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magibrainChapter Summary: Politics, arguments, existential crises... and oh, yes, Anubis attacks.
Index post: [Fic] Beneath a Beating Sun - Index
Hammond didn't keep a list of people he'd rather not see. Some of his subordinates did – Edwards kept a public list, taped to his locker, as a wry jab at coworkers and a relatively inoffensive way of airing grievances. O'Neill often made reference to one, though his probably didn't exist in actual written form. But Hammond's own sense of humor didn't tend in that direction, and keeping one for any other reason would be petty.
Still, if he had, and if he could spare the time now to keep it up to date, award-winning documentarist Emmet Bregman would have featured near the top. His enthusiasm, which proved staggeringly noninfectious, only reinforced that theory.
Colonel Tom Rundell, Cheyenne Mountain Complex Public Affairs Liaison, chosen for this task because the extent of his patience rivaled the length of his title, escorted Bregman into Hammond's office with a look that said he'd steeled himself for the long haul. "General Hammond, sir? This is Mr. Bregman."
Hammond nodded with the bare minimum of civility. Bregman answered with a grin and a proffered hand. "I'm very excited to be here, sir."
Hammond ignored both. "You may find that not many people here share your excitement, Mr. Bregman."
Bregman read disdain between the lines. "I see," he said. "Well, I'm sorry about that."
"I'm sure you've realized," Hammond said sharply, "that the president has given me broad discretion in ensuring the security of this facility."
Bregman snorted. "Well, I've already been frisked three times on my way down here–"
"We're all very busy here. And it's my interpretation of these orders," Hammond tapped a folder on his desk, "that you're not allowed to film any ongoing activities until they've been cleared by the Pentagon."
"So what exactly does that mean, General?" Bregman said, poorly feigning civility. "What exactly do you do here that isn't an 'ongoing activity?'"
Hammond didn't take the bait. "In light of that, I've taken the liberty to setting up an interview schedule for you with members of the SGC staff and personnel. One of the libraries on Level 18 will be made available to you, and one of the VIP rooms has been converted into an editing studio."
"That's very kind of you, but I'd rather set up my own shots, if you don't mind," Bregman said.
Hammond ignored the request entirely. "Colonel Rundell will be available to you to answer any questions or clarify any points," he said.
"Of course. 'Clarify.'" Bregman carefully phrased his next argument, then discarded the draft entirely in favor of something more direct. "Of course what you really meant to say there was enforce, but we'll just pretend–"
"Mr. Bregman." Hammond closed the orders. "Your presence here is highly unorthodox, and I will not allow it to interfere in the operations of this base, especially not now. If that requires more structure than you're used to, I'm sorry."
"Right. Look, General." Bregman advanced, putting one hand on his chest. "I'm a journalist. I cut through bullcrap for a living. I was asked here by the President of the United States to document what is going on here, his words. Real life. Reality. Not a carefully-controlled, military-censored, artificially watered-down fairytale of what's actually going on. Those are my orders. And I have every intention of carrying them out."
They stood at a standoff, neither giving quarter. After a moment, Bregman relaxed.
"But, hey, interviews. Good a place to start as any. I'll have Mr. Rundell–"
"Colonel," Hammond corrected.
"I'll have Colonel Rundell give me the grand tour, and then we'll get started. Thanks for your time."
He tromped out of the office without waiting for a dismissal. Hammond stretched his hands, counting down from ten. Rundell shot him a look of pained commiseration before following Bregman out.
-
"'Taken the liberty of setting up an interview schedule,' has he?" Emmet asked. "Taken the liberty is right. How am I supposed to make a compelling documentary if–"
"General Hammond is making considerable allowances for you in a very difficult time," Rundell said. Emmet snorted.
"Is this about that sitrep the President had to call in to get me access to?" he asked. "I don't know how you can think that my presence here is somehow going to compromise the security of the planet, not with all you do here. Tom, please." He stalked down the hall, adopting a confidential tone. "We both know I can't be more disruptive than the crises these soldiers–"
"Airmen," Rundell corrected. "We're the United States Air Force."
Emmet rolled his eyes at the distinction. "Airmen, then. Than what these airmen deal with every day. Whatever is going on, I don't know that it's more than a convenient excuse for you to avoid facing the camera. I'm not going to stand for it. The president's not going to stand for it."
"What you need to understand, Mr. Bregman–"
"Why don't you call me Emmet?" Emmet interrupted, trying to peer through an iron door. "What's this?"
"Storage," Rundell said. "These men and women are doing the jobs they were trained for. It's not their job to be put in front of a camera."
"Well, it's my job to put them there," Emmet said. "Maybe it should be their job. Free speech, free information, the freedom to know what is happening to the world – that's what I'm trying to represent here."
"As far as I'm concerned, you're here strictly to document–"
"I know what I'm here for."
Rundell nodded. "We've got some time before the first interview is scheduled–"
"I'm sorry," Emmet cut in. "'We've'?"
"I'll be sitting in on all interview sessions."
"Is that really necessary?"
"We feel that it is."
"Well, I understand – uh, a bit – where you might be coming from on that, from a military standpoint," he said, "but from a documentarist's standpoint? No. No, no no. Bad idea. We've got the camera, we've got the mic, and we've got the interviewer, and that's more than enough for most people. We don't need the Pentagon Review Board sitting in as well, if you know what I mean." Emmet peered down a hallway as they passed it. "What's down there?"
"Storage," Rundell answered. Emmet couldn't decide whether or not he was lying.
"Yeah. What I'm saying is a little bit of pressure, carefully applied, is good – it gets things moving, gets good reactions. But we don't need to act like this is an inquiry in a court martial. Get me? So I think it would be best if you didn't sit in."
"I've been asked to oversee–"
"Yeah, I'll bet you have." Emmet stopped, turning to face Rundell. "Look, Tom, I think maybe we got off to a bad start. And I'm willing to go along with these scheduled interviews in the name of – what shall we say – cooperation. We both know that a documentary has to consist of more than that, but we'll leave that argument for later. But since I'm doing this – playing this little game for you – I'd like you to do me a favor and sit out of this first round. Just until they get comfortable with me. Okay?"
Rundell didn't look impressed. "That may take longer than you think," he warned.
"I get that feeling," Emmet said.
Rundell folded his arms, considering every aspect and, Emmet suspected, weighing it against some manual recorded in the back of his head. "I'll need to see copies of the questions you intend to ask."
"You're kidding, right?" Emmet asked.
"I have to make sure you're not going to pursue anything prejudicial to the Air Force or its–"
"I'm not," Emmet said.
"I'll need to see a copy."
Emmet considered. "...fine," he agreed at length. "Is there a computer I can use?"
"This way," Rundell said, leading him down toward the computer labs. Emmet nodded and followed. An hour of careful consideration later he printed out the question sets – along with different, much abbreviated versions handed over to Rundell, who proofread them carefully and cleared them for use.
-
For Jack, the day was marked by the usual mix of anticipation and stubborn anticlimax. Somewhere out there, Anubis approached. But not quickly enough that anyone could tell. The scientists dabbled with options, stymied by the fact that no one knew what to prepare for. Jack worked on administrative paperwork ludicrously removed from present concerns.
It came as a relief when Teal'c came back through the Stargate, though Jack wasn't there to meet him. (He'd been wandering the base, checking with various department heads and kicking metaphorical tires.) He caught Teal'c outside the locker room, moving in quickly on any possible information. "What do you have for us?"
Teal'c nodded to him, unfazed by the lack of greeting. "The Jaffa are prepared to fight by the side of the Tau'ri," he said simply.
Jack waited. "...well, that's... good, I guess," he said. "What about news?"
"There is little." Teal'c remained impassive. "Anubis sweeps through the galaxy unchallenged. If he continues his current path, his fleet will arrive here within the next weeks."
"How many weeks?"
"One, perhaps two. No more."
"And that's adjusted for Mountain Time?"
Teal'c didn't laugh.
"Right," Jack said. "As far as we know, he's taking out the other snakeheads first?"
"So it would seem."
"Any chance they'll figure something out in time to save themselves, and possibly us?"
"Anubis has experienced a sudden leap in prowess," Teal'c said. "The Goa'uld advance only by stealing the technology of others. Without access to Anubis' knowledge, it is unlikely they could mount a defense."
"Never thought I'd wish those guys were smarter," Jack groused. "Hey, you seen Daniel yet? I checked by his lab, but he wasn't in."
"According to General Hammond's memo," Teal'c said, "he is currently scheduled to interview with Emmet Bregman." Teal'c's voice sank to scorn on the director's name. "Did you not attend yours?"
"Huh?" Jack asked.
Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "Would it not be wise to dispense with this as quickly as possible?"
"Point out to me the 'wise' one running this," Jack said. "Anyway, I'm going to hunt down Daniel. You've briefed Hammond?"
"I have."
"Okay. Good." He waved. "See you around."
-
Daniel had planned on taking a few moments to compose himself before walking into the library-turned-interview-room on Level 18. Instead he was ambushed by three men, a large camera and a boom mic as soon as he stepped out of the elevator, with the result that rather than introducing himself civilly and inquiring as to how their project was going his first appearance on tape was punctuated by an undignified "Wah!"
"Dr. Jackson, I presume," the lead man said, slipping under the boom and extending a hand. "Emmet Bregman."
"Hi," Daniel said, still looking askance at the equipment cornering him. He slipped into the hall, evading the boom and Bregman. "I thought you were supposed to be in General Library 2."
"Well, I just thought we'd meet you on the way," Bregman said. "Make sure you were coming. All that."
"Well, I'm coming," Daniel said, with an annoyed glance at the camera.
"So I can see," Bregman said. "It's just that the last meeting I was supposed to have – Colonel O'Neill, you know–"
(That explains it.) He coughed deep in this throat. (I wonder if he took the time to tell Bregman that he'd rather be interrogated by a Goa'uld?) "Jack's been very busy the past few days," he said.
"Word around the base is that he's not on active duty," Bregman said.
"Well, that's not–" Daniel tried to wrestle the facts into something credible, digestible, and inoffensive to Jack's pride. "He's not on deployment rotation. He's still got a lot of work to occupy him here. A lot of work," he emphasized. (Many fascinating jobs I can't actually specify. Really.)
"I'm sure," Bregman said, in a tone that said he wasn't. "Well, in any case, why don't we begin?"
(Why don't we.) "Was that my first question?" he joked feebly.
Bregman gave a little, unamused chuckle. "Uh-huh. Right. We'll hop right in." He flipped open his folder. "I guess we should start with the question everyone – at least, everyone on my staff – wants to ask. You've actually died, haven't you?"
Daniel felt, for just a moment, as though he'd been caught in headlights. Bregman had obviously never adopted "tact" into his vocabulary. This boded ill. "Uh, yeah. ...a few times too many, if you ask me," Daniel said.
"So what's it like?"
Daniel adjusted his glasses. "In my job? Generally unpleasant. Painful, excruciating, all that."
"No – I'm sorry. I meant actually being dead."
"Oh." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Actually, I don't remember too much. Usually it's just I get hit with something, I wake up in a sarcophagus. Y'know."
"But there was a time when you spent a year – I'm sorry, what was the word? Transcended?"
Daniel tried to get a glimpse of what was written in Bregman's folder, but couldn't. "Ascended."
"Right. 'Ascended.' Could you tell us a little about that?"
Daniel pushed open the library door, checking to see if anyone was inside. Unfortunately, no one was. No diversion. "I don't actually remember much of it."
Bregman looked unimpressed. "Well, in your mission file, it says – and I'm quoting – that your 'human body transformed into energy.' Can you tell us a bit more about that?"
"Nope. That's about where it gets fuzzy."
"Fuzzy." Bregman shook his head. "Okay. Okay! Let's try this," he said, ignoring the camera crew as they maneuvered the camera and boom into the library, filming all the while. "I understand that there is another energy person here, on this base, right now. Is that right?"
"Um... I wouldn't say 'another,'" Daniel said. "Satya didn't get to be an energy being by ascending – I mean, as far as we know. Well, truth be told, we know comparatively little about it. Which is..." he reigned in his enthusiasm, glancing at the camera warily. "...uh, complicated. And really neither here nor there."
"I see, I see." Bregman switched tracks. "Satya? Is that–"
"The entity," Daniel said.
"I see. And you would be, for lack of a better word, its... keeper?"
Daniel glared over his glasses. "Liaison."
"Well, tell me, is there any chance we could get it – uh, her? Him? – to answer a few questions for us? Really show the world what it is you do here. Contact with alien races."
"Look, I don't know what you may have been told," Daniel said, "but it's not a specimen here for you to study, or showcase, or whatever. It's an intelligent being, and it deserves dignity."
"We're not trying to take away anyone's dignity, Dr. Jackson," Bregman said. "On the contrary. But we are trying to paint an accurate picture of life here, of the extraordinary things you do, and it certainly qualifies as extraordinary."
Daniel sighed, finding the nearest chair and sitting. "You have no idea what you're dealing with," he said simply. "This entity is representative of a race who for some unmeasured amount of time – possibly millennia – have been confined to the inside of a pulsar, without any sense of who or what they are. What questions could you begin to ask that for your documentary?"
"Well, I was thinking of starting with 'how are you liking Earth,'" Bregman jibed. At Daniel's withering look, he backpedaled. "I'm sorry. I can see how that wouldn't be funny."
"Can you."
Bregman dropped the subject. "SG-1," he said. "What can you tell me about SG-1?"
"SG-1?" Daniel looked at his folder. "You've probably read all about us."
"Mission reports and evaluations, yes. I want your views, Doctor. Something a bit more human." He coughed. "No offense intended toward any and all alien members–"
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"Well, you must be very close with all the members of your team."
(...was that a question?) "Yyyes – I mean, we've worked together for quite a few years, in... extraordinary situations," he said. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you're asking."
"Well. Reading from your own file, your parents were killed in an accident when you were a child," Bregman said.
(...no tact or grace.) He flinched, unpleasantly sure the camera had caught it. "Can we not talk about that?"
Bregman seemed surprised. (Of course! Who wouldn't relish the opportunity to talk about their parents' deaths in front of millions of people?) Daniel thought. He suddenly, desperately wanted to escape.
"I'm sorry," Bregman said. "I was just going to say, with no natural–" he discarded the sentence halfway through. "Would you say you've come to see SG-1, or the SGC in a broader sense, as a kind of surrogate family?"
Daniel made a sick little sound in the back of his throat. Discussing these things with a stranger would be bad enough were he not being taped. "Well, they're certainly – I consider them a family, yes. There's no 'surrogate' about it."
"One of the founding members of SG-1 was just recently killed in action, is that correct?" He checked his folder. "Major Samantha Carter?
Daniel squirmed. "Sam Carter. Yeah."
"Would you be willing to speak a bit about that?"
He glanced toward the camera. "I don't – er, what do you want me to say?"
"Well, if I'm reading this right, is seems she was a decorated officer, a brilliant physicist–"
"Astrophysicist."
"–astrophysicist. Sorry, yes. Definitely the kind of person you would want around now that the real threat may be, as I understand it, at our very doorstep."
"Excuse me?" Daniel asked, hackles rising.
"The very brief, very censored sitrep I was given mentioned that an Anubis–"
"Yes, Anubis is a threat, now more than ever, but..." he scrabbled for words. Bregman's prompt had struck him profoundly the wrong way – he blacked out the camera, Bregman's newest attempts at questioning, and focused down onto the heart of the matter as he saw it. "I think it would be a mistake – a very big mistake – to classify this as 'the' real threat. In the years in which the Stargate Program has operated, we've faced threats just as immediate, countless times – several of which, I might add, we only survived because of her."
"Of course, Dr. Jackson. I didn't mean to imply–"
"That's not to say – I mean, I can't downplay the danger Anubis poses, both to Earth and to the state of freedom across our galaxy, and I'd do anything to have her back, now more than ever, but we also can't downplay the impact she's had on the program this far."
Bregman nodded. "I understand–"
"And certainly, we would be very, very lucky to have her, but even with her being gone the work she's done thus far has proved and I'm sure will continue to prove vital to–"
"Dr. Jackson!" Bregman interrupted.
Daniel ground to an unhappy halt.
Bregman fumbled with his folders, checking with his cameramen. Daniel shifted in his seat.
"Maybe we should take a short break," Bregman suggested.
Daniel felt ready to implode. "...yeah. Maybe we should."
-
Level 18 housed a number of the smaller labs and libraries – everything that didn't explode, as the scientists on Level 19 were wont to say. Except for light research and bothering Daniel, Jack didn't have much cause to frequent the level. A fact which apparently did not go unnoticed by its denizens.
"Colonel. I didn't expect to see you down here."
Jack turned to see McKay approaching, lab coat over one elbow and several treatises on things Jack didn't care about in his arm. "Looking for Daniel," Jack said.
"Oh. Dr. Jackson is in one of the libraries with the documentary crew." McKay waved down the hall, as if Jack was the one who had trouble finding his way around. "I haven't had a chance to do my interview yet."
"Sorry to hear that," Jack said, before the sentence caught up with him. "You're doing an interview?"
McKay looked put off. "Well, I have been working with the program for years," he said. "And I've been in and out of the SGC."
"Whatever," Jack said, still wondering if it would be worth the risk of being caught on camera to see if he could spring Daniel. "Aren't you supposed to be in the labs?"
McKay thought for a second. "No. Why would I be?"
"I don't know, trying to find a way to defend the planet or something?" Jack suggested. "We've got a little situation here."
"To protect Earth against any possible Ancient weapon Anubis might come up with, not to mention the full force of his fleet," McKay said. "Hm. Let's see. I think our options in that department are basically to shut down the Stargate and move the planet out of this plane of existence."
Jack didn't bother to temper his sarcasm. Or his annoyance. "You can do that?"
Neither did McKay. "No."
"Dang." He snapped his fingers. "And it was such a good plan." He gave up on the library. "If you run into Daniel, could you tell him that I want to see him?"
"Oh, I'm not staying down here," McKay said.
Jack exhaled, the air rattling into a growl as it moved. "Fine. I'll find him later." He headed for the elevator again.
"Colonel!" McKay stopped him before he could escape. He turned back.
"Yes?"
McKay shed his glib arrogance, repositioning his materials. "About Major Carter," he began.
(I'm not going to enjoy this, am I?) Jack wondered. "What about her?"
"I'd've said this earlier, but considering I basically found out when I got transferred here," he began. "And since no one thought I might appreciate coming to the memorial–"
Jack stared, trying to hear anything other than overwhelming arrogance in the scientist's words. "The funeral was for family and friends," he interrupted, automatically moving to put him in his place. "Which were you?"
"Well, I–" McKay fumbled to a stop. "I could'a paid my respects."
Jack snorted. "Right. Respects."
Now it was McKay's turn to take offense. "Look, Colonel," he snapped. "I know you're not a scientist by any stretch of the word, and I know Major Carter and I had our differences, but part of science is a healthy amount of controversy."
"Yes, well, in my profession, working together is more important."
"She was a scientist, Colonel."
"She was a Major in the US Air Force!" Jack shot.
"Well, unless she had secret magical superpowers I wasn't aware of, I think the scientific world's lost more than the military one," McKay shot back. He shook his head. "I just – I wanted to say I was sorry."
Jack recognized this as a good time to back away gracefully.
No one had ever accused him of an overabundance of grace. "To who?"
McKay glared. "The world at large," he said, and it was clear sincerity time was over.
Jack had almost readied a retort when a slamming door interrupted him. Jack and McKay both looked up to see Daniel, attention lost elsewhere. He nearly collided with them on his way down the hall, slipping between them with a muttered "'scuse me" before continuing on his way.
"Daniel!" Jack called after him.
Daniel stormed off without breaking stride.
Jack drew back, shaking himself out of his argument. "Excuse me," he said, and jogged after. McKay shook his head and continued with his business.
Jack made it around the corner, but not in time to see where Daniel had gone. Of course, there were few places he would go – as Jack didn't expect him to be in the Mechanics or Chemistry and Geology libraries, that left the Archaeology and Linguistics library, his lab, or another level. His money was on A&L.
He approached cautiously, listening for anything egregiously wrong. (Door closed,) he noticed first. (Bad sign.) He swung it open, checking for traps and obstacles. "Daniel?"
Daniel was already obscured behind a stack of books half a meter tall. "What?"
Jack slipped in, closing the door behind him. The Archaeology and Linguistics Library wasn't the most private place on base, but Daniel's lab was... otherwise occupied. He doubted Daniel would air his grievance – whatever it was – to the entity. (Well, we'll see how fast we can wrap this up.) "What's eating you?"
"That obvious, huh?"
Jack took a stool. "Well, given that you ran down two people in the hallway without looking up..." He cleared his throat. "I'd say so, yeah. What's on your mind?"
"I was thinking about Sam," Daniel said. "...well, actually, that's not true; I was thinking about what people would think about Sam."
"And this is bad?"
"Yes!" He dropped into a chair with bone-jarring force. "What did she die for? From a historical perspective, what came of it? No one who was there would think about discounting it, but that's talking about a very small population."
Once again, Daniel's line of thought lost Jack ten words in. "I guess?"
"I don't know why it bothers me so much, if no one's ever going to know anyway. I mean, sure, maybe in fifty years the Pentagon will declassify everything and by then she'll be – we'll all be – what, a footnote? 'And these were the pioneers of the Stargate program, who were later superceded by X and Y and Z,' and you know, even that doesn't bother me so much, because that's the way history works. But somewhere – somewhere in whatever version of history gets written there will be a little entry headed 'Samantha Carter' and it will say that she died on some rock in the middle of nowhere on a little side mission without any real importance and I am not fine with that!"
Jack silently wondered at the outburst. (Just when I thought he was coping. This is moody even for Daniel.) "What prompted this?"
"Bregman!"
Jack's mood went from bemused concern to fury in two syllables flat.
"What if he's right?" Daniel asked. "Maybe the President is right – maybe there should be someone here to put a human face on this."
"Daniel, as far as we know humanity will no longer exist in a few more weeks."
Daniel glared. "You're missing the point."
"Remember what I said about perspective?" Jack asked. "Never mind. I'll talk to Bregman."
Daniel's expression turned from sullen to alarmed. "Jack–"
"Just talk," Jack reassured. "Nothing drastic. For now."
"I really don't think that's a good–" Daniel began, but not fast enough. "–idea," he finished to the empty doorway. He put his head down. "Oh, boy."
After a second Jack stepped back in. "Hey! Daniel!"
Daniel looked up.
"What's news?"
"What?" Daniel asked.
"Is anything interesting going on with your entity?"
"When did it become my entity?"
"Since you adopted it and it moved into your lab," Jack said. "Anything interesting?"
"To me, or to you?" Daniel knew the answer. "No. Nothing helpful."
Jack snapped his fingers. "Stay on it," he called, making another rapid exit.
"I will," Daniel called back. As Jack's footsteps faded in the direction of the general library, he wondered if he should follow in the name of damage control. He quickly decided against it.
-
Jack did manage to take a moment to steel himself before rapping on the library's door, entering the room with his best full-Colonel glare. "'Scuse me!" he burst, louder than strictly necessary. "Mr. Bregman. You happen to have a moment?"
"Colonel O'Neill!" Bregman exclaimed, utterly unintimidated. "We missed you earlier."
"Was that today?" Jack bluffed. Without waiting for the retort, he turned to the cameramen. "Why don't you boys step outside," he suggested.
"No – no you don't. Stay right there," Bregman said. "What? Colonel, whatever you're going to say, why not catch it on camera? Or are you about to impart some – I don't know, state secrets or something?"
"Well," Jack said, "if you really want to record my kicking your ass for posterity."
"Oh," Bregman said. "I see I've managed to get under your skin too, Colonel–"
"Do you realize that I could shoot you any time I felt like it?" Jack asked. "I'd just have to fill out some paperwork?"
"You know, I've heard that joke before," Bregman said. "It's funny." He glanced at the camera crew. "What are you doing? Roll. Roll!"
The cameraman brought his camera up, recording a second and a half of Jack's annoyance before he put his hand over the lens and forcefully repositioned it downward. "Look, Bregman. I really have no idea why the President thought this was a good idea. Nor do I really care. But the memo I got said that you weren't going to interfere with operations here."
"Have I been interfering?"
Jack pointed out the door. "There is a very large piece of alien technology a few floors below us that requires a lot of attention, more now than ever. And everyone here needs to have their minds on it, nothing else."
"So you think my being here is intrusive," Bregman said.
"That would be the nice way of putting it."
Bregman spread his hands. "Well, I'm sorry, but this is what the president asked me to do."
"The president asked you to come here and upset people," Jack said.
Bregman looked surprised. "Oh, is this about–" He hiked a thumb at the corridor. "I apologized to Dr. Jackson. I think something I said set him off, though I certainly didn't intend–"
Jack waved for him to stop, disgusted. Bregman had an attitude only possible in someone who'd been somewhere totally removed for the last month. "Look, Hammond must have given you a list, or something."
"A list?"
"Of things you can't ask about."
"Oh. That. That was actually a Colonel Rundell..." Bregman looked around as if expecting him to come crawling out from between the shelves. "Which I think is crap. Anyway, Major Carter wasn't on it. I just asked a few questions. Certainly nothing implicating."
Jack's train of thought derailed, killing the conversation in an instant. Bregman thought he was worried about – come to think of it, what was Bregman implying? Or trying not to imply? And was this also something he should be angry about? He didn't know the answer, but defaulted to yes. "Let me just make one thing perfectly clear–"
A siren rang out.
Bregman looked up. "What is that? Offworld activation. That's happened before–"
(...crap. What now?) "Don't worry about it," Jack said, heading for the door.
The air twisted.
A pulse travelled through the room wall to wall, distorting light like water. "Should I worry about that?" Bregman asked.
Jack cursed under his breath. "You stay here," he yelled, launching into the hall.
"You, you, follow me!" Bregman yelled to his crew, and ran after.
-
Jack would have made better time if the air hadn't thickened like tar around him, moving away from the Gateroom in slow, windless waves. He tried to run through them with as much success as running underwater – Bregman and his crew fell behind, weighed down by their equipment. He bypassed the elevators entirely – SGC rules advised never to use elevators in the event of fire, catastrophic basewide malfunction or alien attack – and ran down the stairs, resorting to ten-at-a-leap jumps when he figured the compression of the air would cushion him.
By the time he made it to the briefing room hallway the floor was shaking beneath him. Every wave shivered through the concrete. He poured all his effort into the last metres between himself and the control room, sucking in air that seemed surprisingly low in oxygen.
"What the hell is this?" he roared over the tremors as soon as he reached the control room doors. Through the observation windows, the Stargate shone – the wormhole emitted the same hot blue of an alcohol flame, bouncing against the back wall. The Iris trembled over the event horizon. "Sergeant, shut it off!"
"Trying, sir," Davis yelled back. Jack struggled against the compression, fording to the consoles. "Whatever this is it's playing havoc with – with everything, sir. These are earthquakes, honest to god earthquakes it's causing!"
From the door, a panting McKay made his appearance. "More than that–" he yelled, "they're – increasing in intensity. If we don't shut this thing off–"
"Well, if you have any suggestions!" The coffee pot jittered off its stand, crashing to the floor. Jack tried to jump, but the compression pushed him back; coffee sloshed around his boot before regressing in slow waves toward the wall.
McKay stared through the window. "Is it supposed to do that?"
"Is what supposed–" Jack looked out as the Iris distended. "...damn!"
The lights blew out.
McKay yelped in the instant of black before the emergency lights came on. The glass blew back with the tidal force, whipping past him against the wall and through the door. Light flashed down the corridor, arcing into the room.
Lightning blew out the windows, screaming from the hallway over the technician's heads. More glass flew back as the lightning raced through the gateroom and impacted the Stargate, energy tearing back through the wires. A flash detonated, bright as a warhead. Everyone not already under cover ducked.
The siren shut down, and the compression let up.
Silence descended with sudden violence. Jack lowered his arm from his face, lacerations stinging against the bone. "Everyone all right?" he called, too loudly for the sudden calm.
Davis picked himself up shakily, tapping his computer as it rebooted on emergency power. "I think the Stargate is inactive," he said.
"You think?" McKay asked.
"I'm sure." He looked out of the blasted window, to where the 'gate glowed a light silver. "Was that–?"
"I think so," Jack said, and took himself down the stairs.
The glow on the Stargate coalesced, shimmering along the inner ring. Jack approached it warily, glancing back at the control room.
A thin tendril extended toward him. He steeled himself, holding utterly still as it passed through his face.
He got a sense without words to pin it down. Something terribly wrong with everything – physics edging toward its thresholds of mutability, threatening to go over the edge. It had come through the Stargate, through the wormhole. The entity had stopped it, plugged the hole. As an afterthought, realized only after touching his mind, it apologized for the damage.
"...no; you did good. I guess," Jack said, pulling back. For the seconds when it'd touched his mind, he'd understood, in implicit detail, what it had meant. It had shaken him. If this was what Carter had occupied herself with, he was glad he'd never caught on – everything he knew as immutable physical law had become soft at the edges, wobbly and uncertain. He looked back up at the control room. "Can somebody get Daniel down here?"
One of the techs gestured helplessly to the the intercom mic. "There's a lot of damage here, sir–"
"Send someone after him!" Jack yelled up. "He's – for crying–" he stopped yelling. Trusting the Stargate not to activate or explode in his absence, he dragged himself toward the stairs and laboriously up them.
In the control room, he surveyed the damage as best he could. None of the monitors were online save one – it read an unknown error in bright, flashing red. Several had blown out or burnt out entirely. One, in the row near the ceiling, discharged a steady stream of smoke.
Broken glass littered the consoles and floor, glittering in the emergency lights. The spilled coffee had lapped up the wall, staining it brown. The darkness, and the light down the hall, only added to the gloom.
Jack tapped one of the techs. "Daniel," he said. "Level 18. One of the libraries. He's probably on his way already, but if he's not–"
"Yes, sir," the tech said, slipping away.
Jack put one hand on the back of her chair, sucking in air. From his seat in front of the main displays, Walter paused in his halfhearted attempts to clear his keyboard. "Are you all right, sir?"
He blinked. Why his hearing had chosen that moment to tunnel... actually, he realized, it wasn't just his hearing. "Fine," he said. "...bit winded." (Too much running. And I think my lungs aren't working.)
"Should I call Dr. Fraiser?" Walter asked.
Jack jerked up. "No," he said. "I'm good," despite the fact he wasn't. He transferred more of his weight onto the chair back. "...when Daniel gets in, see if he can tell us what just happened," he said. "I'm pretty sure that thing knows."
Walter responded, but Jack wasn't listening. Instead he hauled himself up the stairs into the briefing room – mercifully devoid of actual people – and collapsed into one of the seats, putting his head down while his blood chorused in his ears.
(Note to self. No more running.)
"Colonel?"
Jack sat up, taking care not to let his head spin. "General?"
Hammond didn't ask why Jack seemed to be taking a nap in the middle of a situation. He probably figured Jack had his reasons. "What's going on?"
"Anubis," Jack hazarded. (What else?) "Wormhole. Weapon. Entity. Contained, for the moment." Even if he knew, he felt singularly unable to form a coherent sentence. He made a face. "Where were you, sir?"
"Commissary," Hammond said darkly. "I would have been here sooner, but I was ambushed by Mr. Bregman."
"Not intrusive my ass," Jack muttered. "General, request permission to beat the crap out of that guy."
"You're not alone in that sentiment," Hammond said. "Unfortunately, our orders haven't changed."
"We just got attacked! The president can't think this will work. It'd be like–"
"Film cameras on the beaches of Normandy?" Hammond offered.
Jack stumbled. "...point."
"We're not getting rid of him that easily," Hammond said.
Jack stood, albeit slowly. At least the walls had chosen spots and decided to stay there – they'd been indecisive earlier, which made them hard to walk between. "Daniel's going to talk to the... thing," he said, gesturing at the room behind him. "Apparently the entity can shut down an incoming wormhole. That might be useful."
"I'll meet him in the Gateroom," Hammond said.
"Good idea. I'm going to go take care of other things," Jack said. "See if I can keep Bregman out of trouble. I have a feeling he got some of this on tape."
Hammond winced at the shared headache. "Please," he said.
-
Bregman had, in fact, gotten quite a lot of footage. Unfortunately for him, though fortunately for the sanity of the SGC administration, most was of distortions in the hallways and corridors. The entity had flashed overhead, but too quickly for the camera team to register or refocus on – and, not moving at the speed of lightning at the best of times and further slowed by the alien compression, they hadn't followed fast enough to get a second chance. By the time they'd made it anywhere near Level 28 they'd been intercepted by SFs, who had quickly escorted them to the VIP editing station and asked that they stay there "until the all-clear."
Bregman suspected that there was no such thing in SGC operations, but consoled himself with the knowledge that they had, on tape, evidence of what he suspected was an alien attack – no matter how tangential to the actual action it proved. Things were looking up.
His crew had already loaded it into the computers when a knock sounded at the door. "Suppose that's our 'all clear?'" he asked, spinning his pen over one thumb. "Come in!"
The door opened.
Bregman craned his neck – and jumped out of his chair. "You must be Teal'c," he said. "Wow. I hadn't expected you to stop by here. Come in, by all means! Emmet Bregman," he said, extending one hand. "I'm sorry, that – whatever it was ran over your interview time. Is that–" he glanced back at his crew. "Is that why you're here?"
Teal'c stepped in, not otherwise acknowledging Bregman's greeting. "Colonel O'Neill has asked that I ensure you cause no problems," he said.
Bregman's enthusiasm stalled. "Did he, now."
Teal'c nodded.
"Well, I suppose as long as you're here–" Bregman looked around for the camera.
"He did not ask me to answer any questions while I was here."
"Of course not." Bregman sat down, patience expiring. "So exactly how long did Colonel O'Neill tell you to keep me out of trouble?"
"He did not specify," Teal'c answered, and Bregman wasn't sharp enough to catch the humor in his tone.
"So how long are you planning on standing there?"
"Though I understand you have not been given specific curfew," Teal'c said, "human adults generally seek between six and nine hours of sleep per night for optimal health."
Bregman resisted the urge to ask if he always sounded like an encyclopedia. Wouldn't do to get off on the wrong foot, after all. Or at least the wronger one. "You're going to stand there until I leave."
Teal'c neither confirmed nor denied that statement.
Bregman crossed his arms. "Either you're covering for something someone doesn't want me to know – very subtle, by the way, if that's the case – or this is Colonel O'Neill's idea of a joke." Teal'c raised an eyebrow. Bregman ground his teeth. "...and given what I know of the Colonel, which is admittedly not as much as I'd like, I think that may be the most likely explanation."
Teal'c eyebrow remained raised.
Bregman stood up. "All right. I'm just going to–"
"Perhaps you should remain here," Teal'c suggested.
"So, let me just ask this. Are you my liaison or my jailer?"
Teal'c didn't say.
Bregman looked around the VIP room. The bed had been covered with folders and tapes, the dresser removed entirely and replaced with a low table for editing equipment. It had been made abundantly clear that no one expected him or his crew to spend the night. And it was even clearer that they'd get little work done with him in the room – he couldn't imagine cutting footage with the alien's eyes upon him.
"Right. Well, I think we've done all we can today," he said. "Mr. Teal'c, I will be rescheduling your interview. Hopefully it won't get bumped again. Everyone, guys, back here, bright and early. In the mean time, go home. Good night."
Scowling at everything, he blustered off.
-
The night passed without obvious incident, in that the SGC was still there when everyone woke up. Still, everyone faced an early morning – the previous day's attacks had proved that time was of the essence. As the scientists insisted they didn't have enough data to know what exactly had happened – ten or fifteen different theories circulated, most bearing no resemblance to each other – Jack had realized that they had no viable means of defense. Save one.
Carter said something that stuck with him over a year ago, the last time Anubis had used a weapon on the 'gate. "Sometimes you have a way of seeing things at their simplest."
Simplest. He snorted. And she'd had a way of cutting through the confusion, the red herrings, the false leads – of seeing the heart of the matter and seeing the point where one precise push would set things rolling. She'd known methods of inquiry, of analyzing situations and data. He didn't – not in these applications. If he'd ever managed to inspire her, he'd been totally unaware of how.
So maybe he could see things in a different light. She'd been the one to tell that he did. She approached things differently, and the SGC lacked and needed that now. Unusual intuition.
Well, if there was one thing Daniel had said...
He didn't care for the entity one way or another. He recognized it as a potential threat and a potential asset. He didn't consider it a replacement for Carter – forced into that role, it made a very poor substitute. But it was something who could see things maybe no one else could. He wouldn't write it off just yet.
Oh-six-hundred found him lurking by the Level 18 elevators, guessing – correctly – that Daniel would be down any moment. His vigilance did not go unrewarded; the doors opened scant minutes later, discharging a less-than-happy Dr. Jackson.
Daniel didn't look surprised to see him. Nor did he stop to chat. "Hey," he said on his way down the hall.
"Hey," Jack answered, noting Daniel's annoyance. "'Good morning' is usually a nice way to start."
"What'd you want?"
(That's unusually terse.) "I wanted to ask your friend a few questions."
"Satya, Jack. It's not like I control it. Not everything has to go through me."
"Well, no, not has to, but..." Jack finished the sentence early. "You didn't have a particularly good night, did you?"
"My night was fine. My morning's been awful," Daniel said. "You didn't leave the base last night?"
(It was stay in my quarters or find a driver. And since Fraiser would know if I found a driver...) "Didn't feel like driving all the way home," he not-quite-lied.
"You want my advice, don't leave the base for a few days," Daniel said. "Security escorted me in today. You don't want to see the protesters out there."
"What protesters?" Jack asked.
Daniel hugged his papers. "Someone's got it into their head that we're testing secret weapons down here, and no one can tell them otherwise," he said. "The Colorado Geological Survey confirmed that yesterday's 'incident' couldn't be a natural earthquake before Hammond could get a message through the bureaucracy about keeping it quiet. Now the press is targeting NORAD with demands for information and all they can do is play the National Security card, and you can imagine how well that's going over." He snorted. "I swear, they think we're setting off nukes down here. Little do they know that it's so much worse than that." He clomped down the hall, still venting. "Under different circumstances, if I didn't know what was happening, I can see myself up there with them. What are we going to say if next time we can't stop Anubis? What if he comes in ships?"
"Then I imagine it won't really matter what we say," Jack pointed out.
"Oh, here's the best part," Daniel continued. "Guess who's up there filming them?"
"You're kidding," Jack said darkly.
"Nope. Right up there with a camera crew getting shots of Security helping people through the gate." He looked at Jack, clearly put off. "You know one of them threw an egg at my car?"
"Bregman's guys?" Jack asked, surprised.
"The protesters!" Daniel stopped in front of his lab, tapping in his code while trying not to drop the papers. "I mean, I'm all for civil protest, but the key word in that is–"
He stopped.
Satya still sat in the corner, but now it appeared smaller and emitted a distinct buzz. Daniel's mind leapt to all the ways that could be a bad thing before it said (Hello.)
Jack jumped. "Whoa!"
"You heard that?" Daniel asked, before turning his attention to the entity. "Hello," he responded. "You look... different."
(I am attempting to approximate your physical form,) Satya said. (It is difficult.)
"I imagine it would be," Daniel said. Beyond the fact that it now appeared more oblong than spherical, it hadn't made progress. "Uh, you're producing sound."
"It's not going to explode or anything, is it?" Jack asked.
(You can hear this?)
"Yes. We can."
(Good.)
Daniel and Jack exchanged looks. "Okay!" Daniel said. "You remember Jack."
(Jack O'Neill, Colonel, US Air Force, formerly retired, leader of SG-1,) Satya rolled off in an uncanny imitation of Jack's voice. With the words came scraps of other information – fleeting images, sensations, emotions. Daniel felt uncomfortably like he was eavesdropping on someone else's mind. (This is your identity,) it said, returning to its own neutral tone. (It was clear in you.)
Beside him, Jack also blanched. "Can you ask it not to do that?" he asked.
Daniel shook himself out of his unease. "Satya, we don't share our identities as readily as your kind do," he said. "It's considered impolite to share someone else's without their permission." (Not to mention it's unsettling.)
Satya stopped buzzing, diffusing again. (Impolite?)
"We prefer you don't do that," Daniel not-quite-explained. He didn't have time and Jack didn't have patience for a side jaunt into civility. "Jack has some things he wants to ask you."
(All right.) Daniel blinked – it must have picked up that particular phrase from him.
Jack glanced at Daniel. "Now what?"
"Just ask it," Daniel said.
Jack coughed. "All right. Ssss–"
"Satya," Daniel provided.
"Yeah. Look – we'd like you to help us."
(You'll help me. I'll help you.)
Jack glanced to Daniel. "Help it...?"
"Discover its identity," Daniel supplied.
"Okay! Fair trade," Jack said, rubbing one hand uneasily. "Do you know anything about Anubis?"
(What's Anubis?)
"Who," Daniel said. "He's a being that exists as energy on a different plane of existence than we do." He indicated himself and Jack on the we. "He was the one who attacked us. We think."
(I'm not aware. I know one energy being not one of my kind,) it offered. (It approached our star and later left. We did not communicate.)
"When was that?" Jack asked.
(Coincidental with your leaving.)
He looked at Daniel. "Coincidental?"
"Coinciding."
"That was him!" Jack said. "How much do you know about him?"
(I do not.)
"Nothing?" Daniel prodded. "You don't have any idea about what he is, what kind of a... thing he might be, anything?"
(What do you want to know?)
"Well, first and foremost, how to beat him," Jack said.
(Beat him?)
"At... war," Jack tried, casting Daniel a helpless look.
"Anubis is a threat to us, and to innumerable people like us through the galaxy," Daniel translated. "But we can't stop him. We don't have the technology."
(I don't have technology.)
"No, but you might not need it. You stopped his attack on Earth."
"Thanks for that, by the way," Jack said.
(I cannot stop Anubis,) Satya said. (I lack data.)
"But if you knew more, you might be able to?" Daniel asked. "Or at least help us devise a way to stop him?"
(Possibly.)
"Okay. Thanks," Jack said. "Sartre, good to meet – see you. Again."
"Satya," Daniel corrected automatically, though by then Jack was out the door. He performed a few facial gymnastics, blinking, stretching his eyebrows, furrowing them. "Just a moment," he said, following into the hall. "Jack!"
Jack stopped ten paces away, and turned. "Yeah?"
"Just... booking?" Daniel asked.
Jack shook his head, looking more ill than he had. "This is one more possible answer that hinges on us having more intelligence than we can get."
"Still, you didn't have to run out so fast."
Jack jabbed his index finger down the hall. "That thing," he said, "gives me the creeps. There's something about it."
"Like what?" Jack wasn't – couldn't be – talking about its physical form, or lack of same. As a rule, he wasn't concerned with those things. And Satya had, if anything, been as polite to him as it had been to everyone else.
...which might have been the problem, now that he thought about it. Satya was preternaturally easy to get along with, even though it had no reason to be on their side. He could easily imagine it floating before Anubis, pleasantly agreeing to tell him how to conquer and kill in exchange for the "honor" of being studied.
"It was in my head, Daniel," Jack said, dropping his voice and approaching again. He didn't want this broadcasted down the hall. "Like, in there, messing around with stuff."
"Just now?"
"No! Earlier," Jack explained. "A coupl'a times too many. And every time it does that it makes everything go all–" He made a gesture Daniel had never seen before, and would never see again.
"I don't get it," Daniel said.
Jack dragged a hand over his forehead. "Okay, Linguisticsman. How long is an average sentence?"
"Well, it depends on what register of what dialect of what language you're speaking," Daniel said. "The figure you'll probably see most often is three seconds."
"Now make a wild guess as to how long that thing's sentences run."
Daniel thought back... and kept thinking, trying to re-hear its words, trying to match them with time. He couldn't.
"And then make a wild guess as to why it even occurred to me to guess that," Jack said.
"Or why it occurred to you to say Anubis would go back in time?" Daniel guessed. "Or–"
"Exactly."
"So you're saying you understand science."
"No! That's exactly what I'm not saying!" Jack blurted. "It's like sticking my head in one of those head-grabby things, except... not!"
Daniel shook his head. "They share their memories and knowledge on a very deep level," he explained. "Maybe you just got some of that."
"Well, I don't want it," Jack said. "And I sure as hell don't want any more of it. I don't like not knowing where my own thinking is coming from."
Daniel shifted. "...I can see how that would be weird."
Jack's breathing had become ragged, and he grimaced to hold back a spate of coughs. "Daniel, just go, do what you need to, and try not to get possessed," he said. "And keep in mind that we're running out of time!"
"Yeah." (I'll try to explain to Sayta what 'running out of time' means.) "...Jack. have you seen Fraiser lately?"
Jack wrestled his breathing under control, but looked no better for it. "Don't worry about this."
"It's hard not to."
"Fraiser will tell me I'm sick and I need to realize I'm sick," Jack recited. "I can do that on my own."
Daniel showed one palm in a gesture of defeat, and they parted ways.
(Hello,) Satya said as he stepped back into his lab.
He looked at Satya warily. It knew no other means of communicating – but, when it put words into their heads, what else did it put in with them? And when it went so far as to touch their minds...
He understood Jack's concern. The same effect that made it hard for an entity to develop an identity could erode a human's. Hadn't Sam talked about that, with Jolinar? The inability to separate a me from an other, to isolate one's own thoughts from others as clearly heard? (It's hard enough to know who you are when you only have one set of thoughts to deal with.)
"Sorry about that," he said.
(About what?)
"For running off," he said.
Satya sank several inches. (I didn't mind.)
Maybe one effect of being unable to measure time was the inability to become impatient.
Daniel searched the lab, trying to pull inspiration from the walls. (More data. Well, I don't have more data. And I don't suppose you do. Or if you do, you don't know it.) "How much do you know about Anubis' attack on PV1-542? – the planet orbiting your sun?"
(I did not exist at the time.)
Daniel looked up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "What? How old are you?"
(How old?)
"Right, right, you don't divide time." He tried to find another way to phrase it. "But you recognize sequences, right? What's the first thing you – you specifically – remember? Something that isn't transferred from another entity?"
(Communicating with the other entities,) Satya promptly replied.
(Okay. This isn't working.) "What's the first event you remember that I might also recognize?"
(Coming to your planet,) Satya answered with as little hesitation.
(There has to be some other way to ask this.) "How many other entities came into existence between your coming into existence and your coming to this planet?"
It flickered, pulsing in small internal starbursts and flares. (Perhaps seven thousand,) it guessed.
"That's... an impressive birthrate," he said. (...now I wish I knew your lifespan.)
(Birth rate?)
Daniel waved it off. "Measuring number of new entities against duration," he said.
(Oh,) Satya said, disappointed.
(...aha!) "Are there more entities who predate you than follow you?" Daniel asked, feeling inordinately clever.
(Yes,) Satya said. (Many more.)
"In our terms, we would say that makes you 'young,'" Daniel said.
(I am young,) Satya said.
"Relative to the rest of your race, yes. Relative to us, you're very young."
(Very young. Then this is a part of identity?)
"Well, it certainly..." he thought. "It influences how we think about ourselves. But our age is constantly changing."
(Does identity change?)
"That's... an interesting question," Daniel said. "One which scientists and philosophers have struggled with for a very long time. 'Who am I? Am I always the same?'" He relaxed into his chair – and surprised himself by doing so. (...so this is how I unwind in the middle of crises,) he thought. (I discuss the philosophy of self with an energy being. At what point did this become normal?) "In general, I think yes, to a certain extent, identity can change."
(So my identity can change.)
"I'd assume so."
(I understand,) Satya said, a surge of assurance strengthening her "voice." (My identity can change.)
Daniel stopped, sensing that the conversation had veered into something that might not be for the best. But, try as he might, he couldn't pin down the source of his unease. "Within... reason," he said.
(What reasoning?) Satya asked.
(...this is a tangent it'll take me way, way too long to wrap up.) "Never mind." Still, he couldn't move on. He felt that this was volatile territory. "Why is that so interesting to you?"
(I have null identity,) Satya said, as if it explained everything. And, in a way, it did – if identity couldn't change, that might imply it'd be stuck with a "null identity" forever. Whether this was a process of identity change or discovery was an issue Daniel didn't feel equipped to define. He shook his head.
"...we're getting off-topic," he said. "Sorry. That was probably me. How much have other entities told you about Anubis' attack on '542?"
-
The Briefing Room underwent periods of activity and abandonment; groups assembled, spoke futilely and rapidly, and dispersed to research. Teal'c studied them with some interest – the urge in the SGC was so strong to keep moving, to do something no matter how fruitless, rather than wait for the war to come – so unlike the Jaffa camp. Jaffa readiness and human preparation were mutually alien concepts. He did not throw himself into the same fervor. He found it exhausting. Where his comrades found their energy was a mystery to him.
So he understood and appreciated the look of worn-down fatigue O'Neill wore when he came up the stairs, making the briefing room one more stop on his continual rounds. "You do not look well."
"I don't feel well," O'Neill said.
(As I have gathered.) "Perhaps you should–"
"I don't need Fraiser!" O'Neill protested, so preemptively that Teal'c knew he'd had this conversation before, most probably with Daniel Jackson. And if his formidable powers of suggestion had failed, it would be a waste of Teal'c's own energies to try. He nodded in deference to O'Neill's stubbornness.
(As long as one can argue, one is likely not too far gone.)
"Anubis hasn't attacked again," O'Neill said, narrating the obvious. "He probably will."
It needed no confirmation.
"People think he's trying to figure out what went wrong. Maybe he had to stop to find an Ancient debug program. In any case, he still has that weapon, and probably info to make his old one again. I'm hoping we can shut down the 'gate like we did yesterday if it comes to that. Eggheads say they don't know."
Teal'c nodded. He hadn't invited the briefing, but if O'Neill felt the need to inform him, it cost him nothing to listen.
"Leaving aside the 'gate for the moment, what about ships? What do we have, what do we know?"
"Anubis has a great fleet, strengthened by the System Lords he conquers. We have the Prometheus," Teal'c said, aware that it represented an asset in name only.
"And the F-302s. But come on – Anubis took out one of Thor's ships," O'Neill said, still recapping.
"Indeed," Teal'c agreed.
"...and then Thor took over the ship and we crashed it into an ocean," O'Neill mused. "So if we could just hook up an Asgard to every ship in his fleet. That or throw planets at them."
Teal'c turned the words over, searching for real meaning. The Tau'ri had used space to novel effect – detonating suns, delivering their enemies unto black holes. Still, he could think of no instance where they had purposefully removed a planet from its orbit, let alone used one as a projectile. "Would it not be simpler to propel the ships into the planets?"
The question irritated O'Neill, though Teal'c could not discern why. Isolating sources of annoyance for O'Neill represented a great deal of effort for little worthwhile knowledge. "Judging from yesterday a fleet isn't our big problem anyway," he said. "Do we think his fleet will get here before he calls again?"
"It is doubtful." Teal'c frowned, examining O'Neill more closely. His posture had changed – he braced himself, grit his teeth. Generally this indicated something unpleasant and imminent – something like Goa'uld questioning, or unwelcome orders. Something to swallow and endure.
"Course not." O'Neill hit the back of a chair. "He can't just send a fleet of ha'taks at us like every other Goa'uld in the galaxy," he growled, breathing faster. "No, it's always asteroids and Tollan bombs and Ancient... weapons..."
Teal'c saw the change before anyone else would have. He recognized the cues on instinct – the shift of O'Neill's focus, of his weight, the quick change in his breath. Subtle signs, but telling. "Colonel O'Neill?"
"Just... gonna... sit down," O'Neill slurred, fingers slipping over the back of the chair without grasping. His knees buckled and he sat hard, hitting the floor with a shock. Teal'c dove for him, catching his arm and back.
"Guard!" he bellowed.
He'd seen Jaffa wounded through a lung, chest moving without drawing oxygen. Some tried to pass it off, to soldier on. But oxygen deficiency wasn't an inconvenience, it was a debilitating injury. Sooner or later, all succumbed.
An SF burst into the room at the hail, weapon at the ready. "Sir–" he began.
"Contact the Infirmary," Teal'c ordered. "Immediately."
O'Neill would have protested. But by then his eyes had unfocused, his breathing quickened and shallowed, and Teal'c knew he could no longer see or hear him at all.
-
Daniel made it to the Infirmary in impressive time, made more impressive because Teal'c had no idea who'd contacted him. "What happened? What's going on?"
Teal'c watched the proceedings with equal, though less articulated, concern. "Colonel O'Neill collapsed while discussing tactics for Anubis' impending invasions," he said.
"What? Why? Is he all right? He seemed fine when he stopped by–"
"I do not know," Teal'c said, but nodded to the bed. "He regained consciousness as the medical team arrived."
And with consciousness, the will to argue. The familiar chorus was underway. "I'm okay," Jack protested, and Fraiser rejoined.
"You're not okay. You–"
"I'm okay enough." He tried to sit up, only to be restrained by two attendants. "I got a bit dizzy."
"You passed out."
"I did not!" Jack said, still trying to fight off the offending hands. "I was conscious. I just couldn't–"
"That's still serious. Colonel!" Fraiser barked, as Jack made scant but visible progress toward escaping one of the aides. "If you don't calm down I will have you sedated. Is that clear?"
Jack stopped struggling, still breathing raggedly. "Stop treating me like Colin Craven and I'll calm down," he said. "I can't do my job if I'm stuck on a bed, and my job is, at this very moment, more important than ever. Is that clear?"
"Absolutely," Fraiser said. "But you also cannot do your job if you go into septic shock and die, a risk you run if you continue to take such a lax approach to your condition. Is that clear!"
Jack took a deep breath to deliver a rejoinder, keeping up blow-for-blow with Fraiser's attacks, but took it in wrong and choked violently instead. By the time he'd gotten that under control, he held no illusion of winning the argument through any means. Angry, and more than a little humiliated, he glanced over at where Daniel and Teal'c were standing. As usual, Daniel seemed to come out of the argument the worst off, despite the fact he hadn't participated.
He collapsed backward, letting the aides fuss over him as he tried to return his heartrate and breathing to normal. "Your damn drugs aren't working," he shot.
"And have you–"
"Yes! On schedule, every last stupid little pill."
"When did you start noticing symptoms?"
"When I came back from '542!" Jack roared – and gasped, the volume taking more than he had. "Since the attack," he admitted, the fact that he needed help closing around him like the compressed space. "Got hard to breathe. I thought it was just the attack. Or the stress."
"Well, it was probably elements of each of those. Why didn't you come in?"
"Because you can't help!" Jack yelled. "You said as much yourself! You can't get me better!"
"Possibly not, but we can at least keep you from getting worse," Fraiser said.
The 'gate siren rang.
Half of the room jumped, the other half froze. (Unscheduled,) Daniel guessed, and a moment later the PA confirmed it.
The Infirmary's red phone rang.
Daniel turned to it on instinct before Fraiser crossed the distance, scooping it up with practiced speed. "Fraiser." Little time passed – two sentences maybe. "Got it," she said, and turned toward her staff. "All right, I need four teams up in the Gateroom two minutes ago! Burns and fractures, probably more. Haut, Wicken–" she waved two of her nurses to take over on O'Neill.
The infirmary burst into action.
For the first time Jack formed a still spot, taking in as much information as he could. Four teams meant more wounded than any offworld SG team could account for, unless they brought in refugees. Possibly, it meant another attack. Something that could take out all the personnel nearby. In any case, it was something catastrophic. His own problems suddenly seemed much smaller, even as they still confined him here.
"Daniel!"
Daniel whipped around.
"Get your glowing friend and get up to the Gateroom," Jack ordered. "Teal'c! Head down."
Teal'c left immediately. Daniel didn't. He almost waited for Jack to repeat the dispatch before realizing that he wouldn't – the nurses had taken over again, and his attention was elsewhere. Trying to breathe. Trying to hold on.
Daniel tore himself away, and ran.
-
It felt ridiculous to run up to level 18 before running back down to 28, but he didn't have time to appreciate the absurdity. Absurdity had become normal. Only the truly extraneous impressed him now.
(Hello,) Satya said when he opened the door.
"Satya! Will you come with me," he asked.
(Why?)
"We may need you," Daniel explained. "Just – please."
Satya detached itself from its wall, streaming toward him. Daniel sprinted for the gateroom.
By the time they got there the wormhole had cut off. Daniel led Satya down through the main corridor–
–and into a war zone.
A triage had been set up in the disembarkation zone, nurses scrambling among bodies in the half-controlled chaos of a medical emergency. Stretchers were already arranged on the ground, the last still coming down the ramp. Engineers and SFs – some of whom he recognized from the memorial – moved among them, blood on their sleeves and jackets and hands where they'd moved the injured. Teal'c stood to one side of the madness, unwilling to interfere and unable to help.
The scene hit Daniel with enough force to stop him, unbalancing him. He had to find his footing just to stand.
"Oh my god," he breathed.
He could smell the wounds from where he stood – charred flesh and oil, smoke and field dressings. A few of the men were conscious, moaning or choking or gasping or breaking. His hair prickled, nerves alive with sympathetic pains. Bringing up the rear were the last of the stretchers, covered.
"What happened?" Hammond demanded from behind him. With a start, Daniel realized that he and the dying weren't the only ones in the room. Odd how these things could escape you.
"Al'kesh," an engineer said. "Two warped into the system. We scrambled the F-302s to meet them in the air. We lost two up there; three more crashed, planetside. Some of the pilots ejected. This–" he spread his hand over the scene, as if trying to indicate it and hold it at bay at once. "They should'a been a match for them."
"What's the status of the Beta Site?"
"Both al'kesh were destroyed, but they got one run in," the engineer said. "There's damage to the runway and hangar, and we can't fend off another attack. The beta site is not secure, sir. Anubis knows we're there. It's only a matter of time."
Two nurses stabilized a sack of fluid on a pilot's blackened chest and walked him past Daniel, stretcher creaking with the weight.
"Do you know how much?" Hammond asked.
"No idea," the engineer said.
(They're damaged,) Satya noted.
Daniel swallowed, unable to look away. "Yes, they are," he said.
(Then this is what Anubis does.)
"Yes."
Satya twisted, color shifting through blue to violet until it'd nearly exited the range of human perception. Then she faded back to white again, a low buzz accompanying. "Vvvvvvvvvvaad!"
Daniel jumped, for the first time understanding what it had tried to do. "Satya–" he started. "You're speaking."
(Yes? This is pronunciation. Is my pronunciation good?)
Daniel felt his incredulity edging toward hysteria. Anubis was coming, the Beta Site had been massacred, Jack was in the Infirmary again, and he was dodging documentary crews and teaching an alien entity how to speak English. Something was seriously wrong with this picture. (I guess the other thing about not recognizing duration is you have no grasp of urgency.)
"We'll work on it," he said, stumbling toward the edge of the room. It followed. "Satya, listen. This is what's happening on a larger scale all through this galaxy. People are being damaged if not destroyed. You can see it happening on this base, very – very tangentially to what Anubis is out there doing, right now. But soon – I know you don't know what that means, but it means it will happen – Anubis will come here, and that will happen to everyone. Jack. Me. Six billion people on this world, most of whom have no idea it's coming." He searched for comprehension in its alien form. "That's why we need your help. That's why you have to help us."
Satya expanded, angling toward the gate. (Something is coming.)
"Yes," Daniel said. "Something very big, very–"
He stopped as the chevrons glowed. Satya hadn't meant coming soon, or at some distant point in the future.
"Unscheduled offworld activation!" a voice on the intercom said.