning her down in words was like catching shadows with a flashlight.
"We'll miss her," he ended, softly, simply.
He stepped down, standing before his wheelchair. Hammond nodded to one of the honor guard, and took Jack's place. "We commend the spirit of Major Samantha Carter to the universe she opened to us. We pledge to continue our journeys in her memory. May she rest in peace."
Out of the deepening darkness to the west, four F-302s approached. The sound of their jets passed like wind through the gathering, rising as they neared.
As the formation passed overhead one plane broke and climbed in steep ascent. While the rest continued eastward toward the last sliver of the Beta Site's setting sun, the solitary F-302 fired its rockets. It disappeared into the upper atmosphere and from there out of the planet's gravity, where the light of its engines disappeared among the glimmering stars.
-
The last notes of Taps faded, taking with them the sigh of the engines. Beneath the wide expanse of the Milky Way, undiluted by pollution or city lights, the honor guard solemnly folded the flag. All eyes watched them as they proceeded with scientific precision, twice bringing edges together and finally folding it into a perfect, star-studded triangle. A guardsman held it steady in his gloved hands, walking it to Colonel O'Neill.
O'Neill accepted the flag, gravity etched in deep lines on his face. The honor guard stood back as he turned, crossing the distance between himself and Jacob at a steady march. He held the flag out carefully, offering something precious and tenuous – the only thing left of Jacob's daughter.
"On behalf of the President of the United States, the Department of the Air Force, and a grateful nation," he recited, "we offer this flag for the faithful and dedicated service of Major Samantha Carter."
Jacob's hands closed down over his in a gesture he couldn't read. Solidarity or responsibility, amnesty or blame – he removed the flag from his grip.
Jack saluted. And in that moment he felt as if something had ended between them, that but for a common grief they'd become strangers once again.
-
When the ceremonies concluded, the guests dispersed – some back to urgent duties elsewhere, some back to the installation lobby. Hammond watched as they went, picking out one lone form in the darkness.
Jacob's innards had turned cold and wooden, clenching up beyond Selmak's ability to heal. He held the folded flag like a lifeline; ironic, for what it was. He'd come through the message, the trip to Earth, the redirection to the Alpha site, the ceremony, without letting himself process any of it. Everything felt wrong, but it was foreboding – as if something terrible was about to occur, but hadn't, not yet.
He found a low crest, and sat. Selmak offered no words – just a steady stream of sympathy and comfort he couldn't accept. It hadn't begun to hurt yet. What would become grief was now a numb spot where feeling should have been.
He could hear footsteps from a distance, but didn't look up. Only a few would think to approach him here, and the weight and pace narrowed that number down.
"We tried to contact you," George said.
"I've been busy," Jacob explained.
"I'm sorry," Hammond said, apologizing for the politics, the late notice, the death – for everything. Jacob didn't respond, staring off at the black line of the horizon.
George sat down beside him.
"You know, she saved my life," Jacob said at length. "Introduced me to Selmak. I always tried to do things for her and she'd go and do them so much better. Tried to get her into NASA when she was already with the SGC... I remember she used to bring home this differential calculus homework that I couldn't help her with if I tried, and then when April rolled around she'd help me with my taxes." His voice, contrary to its words, was casual. "Think it's too hasty to say that I've completely failed as a father?"
"You didn't fail." George looked toward the horizon as well, wondering if Earth lay among the visible stars, thinking how far they were from home. "If anything, her performance reflects great credit on you."
"The last time I saw her was on an Infirmary bed," Jacob said. "After that drone had been hunting her. I remember she looked terrible. But I was just proud. So proud," he added, more softly.
"You had good reason to be."
"People are not supposed to outlive their children, George," Jacob said. "Not like this. I mean, with Selmak, who knows how long I might be alive. I thought about it. But I thought I could watch her grow up, be there with her."
"I don't know what I could say to make this better," George began. Jacob laughed without humor.
"Yeah, well, that's the theme tonight, isn't it?" He shook his head. "Colonel O'Neill sure seems to think this is his fault. Should I?"
"I don't believe so," George said. "If anything the blame lies on Anubis."
"Ultimately, of course, yes. But Anubis has done so much to try and kill you off – asteroids, Ancient weapons. What makes this time different? Or did her luck just run out?"
"You know that's a question we may never know the answer to."
"I know." He pulled back, shifting his weight. "And I know her job was dangerous, and I know she was trained to handle that danger, and I know she wasn't my baby girl any more. What I don't know is how this could happen."
Quick footsteps approached.
George looked up, identifying the intruder as Captain Leonard – one of the many engineers assigned to the beta site. "Sorry to interrupt, sir. Message from Earth," Leonard said, handing over a folded piece of paper. "Came through the 'gate about four minutes ago." He saluted and removed himself as unobtrusively as possible.
George unfolded the note, read it quickly. "There's a situation at the SGC," he said, standing. "I have to get back." He paused on the verge of stepping away. "Jacob–"
"Go on," Jacob said.
Still, he hesitated. "If at any time you want to return to the SGC–"
"You have your duties to attend to, George, and I have mine," Jacob shot, words acidic. Duties. Sam had hers, and Jack had his – the implications were clear. These condolences, these ceremonies, were faint consolation; the same constraints that had kept him away, that had sent Sam to her death, still enmeshed them. No one had escaped. "You have a situation. Go make sure no more of your people die."
Hammond nodded, and left him beneath the stars.