SGC Alphabet Soup

[fignewton]

My warm thanks to the 26 authors who contributed to make SGC Alphabet Soup: Sid, Seticat, Thothmes, Sallymn, Goldjadeocean, Penknife, Gategremlyn, Aelfgyfu, Camshaft22, Campylobacter, Wendybnyc, Jedibuttercup, Rinkafic, Stringertheory, 11am_street, Lokei, Ivorygates, Wonderland, Roeskva, Samantilles, Eilidh, Fig Newton, Elder Bonnie, Traycer, Magistrate, and Lord Spyridon. An extra tip of the ladle to our new cooks, Ivorygates, Lord Spyridon, Roeskva, and Seticat, as well as warm thanks to the regular contributors who keep our Soups cooking!

Enjoy some 36,000 words of gen fic about SGC personnel! Story lengths range from under 300 words to over 7,000; Ratings range from G to PG-13. Expect spoilers across the series and references to canon character deaths. Featured characters include Paul Davis, Carolyn Lam, Jonas Hansen, Chloe, Jennifer Hailey, Satterfield, Elliot, Grogan, Siler, Ferretti, Evans, Walter, Kawalsky, Pendergast, Marks, Makepeace, Simmons, Bill Lee, and various OCs. I may have missed a few along the way. :)

Story text is as written by the authors, but minor HTML coding has been changed (removal of smart quotes, for example) and scene breaks have been altered to allow for more uniformity in page style.

Readers are strongly encouraged to follow the links to the authors' individual journals and leave feedback.

A is for Allegiance
by sid

Paul Davis came to the SGC as a stranger. Not as a friend or an advocate, but as a representative of the Pentagon, wholly concerned with the wishes and interests of his superiors.

That didn't last long.

The interests and needs of the SGC went beyond military hierarchy and national boundaries. Paul had considered himself their ally from day one, in his capacity as liaison to their allies among the Joint Chiefs. As time went on, however, he found that considering himself to be their only ally worked out much better. He couldn't be there for them all the time, but whenever he was sent, he put his heart and soul into achieving whatever outcome they sought, because they weren't about nickels and dimes and politics and old hatreds.

In time they gave him an office. Paul was more honored by that than by any military decoration he'd ever been awarded. His name was on a door in the most important facility on the planet, just because they appreciated his efforts. Because they liked him.

He came as a stranger, but now he knows every inch of every corridor. He knows where the bullet holes were, before they were efficiently patched. He can point to the corner where Doctor Jackson tripped, spilled his coffee, dropped two books, and bumped his head while busy theorizing why the Asgard wore no clothing. "What's bigger than a trifecta?" Colonel O'Neill had asked Paul rhetorically, before placing his handkerchief into Daniel's hand and turning him around to head for the infirmary.

Is there something bigger than a trifecta? Paul wouldn't know the answer to that, because he's not a gambling man. He leaves that to the brave women and men of the SGC, who gamble with their lives every time they go through the Stargate. Who risk everything for the security and future of their country and their planet.

He's just proud to have their backs. They will always be able to count on him.

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B is for Briefing
by seticat

"Sargent First Class Rowan Bridget O'Conner."

Jerking my head up from checking out my duffel... again ... I called back, "Present!"

Oh for cryin' out loud, O'Conner, stop it! The bag isn't going anywhere and it's not like in over 15 years you've never PCS'd before.

But this was shaping up to be something really off the wall. I had known this was going to be an assignment like nothing I'd ever seen or heard of. The depth of the background and security checks had been intense enough to prove that.

If we just weren't stuck here waiting, I'd be dealing with this a lot better. I don't do 'hover in place' very well. I wanted to get this thing off the ground and find out what I'm gonna be doing. To do something rather than stand around out here in this huge, drafty corridor like the group of us had been doing for the last 20 minutes or so. I don't do 'waiting'. Probably the major reason I've stayed in the Medical Corps all these years.

It may not be pretty. That's for sure.

The hours may suck. They certainly do.

But, at least you're doing something useful and you're keeping busy. Ya'. Waiting for it. Doing something about it. Cleaning up after it. Or all three at the same time.

The knot of men and women around me suddenly quieted as an medium built, brown haired young airman in an set of BDUs approached us.

"Good day, ladies and gentlemen. I am Tech Sergeant Masterson and I'm your escort. Do not, at any time, leave or become separated from this group. If you do become separated, remain exactly where you are: do not, I repeat, do not move from that location or try to find us on your own. A security team will be dispatched to locate you."

Interesting. Nothing said about what happens when they 'find' you.

"This is designated an 'Ultra High Security Facility', as I'm sure you are aware of. Any deviations from Command SOPs and Security Regulations will be dealt with swiftly and aggressively. Is that clear?" The TSgt. paused.

"Please collect your personal items and move this way." We grabbed our gear and stepped out after our escort through a disorienting collections of twists and turns that seemed to last forever.

The young man stopped without warning in the middle of a corridor that looked indistinguishable from any of the ones we'd just spent the last 10 minutes walking through. Reaching forward, he grabbed a large "D" lever and pulled it down. The huge, square door in front of him slide smoothly aside with just a quiet breath of sound to mark its movement.

Sargent Masterson motioned for the collection of us to follow him into the next room. One by one, we fell in line and filed into the cavernous area beyond. We were all seasoned military professionals, but that experience still left me totally unprepared for the sight that greeted me: the large, ring-shaped structure that filled one entire wall of the huge high-ceilinged chamber. I couldn't tear my eyes away from i, its sheer bulk and presence dominated every living thing in the space. No one in that hall remained untouched. A slight gasp, a stuttered step, everyone was affected in some fashion. The view was overwhelming.

And magnificent.

What the!? Just what the Hell *is* that?

A reverence-filled voice, soft and low, asked, "What is it?"

"This, ladies and gentlemen, is the Stargate." The pride was open and honest in Masterson's voice.

Dear, Holy, Mother of God! There's no way he said what he just said. Is there?

Masterson's strident voice broke the silence.

"Attention!"

Not knowing where else to go, we dropped our duffel and 'dressed' against the tall wall behind us: the one opposite the Stargate. Heads came up, eyes forward and backs straight; hands automatically dropped to the side. This was a familiar piece of the military that all in the room shared, no matter the service. That simple action helped gave me a point of focus to hang on to and let my jitters settle.

As much as they could.

A large door slid aside on the wall opposite our entry. Those staff members working in the room stopped their actions to direct their full attention to the large man who entered. With a nonchalant wave of his hand, he sent them back to their duties. His round face held a pleasant expression as he approached our formation. Two silver stars [were pinned, glinted - you need a verb here!] on his dark blue shoulder boards of his light blue shirt. His confident demeanor and those two stars identified him as the Base Commander of this complex.

"At ease, people, and welcome to the SGC. I'm Major General Hammond and I'd like a few words with you before your formal orientation."

We had just come face-to-face with the man who was our new commanding officer, the man we would work for and work with. And, hopefully, the man who would answer some of our questions about the incredible device we shared the room with and how we would fit into this 'new home'. Believe me, he had our undivided attention.

"I realize that you have been kept in the dark about this project. You have all been researched and investigated very carefully. You have signed stacks of paper that probably seem as tall as Cheyenne Mountain itself. You are all the very best at what you do and have been through a rigorous selection process to get to where you stand right now. I'm here to tell you what that all can mean to you."

Finally!

As if an old, comfortable habit, the General brought his hands together behind his back and began to slowly walk back and forth in front in front of us: stopping for a space to catch our eyes; to give each of us a personal soft smile of welcome as he spoke.

"You come from different services and specialties, some of them rather surprising. You are all sorely needed. You will work unheard-of hours and come to hate the sound of the alarm. You will train and then you’ll train some more.”

The sounds of his pacing stilled. “And there will be times when it won’t be a drill."

His face turned abruptly solemn. "Because, ladies and gentlemen, we are at war." He stopped; his eyes raking down the line before continuing. "Our opponents are like nothing you have ever imagined. You will not believe it at first, but you will come to believe it with every fiber of your being in a short time."
It was a bit unnerving to see the brief veil of sorrow that settled over his features, but I think few of my comrades even noticed it with the speed that the General regained his composure.

"This object behind me is a gateway to other worlds."

........ Oh ..........

Oh, I'd 'heard' totally unbelievable scuttlebutt since arriving at Ft. Carson in Colorado Springs about 'Trans-spatial gateways', 'wormhole technology', 'alien invaders' ... and had granted that 'information' pretty much the same credence I'd always given that sort of thing in the past- 99.5% salt and 0.5% 'who knows'. I was never a big fan of the 'National Enquirer'. But to be told that it *wasn't* just 'science fiction' but living, breathing fact?

..... My! ......

What other 'scientific truths' of the world had I always just accepted that were actually crap? Guess I was gonna get to find out.

Get it together, O'Conner! You're missing the briefing!

Our varied responses to Hammond's statement must have been pretty comical: he let a smile played over his lips for a moment before he got back to work.

"Yep, straight out of the latest science fiction thriller."

I felt my lips quirk a small grin in return.

Right there, he lost the smile.

And so did I.

"Because this is no fantasy. It works. And on the other side are some of the meanest SOBs you are ever likely to meet. Ever. And some good folks, too, I'm very glad to say. We've made some allies in our battle."

I couldn't pull my eyes away from the man standing in front of me. Not just because of his rank, but the seriousness, the total sincerity in each and every thing he said. I was riveted in place; totally captured by each sentence, each word.

"SGC, in case you wondered, stands for Star Gate Command. We are organized into teams and support units. Some of you will be assigned to teams. Some, like our new medical staff member here," he gestured in my general direction, "will be placed within your specialties for now, but do not discount the possibility you may be called to go 'out there' as well if the need arises.

"You are all important. This is a small cadre and the turnover rate is high. Sometimes due to battle, but also due to stress."

The General stopped in place and faced us, his hands once again behind his back sitting in the 'parade rest' position.

"I'm not trying to be grim here, folks. We also know how to have fun. And the research we do here will make your toes curl in pleasure. Not all the long hours are mandated. Most people here don't want to go home. They are too involved in what they are doing and I have to *order* some of our people to take R&R."

O-kay. This has to be seen to be believed. *Ordered* on R&R?

"In a nutshell," he continued, "there are 12 SG teams. These teams go through the 'Gate' and explore other worlds. Sometimes they find nothing. Sometimes they meet people and set up diplomatic relationships. Sometimes they end up in a fight and come home wounded or dead. Right now we have 3 teams out there," he gestured with his arm and we followed that movement like a retriever follows a duck, faces pulled toward the Stargate. Would I ever get comfortable with that name and all it implied? "SG-1, our premier first contact team, SG-5, one of our diplomatic teams, and SG-11, our..."

The 'Gate' room exploded in a wall of harsh noise as an alarm klaxon began blaring. I thought I could hear it echoing down the hallways outside and throughout the base itself. It startled every person in the room, the General included.

At that moment the great 'Stargate', standing against the wall right in front of us, began to grind and move of its own accord. You could see the inner circle beginning to spin.

Organized chaos took over. Two teams of men, armed not only with M-16's and MP-5's but at least two close support rocket launchers, poured through the two doors with well rehearsed precision, taking up defensive positions at the base of the Stargate's grated metal ramp. All other personnel left the room in a controlled but rapid manner. In retrospect, I have no idea why our small cadre didn't sprint out with the rest of the real staff, but I know I was far too caught up in the moment to think about it. And traditionally, medical staff don't 'bug out', we 'bug in'. I don't think the idea of leaving ever entered my mind.

Or anyone else's, either.

General Hammond took a couple of steps backward, looking up at the glassed-in front of a room above our heads, question plain on his face. The folks upstairs obviously knew the answer as a male voice crackled out over the loudspeaker.

"Unscheduled off world activation!"

"Sargent Harriman, are any of the teams due back?"

The same voice replied. "No, Sir. SG-5 isn’t due to check in until 2200 tonight and 11 reported in 2 hours ago with a ‘Go’ for the rest of their mission.", the same voice replied. Nothing said about the remaining team: SG-1. The concern that flashed across Gen. Hammond's face shocked even the most 'out of it' among us to awareness. To a man, we shrank back and hugged the wall, shoving our gear as far out of the way as possible. We may not have had a clue as to what was coming down, but we were now well and truly in the middle of it. Fear and excitement pulled at my gut bringing with it a hot flush to my neck and face and a damp chill down my spine. Adrenaline began to flood through each individual body cell, the primal brain preparing itself for the 'fight or flight' response that had saved many a life in the past of the human race

Mine included.

The huge ring was continuing to move. Every moment or so a portion of it would shine with a ruddy glow and a loud 'k'chunk' would sound out.

“K’chunk.”

“Sergeant, open the Iris.”

"K'chunk."

A plate of interlocking leaves of metal slowly unwound itself displaying a gaping space within the center ring.

The armed teams hunkered themselves down one notch more.

"K'chunk."

With a sound like a rushing waterfall, the Stargate burst into shining life.

It was an incredible sight. A rippling sheet of shining blue filled the center area of the ring and a huge out-rush of light blew out from its center. And the sound. A sort of 'ka-whoosh' is the closest I can come to describing it. No one in the room made a move while that wave and sound filled the space in front of the ring.

Abruptly, the plume disappeared, replaced by a glowing, flat disk whose surface dimpled and wavered like a sun-dappled lake. No one the room moved a muscle. Breathing was considered optional.

The disembodied voice above us called out “Receiving an IDC. It’s SG-1’s code, Sir. Should I alert the medical team?”

I could just hear Hammond mutter "They're early. Way too early." before he shouted "Yes!", clearly looking worried. I guess being early isn't always a good thing around here.

The intercom system burst to life. “Medical team to the Gate Room, STAT. Medical team to the Gate Room, STAT!”

At that exact moment a figure materialized at the margin of the event horizon and stepped though.

The man was huge, broad across the body and tall; the darkness of his skin brought into contrast by some form of golden emblem that rested on his forehead. Slung across his back in a classic Fireman's Carry was the slack body of another man of lighter build, hanging limply in the way that speaks unconsciousness: left arm dangling; blood running down his long arm and beginning to fall, drop by drop, onto the sloped grating of the ramp in from of the Stargate and down onto the concrete floor beneath. The dark man's deep voice was booming out a call for 'Medical Assistance' even as he knelt at the foot of the ramp to gently lay the body he carried down onto the metal beside him, supporting the limp body against his leg and thigh.

Behind him two others staggered through the blue film, The first was woman with her weapon held at the ready. The second was a tall man holding his right arm tightly across his chest, his weapon hanging from it's strap by his side.

Hardly a heartbeat later the gleaming surface behind them simply disappeared.

Both newcomers started down the ramp, their eyes focused on the sight two men at the foot of the ramp. Even though in obvious pain, the lean man knelt on one knee beside the two at the foot of the ramp, letting his broken arm rest on his upraised leg. He gently brushed a strand of long, golden brown hair back from the pale face, all the while murmuring softly to the young solider. With a hand that appeared startlingly gentle on someone so rough and craggy looking, he tucked the lock behind the young man’s ear.

He glanced up. "Sam...?"

The armed woman stepped to his side and laid her hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine sir. And we got him back."

The lean man on the ramp wore no rank, but there was no doubt in my mind that he was this team's CO. He had that look and carriage about him. It should have seemed incongruous: this field worn warrior, seemingly oblivious to all around him, offering the comfort of human touch and voice to the wounded man, but these actions spoke more eloquently than words. This was the kind of commander you'd follow even when you knew they were asking the impossible. The kind who truly cared about the troops under their command.

I'm not sure why I didn't move, but I wanted to. There was a man down, at least another hurt and I'm a medic, first and foremost. If another second or so had passed, I probably would have, but what was obviously a med team flew through one of the big side doors followed by a small woman in white, a stethoscope draped around her neck. I took a deep breath to relax and stood ready in case another set of hands were needed, but the team worked with the skill of long practice.

Long practice. *That* was a frightening thought.

"I've got him, Colonel." The small woman had finished her quick assessment and was directing two Corpsmen to gently place the him on the gurney. "Get him down to the infirmary. I'll be right behind you." She then turned to the tall man in front of her.

"How about you, Sir?" She sounded quite at ease with the situation. Obviously not something new to her.

"Arm's broken, I think," he smiled at her, "but no holes in me this time around. I can walk."

She made eye contact with the two other team members on the ramp and received a negative shake from each in turn. Assured that the two remaining were all right, she nodded to the General and the team's CO in turn and followed the path of the Corpsmen out the door.

The ‘Colonel’ turned to face General Hammond. "You should see the other guy," he quipped.

"Debriefing at 1300, Colonel, after Dr. Frasier has cleared you all." I couldn't tell for sure, the way he was holding his head, but I would swear that the General was trying hard not to smile.

"Yes, Sir." The Colonel gave a sloppy off-handed salute and then gestured for his team to follow him out of the room.

"Stand down." At the command from the loudspeaker, the armed individuals gathered their equipment and left the area, doors closing on both sides of the room behind them. With a slight share of his head, General Hammond turned back to face us.

"Well, you got a bonus today. You've seen the Stargate in action and got to see SG-1 come home. Don't worry. That team is remarkably hard to kill. After a few days rest, they'll go out again."

They look like that, and they'll be going 'out again' in a few days? Oh, Momma...

"I think I've talked enough. Sergeant Masterson will be in charge for the rest of your orientation today. He'll give you the real scoop; where the coffee and food is at 0200 and where you'll bunk when you don't go home. Just remember: we stand between the freedom of the people of Earth and the rest of the Galaxy. It is not a duty to be taken lightly. If any of you feel you cannot, in good conscience, take this on, step forward. You will be reassigned with no mark against your record. It is far better to decide to take up a different burden then to stay out of ego and be found wanting later on." His eyes swept over us, his gaze fixed on each of us in turn. The contact would only last a split second before drifting down the line, but I think Gen. Hammond learned everything he wanted to know about each of us in that glance.

'The Look'. That's the only way I've ever be able to describe it. He fixed each of us with 'The Look". It's the one your CO gives you just before your team moves out into the jungle. The one you get from your Triage Officer when the RTO tells the two of you've got casualties, a lot, comin' to your station with an ETA of 10 minutes - but you can both hear the rotors already coming in from 'way off in the distance with that sound and pitch that tells you the Medi-Evac pilot is pushing it just as hard as he can.

It's the look you get just before it all 'hits the fan'. The 'Did I make the right choice in choosing you for this?' look. The 'Can I count on you for 110% - 120% - or more?' look. The 'Will you be my 'last man standing, if that's what it takes?' look.

'The Look.'

No one moved. When he looked my way I responded with a slight nod in reply and received a ghost of a smile in return.

"We are the Earth's first line of defense against a formidable foe. You are all an important part of that defense. God speed, and welcome to Star Gate Command."

"Attention!"

The line of us snapped to attention and threw a salute. The General returned that military courtesy, turned and left us with TSgt Masterson.

Off to the side I could hear Masterson beginning to herd my fellow 'fledgling' SGC members out of the room. I tried to move in that general direction, but my brain kept shutting down my feet, trying to force me to find a comfortable sense of 'belonging here' before it would let me leave the room. My head didn't want me to walk out into the big, wide, *very new* world outside this room without knowing if I could do this.

And you know? At this exact moment, I couldn't tell it yes or no.

There just was no point of reference for what I had seen and had been tacitly asked to commit myself to do. How could I judge if I was so far in over my head I couldn't see it? What if I turned out to be the 'weak link' that would cause the end of the entire world?

I didn't know. I wouldn't know until it happened. It's like being in combat: you don't know if you can cope with the sights, the sounds, the smells of the situation happening around you until you're in the middle of it.

I was beginning to second guess myself: would I be *the one* who'd 'choked' when it came down to 'put up or shut up', leaving trusting men and women to die because of my inaction?

Stop it right there! You passed the 'big one', gal. He gave you 'The Look' and you passed. He smiled, remember? He picked you right then. *He's* the one who has to decide if you have 'the right stuff' for the entire command. He's done this a lot of times before. He *can't* let himself be wrong. *You're* the one who has to decide if you can do the job they hired you for. Come on, woman. What was your first unit's motto? Remember that? "To Comfort and Aid"?

'That's true', I told myself. 'You wouldn't have made it this far if there weren't a whole lot of folks behind you who felt you were ready for the job. Guess that says something.'

Got that right. You already proved that by trying to jump in when that team came back broken - auto-pilot, right? Think people didn't noticed that 'knee-jerk' reaction? So ... take a deep breath, get a grip and get on with your duty, Sargent. Get your ass out there and heal things.

A great muckin' weight lifted off my back and neck. Shaking the stiffness from hips and legs, I finally started for the exit. Things were settling into place. Fears were ducking for a hiding spot as my confidence came back.

I stopped trying to 'understand' and contented myself with just letting the emotions and the experiences of the last few moments wash over me, let them become a part of me. I hoped I'd be able to recall most of those last 15 minutes when things become 'just all part of a day's work' as all jobs eventually do to some extent. I had just had one hell of a personal 'Ah Ha!', as well as a professional one. I wanted to be able to look back and find this 'moment of wonder'.

On my way through the door frame, I paused and glanced back over my shoulder at the now silent ring.

Oh. What has Momma O'Conner's little girl let herself get into this time?

My thoughts took a brief 'time out' and then answered themselves.

Probably the biggest challenge of your entire career.

And one that I knew would change my life forever.

I felt my lips and face shift into a contented smile as my footsteps joined in with the crisp echoed tread of those who had left the room but a brief moment before me.

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C is for Cool Competence
by thothmes

On the face of it Doctors Fraiser and Brightman had much in common. They were both exceedingly bright women, both doctors with residencies in both Emergency Medicine and Infectious Disease. They had both joined the Air Force because it would allow them to get the medical degrees that they wanted without a burden of debt that they did not feel ready to assume. They both even had heads of glossy brown hair with reddish highlights. But the S.G.C. infirmary staff knew better. If Dr. Fraiser, all 5'2" of her, was fire, then Allison Brightman, a tall 5'8", was ice. Ask any trained nurse, and he or she will tell you that there is a time to apply one, and a time to apply the other.

Take dealing with the flagship team, for instance. Whenever possible where Sam Carter is involved, the nursing staff would call for Dr. Fraiser. The two women were friends, and if the news was difficult, then Janet would know just how to soften the blow. If the news was good, both women could rejoice together, and if the transaction was to be merely routine, well then the rest of the infirmary staff felt it was good for the C.M.O. to get a chance to kick back and touch base with a good friend from time to time. Still, when Martouf & Lantash died, the nursing staff asked Dr. Brightman to escort Major Carter down to see the body in the morgue. The warm sympathy that Dr. Fraiser would have offered on sight would have undone the Major's fragile emotional control, and Dr. Brightman would know instinctively to hold back and only offer comfort if the dam gave way. She had the knowledge and expertise to answer any of the questions the Major might ask, she would be able to assure her that he suffered only a short time, and remind her that there was no knowledge among either the Tau'ri or the Tok'ra that would have saved him.

For Colonel O'Neill, only Dr. Fraiser would do. It was well known in the mountain that there were only two people that could bring Jack O'Neill in a full-on tear to heel: General Hammond and Janet Fraiser. They met fire with fire and could get him to back down. There was a rumor that they could even get him to apologize. The infirmary staff considered it a blessing that O'Neill's elevation to the rank of General, and thus the end of his field command ended not long after the death of Janet Fraiser. Things could have gotten ugly. Restraints no doubt would have been called into use.

Walter Harriman, a quiet man himself, picked up a great deal by watching and listening to those around him, and he observed something that the nursing staff had not. He knew that Allison Brightman had developed her own effective methods of ensuring the health of her crustiest patient, and when Walter transferred to the Pentagon and became concerned about the effects that too many meetings, too much paperwork, too many overly caffeinated late nights, with too little time to get out from behind a desk had done to the General, his first call was to Dr. Brightman. In short order a fruit basket arrived in General O'Neill's office, nicely done up in cellophane that was the nearest available color to peridot, it contained plenty of fresh fruit, several boxes of sugar-free red Jell-O, menus from various take-out establishments near both the Pentagon and the General's townhouse with the healthy options highlighted, an assortment of tea packets, and a flier detailing suggestions for small changes in daily routines that would add activity here and there. With the fruit basket came a pogo stick rated for up to 250 lbs., wrapped and labeled "for the inner child". Even without knowing what the wrapped item was, his secretary was horrified, and refused to deliver it, much to Walter's delight. He took it in himself and was rewarded by the opportunity to see the General laugh long and hard. How fortunate that Homeworld Security had basement offices, and there would be no one to annoy with the thump-thump-thump of the pogo stick. The switch from coffee to tea seemed to do wonders for the General's ability to ignore and rise above the some of the more petty antics of the I.O.C. too.

The infirmary staff had no firm policy on Dr. Jackson. Indeed, whenever possible, they preferred to handle Dr. Jackson's problems themselves. He was always so courteous and polite, and who could resist those grave blue eyes! When a doctor's expertise was needed, the closest to hand was the one that was summoned for Daniel, but Teal'c was a different matter. In general Teal'c and Dr. Brightman dealt well with each other. Neither was inclined to seek out or encourage small talk, and Allison Brightman would tell him all he needed to know without any unnecessary filler. Neither was dismayed by silence, and when Teal'c, still new to tretonin, received a staff weapon to his back that resulted in a lengthy infirmary stay, he received more comfort from the simple presence of Dr. Brightman seated in the chair by his bed, filling out her paperwork and updating her files on her laptop than he did from all of Colonel O'Neill's many cups of Jell-O. Janet Fraiser kept trying to reassure him by explaining many test results that documented his physical healing, but that was only so much noise to Teal'c. He knew that his body was repairing itself. He worried about his soul. Dr. Brightman laid one cool hand on his massive one, and said "It will come." Not "Give it time, it will come," but "It will come." It was very reassuring.

It was that calm, that affinity for silence, and her clear, precise diction that sometimes made the unobservant think that Dr. Brightman was a little bit cold. In contrast to Dr. Fraiser's southern-bred hospitability, Dr. Brightman's New England reserve seemed a bit stand-offish. Those who knew her well knew that this was only a surface view.

When Lieutenant Graham, in the grip of a spiking fever from the effects of the spores in the orb, began to beg his mother for a story, Dr. Fraiser ordered medications to try to help his body moderate his temperature, and ordered an ice bath be made ready. Dr. Brightman gestured to the nurse to resume wiping him down with a cool cloth, and took the young man's hand and began to recite quietly "In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon..."

When Sgt. Siler managed to rack up his third serious concussion, Dr. Fraiser brought a metal gurney to his bedside and then brought in three thick files, and placed each with great emphasis (and no little noise) on the gurney. She pointed to the slimmest of them.

"Dr. Jackson," she said.

She pointed to the thickest of them.

"Colonel O'Neill."

Finally she pointed to the third file, almost as thick as the Colonel's, and fixing the Sergeant with a fiery glare, she said, "Yours!"

When he came in with his fourth, Dr. Brightman took a different tack. She went and spoke to Major Wood, who in turn spoke to someone in the machine shop, and within a day there was a sign up in every room of the infirmary, with L.E.D.s to display numbers which could be changed at need.

Number of Days Without Injury at Stargate Command ___ was the first line.

Number of Days Without Offworld Injury ___ read the second.

Number of Days Without Injuries at This Facility ___ was the predictable third.

The genius lay in the next line, a two-parter:

Number of Days Without Injuries to Officers ___ and Number of Days Without Injury to Enlisted ___

Sgt. Siler and Colonel O'Neill were both known for their highly competitive natures. As a matter of fact, competitiveness was second nature to most of the staff of the S.G.C. Major Griff was pleased as punch when he won both the offworld pool and the enlisted pool within days of each other on the occasion of Teal'c's pattern getting trapped in the gate. He shared some of his ill-gotten gains with Siler, over Col. O'Neill's rather theatrical indignation.

It was Dr. Brightman who put a word in General Hammond's ear in the aftermath of 9/11 that perhaps Layla Saadiq should be asked to lead the honor guard for the flag salute, and Captain Hassan should be one of those given the honor of passing the wreath into the wormhole for the S.G.C.'s memorial service to honor those that died at the Pentagon. It made him see the quiet doctor in a new light.

So those who had helped Allison Brightman run codes on arresting patients, and viewed her cool competence and her quiet command of the situation, and seen the slump of her shoulders and the downcast eyes as she quietly, and calmly called the code and noted the time of death on those occasions when all that medical science could offer was not enough, those who had seen her wait silently and observe before entering to speak to a patient, those who had felt the chill and the tremble of her hands as she soothed the brow of a patient in pain, were not surprised when they saw a few tears track down her cheeks at General Hammond's funeral. Dr. Brightman might be cool as the proverbial cucumber, but inside beat a thoughtful heart. What surprised them was the way that as soon as the funeral was over, the General's daughter, his flag in its tight triangular fold still clutched to her heart, went right over to General O'Neill, asked him a question, and responding to his glance around the grounds and answering gesture, hurried over to thank the doctor.

"My dad told me he kept you as his physician of record, even after he left the Springs for Washington, and that it was you that told him it was time to retire. He spent every possible moment of these last five months with me and with his grandkids. It was a priceless gift, for us and for him. Thank you so very much!"

Dr. Brightman's fair skin flushed at the praise, but her response was muted. She put a cool hand on the other woman's arm in a gesture of connection.

"I take comfort from that," she said quietly, nodded, and moved back among the other milling attendees.

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D is for Not Dead
Till Death Us (All) Do Part...
by sallymn

It wasn't, as someone pointed out, as if SG-1 kept all the best missions to themselves, or even the worst. SG-1 was just more... spectacular. More prone to the dangerous, the disastrous, the deadly.

And they tended to die way more often.

But SG-1 weren't really alone in the Death Becoming Us betting stakes...

***

The giant alien Daalzwurm swallowed Lou Ferreti alive in front of his appalled team and a deliriously confused crowd of locals. It was another three days before they fought their way back to the Stargate and their frantic General.

The memorial for one of the pioneers of the SGC - marred only by the offworld absence of the other two pioneers and their team - was properly dignified, sorrowful, as heartfelt and sombre as ever, up to the moment when his teammates went to send the traditional wreath through the Gate.

...And Feretti barreled through and collided with them, shedding bits of ex-Daalzwurm all over the ramp as he did.

How he'd managed to find his way out of it, even Hammond never quite dared to ask.

***

The Big Dreaming was something no one likes to remember. Especially SG-3, who left SG-1 to finish up their nice, peaceful mission and gated in to find an entire mountain of dead people.

Or not.

Makepeace never quite forgave the civilian scientists - whose fumbling of the alien air freshener put almost everyone into that deathlike trance - or Robert Rothman, whose translation of the Guould inscription, prized from his faux-rigor-mortis clutch, seemed to indicate that they could only be revived by tactile oral interface. It was just lucky for everyone (especially the scientists, and especially especially Rothman) that a mass coming-back-from-the-dead started before one of the jarheads had to kiss him...

***

Rothman himself 'died' when he translated something correctly, and the entire archeology section of the base imploded into another dimension. The sympathy on their explosive 'revival' was muted, however - even Hammond felt that dying on a long weekend was really not to be encouraged.

***

It doesn't pay to remind Lieutenant Grogan about his death. Sure the locals had - and used - a knockoff sarcophagus, but you know how knockoffs work.

Or don't, quite.

He isn't sorry for the half-life he still has, but 'Lieutenant UnDead' is a joke that wore thin a loooong time ago...

***

Does it count if you were never even born... well, as you? One of these days, Walter Harriman thinks, he'll get up the courage to ask some of the scientists that, and about the other time-loop, the one that SG-1 and half the offworld teams doesn't even know about. The one where the Stargate controls went crazy, where he went back and somehow became - and then accidentally killed - his own grandfather.

What the hell, he never liked the name Davis anyway.

***

When Lorne bodyswapped with a local... well, sort of hominid (as his distraught civilian adviser radioed to the base, "a sort of Devil Monkey. With no head") the natives could hardly be blamed for shooting him - it - them.

Especially since the natives 'knew' that Devil Monkeys couldn't be killed in their own skin, only in a lesser one.

Lorne still has a large, circular scar and a vague memory of brushing against a fading alien mind...

***

All of SG-11 - the current incarnation - gave up the ghost on PZZ-696. Quite Literally. Three times. They don't talk about it.

***

Doctor Warner retired after he had to dose himself with their most lethal drugs to kill the latest sentient corruption before it escaped from the sickbay and the mountain. The medical staff still don't quite know how they revived him, but it's been a long time since anyone in the SGC questioned the way people died around here anymore.

Maybe they should.

But if, inside a dead man's shell, the sentient corruption that they revived instead isn't about to make them... is anyone surprised?

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E is for Environment
by staranise

Sarah Gardner's psychologist met her for therapy in a little prefab house three kilometres outside the Alpha site. It was part of a ring of buildings in a forest clearing, semipermanent housing for the long-term offworld personnel. Sarah had commented once or twice, with a fixed sunny smile, that she couldn't ask for more scenic surroundings.

The two women walked to the gorge nearby, down a trail human feet had already marked and worn between the massive spicy-scented conifers. In the end-of-week sun, it was beautiful. A waterfall tripped and bounced off five different tiers of glimmering rock before plunging through a crevasse.

It was a fifty-foot drop and probably lethal. Helen Meyer's skin crawled just standing next to Sarah, watching the rainbows play in the light.

"Of course I think about it," Sarah said later, cradling a cup of tea. Her grandmother's teacups still adorned the upper shelves of a glass-fronted cupboard; she used those only for academic visitors and anyone above O-8. For acquaintances, colleagues, therapists, and friends, she took out handmade earthenware glazed in blue and green. Helen still hadn't got the story on those--whether they were something Sarah had bought, or ever made herself before an academic career swallowed her whole. The entire house was filled with personal possessions, things carefully packed and shipped across thirty thousand lightyears for a woman in recovery.

"Sarah," Helen said, wry and patient. Sarah grimaced and looks down, acknowledging a hit. She still tried to deny the daily effects of what had been done to her, but she knew from experience that Helen could outwait her denials.

"What does it matter? It's old news. It would be better for everyone, anyway."

"I don't believe that," Helen answered. Behind her calm, her heart sped up the way it often did with suicide on the table. The Air Force paid her salary; her clients had killed themselves with brutal efficiency before. Sarah had no sidearm, no; but instead of an armory there were kitchen knives and a waterfall. The memory of funerals laid at the edge of Helen's awareness like a scent that lingered on her clothes. She was too focused on the moment to really hear herself think, No matter how many times we do this, I'm still going to stay with you. "Neither do your coworkers. Neither does Daniel."

"Well, none of you know," Sarah blurted out. "You've never lived through what I have. You don't know anyone who has."

Helen's eyebrows went up. "I haven't heard you say that in a long time."

One minute Sarah shrugged, picking at some speck on the surface of the table. She was distracted and irritable, frowning at her tea. The next her face glided up and she met Helen's eyes with startling, sudden clarity. Inquiry traced the furrow of her eyebrows and the slight scrunch of her nose. "Daniel met a woman, he said. A fruitcake, practically. It's why he didn't go to Atlantis. She had been a host, too, and she used the knowledge to be very irritating." She waited for a very calm, silent pause, which her psychologist does not interrupt. "The memory stays with you. The technology... the language, too. But there is so little to connect it."

"You don't know what you're remembering," Helen said softly.

"I remember the death of a king, thousands of years ago." Sarah shook her head, frowning. "Before the Old Kingdom? But so much was gone, destroyed... We thought we knew the wonders of the world, were studying one of the greatest civilizations of the era. We saw the ruins, the things left behind when the old gods took their ships and fled. A king not on any papyrus." Back from memory and pain, she scowled, almost puzzled. "How can I cite that? What do I know? It's a memory that can't contribute to the body of knowledge, but if we only knew the size of what we were missing..."

Was it better, or worse, Helen thought, that Osiris--the Osiris--should take an Egyptologist as a host? Sarah's field of study was her passion, before; it haunted her now. Helen deliberately curled her hands around her empty cup, just to feel pottery meet skin. "Hearing about her affected you."

"Does she feel the same as me?" Sarah mused. "I wish I could ask her what she did with the memories. What it was like to heal."

"If she did," Helen murmured.

Sarah's nod acknowledged an old understanding; those words were hers. There were hours behind them, wondering about how to heal, if I can. Her commitment to life was... fragile, ever since her liberation. But it was something she'd lost, and found, before.

Watching Sarah Gardner pick a path back to understanding that day, Helen gathered her own pottery shard to her breast. She didn't know the size of what they were missing when it came to Egyptology. She maintained, in fact, a willful agnosticism to the Goa'uld presence on Earth, so very close to ancient Israel. That was a door she left unopened.

Her own discovery of the size of what she was missing came with the prosaic thought, my subject pool is too small. It swallowed in its smallness the immensity of her commitment: to study human pain, to understand it, and to find the situations that let people let it go. Sarah's incomprehension was a gift: for the first time, she was able to lift her eyes from the enormous, daunting work before her and realize there was a galaxy at her feet.

So far her studies on the effects of goa'uld possession encompassed only Earth-born participants and the enigmatic, mendacious Tok'ra. Until that moment she hadn't given thought to the fact of she-didn't-know-how-many liberated hosts, reeling with the rest of the galaxy in a decade of unprecedented change. Some might have been hosts not for days or months, but thousands of years. There was so much she could learn.

At the Alpha Site she summarized her meeting with Sarah and tucked the notes into a file. An item in her neglected inbox informed her that a mass-specific force field had already been installed at the mouth of the waterfall, "in case of accident," the memo reported blandly. She exhaled sharply, shook her head, and put it aside.

Then, checking her clock against her next appointment, she drew down a folder from the shelf above her desk, and extracted her copy of Guidelines for Research Proposals. It was not an official Air Force document, but a vast accumulation of knowledge on how to ask for the impossible. I want to interview some deeply dangerous, incredibly twitchy aliens would probably require cross-referencing the sections on non-Terran human research subjects with the "Embedded Field Research" chapter clearly cribbed from a field manual on espionage.

"Oh, don't worry, Sarah," she muttered, pulling out a pen. "You're not alone. I won't get to publish either."

***

Her research proposal got rejected once for a formatting error.

It got rejected again for budgetary reasons. That year, her back garden produced an unprecedented profusion of cucumbers and squash, and Sarah Gardner attempted suicide again. At a department meeting in November the head of a team of neurologists and cognitive neuropsychologists admitted that their project to artificially implant memories using alien technology had met "insurmountable roadblocks", and the Air Force would reallocate their funding. Helen and a small posse of SGC therapists met later for drinks in Dr. Aurora's living room, to celebrate with unprofessional glee. Old-fashioned therapy held little prestige next to the smooth glitter of neurons and wires, and the military grasped eagerly for a quick answer to PTSD and burnout; but in this case humanity won out over brains--and more importantly, they won back extra funding.

The January rejection was for the very best of reasons: she didn't have the necessary Gate travel credentials. She'd already taken two courses with the Air Force to get her first Gate clearance, the one that allowed to travel between her office at the Alpha Site and Colorado Springs and, with heavy supervision, to select Tok'ra bases. Now (with the kind permission, in triplicate, of six people in varying degrees of authority over her) she spent the month of February in training and came out with firearms clearance and the ability to ask for the bathroom on six different planets.

As soon as she got it approved, they shelved it again. The Tok'ra were having a bad month and didn't want to come out and play.

On the ides of March Operations sluiced her out of an elevator with disconcerting speed. She got in a Cheyenne Mountain elevator with a few people behind her and pressed the button for Level 22, on her way to lunch; the airman to her right inserted a key at the bottom of the panel and pressed 16. On her other side Colonel Doctor Russ said, "Helen, could you come with us, please?"

She blinked at the head of Stargate Command's medical research division, fighting back internal panic, and made herself say, "Of course."

"It'll take less than an hour," he said when they stepped out. To her relief, they walked past the entranceway to Level 16's holding cells and interrogation rooms, meeting instead in a medium-sized room furnished with a conference table and credenza. Its two residents stood up when they came in, then waited for Dr. Russ's companion to sit before settling down again.

Colonel, Colonel, Lt. Colonel, Airman, Helen counted off mentally; the latter two were a severe-looking Air Force woman and a young man who appeared to be the meeting's secretary. Reynolds, Russ, Bedola, Harper. "Dr. Meyer," the woman said with a nod.

"We hear you've been having trouble getting some research off the ground," Dr. Russ said. It was friendly and personable enough that she hardly needed to nod before he continued. "We have an asset our interrogators can't figure out. You have experience with goa'uld hosts."

"I don't interrogate," she said, uncertain and creaky but she had to get it out.

"We're not asking you to," Colonel Reynolds said smoothly.

"We just need your clinical impression of her health and stability," Dr. Russ told her.

"Veracity," Bedola murmured.

"Um," Helen said.

Airman Harper procured a file, apparently due to telepathic prompting, which Dr. Russ passed to her.

"This individual claims to have been a host to the goa'uld Qetesh for years," Reynolds said. "Which is how she explains her ability to manipulate our security and computer systems. But frankly, we just suspect she's just been buying the information off a leak."

"Naquadah?" Helen asked, flipping the file open.

"We haven't been able to use a measure that can't be faked. What we're asking you to do is to submit an opinion on whether or not her behaviour is consistent with a goa'uld host's." Dr. Russ leaned forward. "We can send you the rest of the information through the regular channels. If you're willing to leave at the beginning of next week, you can meet her at a neutral location for an interview."

Meanwhile, Helen's fingers rested over the date of an excerpt on the report, and a pottery shard. "This is Daniel Jackson's fruitcake," she pronounced. "She's the one who stole the Prometheus."

She could only see two of them at a time. Colonel Reynolds said nothing, but Dr. Russ smothered panic with placation. "That's really not--"

"Does it matter?" Colonel Bedola interjected.

Helen turned. "What?"

"Is there a reason you need to know? Is it relevant to your research?"

Helen stopped a moment, to make sure of her answer. "No. Not outright. But if she is, then I want to talk to her very much."

"Then are you good for Monday?"

I do love a woman who doesn't bullshit, Helen thought. "Monday is wonderful."

"0600," Colonel Reynolds said, then got up again. "You will submit your report separately, through secure channels."

"I know how," Helen said, and did not swear about the early morning.

The things she did for research.

***

Helen felt kind of like a secret agent as she nursed her beer. This was a proverbial seedy establishment; twenty minutes ago, someone had dragged someone else out back for a shit-kicking, and there were sand particles in the bread. She was unmolested at her corner table because she had a zat'nik'itel sitting next to her drink, and because she'd bribed the proprietor's beefy cousin with a small medallion of naquadah. No one even asked about the video recorder on its tripod, perhaps too used to novel technology by now.

Everyone in the room noticed when her participant swanned in. Vala Mal Doran lived up to the reputation of a woman who singlehandedly hijacked the Tau'ri flaship; today she ornamented the leather she'd been poured into with a pair of energy guns and a semiautomatic pistol. Wonder where she got that one, Helen thought; the galactic black market in Earth weaponry was a pricy one. Vala appeared to be old friends with the beefy cousin and currently feuding with a pair of traders in the back; when they began to rise she waggled her fingers and announced, "I'm not here for you today, boys."

There was a slight something that developed when a person had been a host for too long. You learned to see it, but it couldn't be trained; it was a second sight, like spotting dissociation or drug withdrawal. It was just a trick in the movements, an almost indiscernibly conspicuous lack of hesitation that said the body-brain interface in this person had been broken down and rebuilt from scratch. Helen could see it, and so could her team leader, Raji; the other two researchers never knew what they were talking about. But whatever it was, this woman had it in spades.

Helen removed her zat from the table when Vala sauntered up and pulled the privacy screen over to shield their table, and holstered it when she plopped down in the empty seat. Vala picked up what was left of the loaf of bread on the table and chewed a broken-off crust, making a slight mou? when she encountered grit.

"Thank you for coming," Helen said.

"Yes, well, I was curious," Vala replied airily. "You people ordinarily insist on much heavier reinforcement."

"The only reason I'll use force today is if I need to get myself home safely." Helen took a deep breath, meeting Vala's eyes; like at home, it signalled sincerity. "I'm not military, and I don't enforce laws. I'm a scholar and a truth-seeker. All I ask is that you talk to me, and help me understand what I need to know. You can walk away at any time. You are free to say no."

Vala's mouth tightened warily. "What is it you want to understand?"

Another complicated answer. "I'm a clinical psychologist. That is, I try to understand and treat mental illness. I... cure madness. Part of how we accomplish that is learning as much as we can about what we want to treat."

"You believe that I am mad?"

She shook her head. "No. But you said you were a host."

She could see Vala's face change, as she processed that. Could see the appearance of small, sad lines around her mouth and eyes. "That's not something you can heal."

Expressing empathy for that pain, she thought, would undermine her credibility; what she needed was to shore it up. "The other hosts I've talked to say it is a source of eternal pain," Helen said. "That their minds are forever changed."

"Whatever I was before, I'm not that anymore."

"I know." Carefully discarding a half-dozen responses, she continued, "Nothing can take you back to how you were before. That will never be within my power to do. Every event in our life... shapes us." She'd almost said leaves scars, but remembered more than one SGC veteran who'd lamented that their experience hadn't left a scar, or only a tiny one at the nape of the neck. "But what shape you take afterward--the new thing you become--is individual to each person. There is variation. Some people recover relatively easy--within a year they are happy, functional; they have returned to their families and jobs. Some are shaken, years later. They have evil dreams; they sometimes feel like the other is still controlling their body, or they are caught in old memories. Sometimes they shake and faint for no reason, or cannot sleep, or become alarmed and afraid because of some small reminder."

Then she stopped and lifted her beer to her lips, because Vala's face was white. Shock had driven the colour out of it, when Helen had begun by mentioning nightmares. When the woman didn't recover composure, Helen began speaking softly.

"Vala? Vala, thank you for meeting me in this bar. You came to Nal'gar to meet me. Vala, I'm glad we've been talking here. It's safe. Can you believe it's been nine years since the death of Ra? Now that you're not a host anymore, you're free. I would love to keep talking with you, Vala."

When Vala sucked in a deep breath, and shook her head violently, Helen knew she could leave off. Research interviews--or therapy--sometimes meant losing the other person to a flashback or fugue. She tried to re-orient them to time and place as best she could. Would it occur to anyone to fake that? "Okay, Vala, I do want to talk to you. If you want to help me understand what it's like, not being a host anymore, let me know. We can meet sometime in the future."

Quickly leaving her confusion behind, Vala narrowed her eyes. "What's wrong with today?"

"I have no objection to today." Helen shrugged. "You can talk or not at your choosing. I wanted to remind you that you can choose to walk away."

Vala shook her head vehemently. "I'm fine. I think I'm doing pretty well for myself, really. But I always was tough. It takes a lot to bother me."

Out of context, that line probably fooled a lot of people, Helen thought.

"All right," she said. "I do have some standard questions to ask you--the same ones I've asked other hosts, to make sure I get the same information from everybody. But you can add anything else you think at any time."

Vala nodded, bouncing slightly in her seat now. Helen reached over and triple-checked her camcorder's screen, knowing that she'd review the tape innumerable times, questioning her gut instinct. She used no other props; she'd completely memorized her interview questions months ago. This was going to be one big show of I'm-Fine armor, she thought, as Vala tackled the questions with alacrity and flair.

It felt like she was in the clear, having nailed the first half; the critical incident investigation, of what had helped and hindered recovery, would be a mop-up. "What was your biggest concern, immediately after you were freed from the symbiote?"

"My own people," Vala said bleakly, and Helen discovered she was wrong.

***

Her assessment of Vala was whatever counted as a success. Russ and Reynolds were pleased; she got a good performance review; and the Tok'ra coughed up a list of planets they'd dumped old hosts on.

Helen carefully crossed out the cases that exceeded a human lifespan, which was a consideration the symbiotes paid sketchy court to. None of the listed hosts had been freed for more than two hundred years, which was at least in the right millenium. She also noted, with faint misgiving, that Vala's name and planet were listed without comment.

She visited two SGC-approved planets without finding anyone who had seen or heard from a goa'uld host. She struck... something... on the third.

"We pray for him," the priest said gravely, as they sat in front of a temple alcove. Helen's mind skittered, distracted, trying out words for the case inside. Altar? Tabernacle? Ark? They ascended into frantic blasphemy, each more inappropriate than the last. The bones had been lovingly cleaned of flesh and polished with a dark lacquer, then piled into the display; Helen tried not to think of oxblood shoe polish, tried not to count the scattered vertebrae. "We have had dark days, since he returned and defiled our home, but we purified his body. We pray that without his ba, his ka will wander, and tell all the gods our tale. It is how he will earn a place in the realm of Osiris, once the darkness of his soul is healed."

Osiris is dead, Helen didn't say. She kept her mouth shut around her modified interview. In the days following the extraction, did you notice any changes in this person's sleeping patterns? She'd already kept bile from rising past her throat once this morning.

Maybe I should cut back on my coffee, she thought.

At the end of the interview she bowed, as was culturally appropriate, and thanked the priest for his teaching. Then she packed antacid and Dramamine for planets four, five, and six.

***

"It's the 70s. The everloving 1970s. All over again."

Helen thumped down the sheaf of papers, thick files, and notebooks. Her supervisor eyed her a little warily, perhaps not unused to the concept of medical files being used as offensive weapons. Helen began to pace. Offensive is the word for it.

"Their idea of 'humane treatment' is to remove the symbiote and dump the host back at point of origin in a matter of days, Raji. Like they don't care. So I say to one of them, 'Hey, isn't that part of the area the goa'uld ruled?' and she blinks at me and goes, 'Enlightened cultures understand the distinction between symbiote and host.' So I say, 'What about unenlightened cultures?' and she just goes, 'We cannot fight every battle.' But it's not just resources. It's prejudice. It's like these hosts are unclean. 'Yeah, the symbiote was horrible, so we'll mop shit off the floor, not that we care about it.' You can tell a forcible host just gives them the heebie jeebies and they can't wait to get that sucker outta there. Just dump them back into the community--man, now a cardboard box and begging for change on a streetcorner is starting to look good in comparison. Some of these hosts get ritually tortured. No bleeding wonder everyone's got PTSD!" She was shaking, and embarrassed. She still had no way to make this report in a dispassionate way. "I've got a plan. An idea. I'm going to get the Tok'ra to put me in charge of newly-extracted hosts, and I'm going to hunt down the old ones. The SGC wants long-term data badly enough. I'm meeting with the grant committee again in a month. I'm going to go into that meeting and tell them that my subject pools are disappearing because the Tok'ra don't do follow-up, and I'm going to get long-term residential care. And if I can't get residential care, I'll get rehoming to secure locations and longitudinal study. And if I can't get secure locations I'll get community advocacy. And if I can't get community advocacy I am going to go hit people because anything would be better than what these people have now."

After a minute, Dr. Aurora said, carefully, "So you need my help writing a funding proposal."

Helen stared at him for a minute, breathing raggedly, feeling like a wild-haired madwoman. This entire line of research had been so frustrating and so lonely, she'd counted on getting one good rant in before the department told her to swallow it and smile. "Honestly? I expected you to say, 'That's terrible, but we can't...'"

"Fight every battle?" Raji suggested gently.

She hated feeling small and put on the spot, like there was something she was missing thanks to her outrage. "Well, yeah."

Raji folded his hands, regarding her frankly. "Helen, if we have learned nothing else by now, it's that your ambition matches your tenacity. This program is learning that its technological answers are not everything it dreamed, and it is going to need manpower and experience. In this project, I see a way to speak to people with vast knowledge." His eyes glimmered. "And in you, I see a person to do the work for me."

She felt her way to a chair, and sat. "You mean it? Seriously? Taking the hosts in?"

"Oh, and even putting them on payroll. The military is promoting a new initiative to recruit offworld natives onto their teams."

Breath filled her lungs like a bird straining upwards. "Seriously. Seriously. Raji, one of them stole a ship."

He spread his hands. "They will not have to train her how to fly it."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "'Her'? You've read that file."

Conspiratorially he said, "Recruiting has asked me to give her an assessment."

"For an SG team?" She sat back, and began to laugh. "This job, Raji. This job. I'll have to remember to keep asking for the moon. You actually do have enough in surplus sitting around. "

"Oh, yes," he agreed. "It just takes a while to get them out of storage."

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F is for Fair
by penknife

Elliot is the first of them to go offworld with his team, and Hailey tries hard not to look like she's jealous. She's still waiting for an opening on an SG team to come open, along with Satterfield. There are fewer openings for specialists, so they're both going to have to wait until one of those slots opens up, or until the powers that be decide to create a new science team.

Meanwhile Elliot and Grogan are settling into SG-17 and SG-9. "It's just because any team can use somebody who just shoots things," Satterfield says in one of her crankier moments. She's pretty happy, though, spending her down time cataloguing Daniel Jackson's minor finds, and Hailey has to admit she's not exactly bored. Carter is doing interesting work trying to figure out how the universe works, and a lot of it is work that Hailey can help with without leaving the planet.

It's just that as long as she's sitting at a computer running astrophysics simulations, she might as well be back at the Academy or out at Area 51. The real excitement is out there, where she's been already once and is itching to go again. But she knows it's about what the SGC needs, not what's fair, and she's trying to be a good sport, so she toasts Elliot at breakfast with her coffee, and the rest of them follow along.

"You're next," Elliot says to Grogan, who nods and takes a modest bow over his scrambled eggs. SG-9 is prepping for a long-term diplomatic mission to Latona, which is probably going to consist of standing around guarding a conference room. Still, it'll be a conference room on another planet. SG-17 is supposed to go meet the Tok'ra with SG-1. Elliot will probably be guarding the conference room, while Hailey works on astrophysics investigations that could alter their understanding of the universe.

She still wishes it was her.

"So what are you doing today while SG-1 saves the galaxy?" Hailey asks Satterfield once the other two have left.

"Working on Goa'uld literary tenses," Satterfield says, with more enthusiasm than that seems to warrant. "Dr. Jackson is going offworld, so I can use all his reference books."

"Have fun," Hailey says, and takes her coffee mug off to her computer. SG-17 isn't back by dinnertime, and Grogan is eating with SG-9, so Satterfield and Hailey hang out and talk about television shows over their cafeteria food; Hailey doesn't actually have any friends in Colorado Springs yet, and she doesn't think Satterfield does either.

"Maybe we could all go have dinner in the outside world sometime," she says tentatively.

"You mean with normal food and actual drinks?"

Hailey shrugs. "Maybe that would be too weird."

"Not weirder than having dinner with the Tok'ra."

"I wonder what the Tok'ra eat for dinner."

"So do I, and it's not like Elliot's going to remember to take notes," Satterfield says gloomily.

"Dr. Jackson probably will."

"If he's not too busy negotiating."

"He'll probably remember," Hailey says.

In the morning, she walks into the cafeteria to find people huddled in little unhappy knots the way she's already figured out means one thing.

"Who's in trouble?" she says, and then Grogan makes his way across the room to her, grim-faced, and she finds out that SG-17 isn't coming back.

"It could have been any of us," Satterfield says that night, when they've left the mountain by silent mutual agreement. They're sitting around a table in a nearly empty bar, drinking as if that will make any of them feel better.

"But it wasn't," Hailey says. "That's just the way it goes, right?"

"He was a hero," Grogan says. He's had the most to drink, and he knocks back another shot after he speaks, slamming the glass down on the table nearly hard enough to break it. "You think we're heroes?"

"I think our time will come," Hailey says. To come home as heroes, she hopes, not to be dead heroes mourned over an empty coffin. But she knows there aren't any promises about that.

"He was better than I was," Grogan says.

Hailey and Satterfield look at each other, not sure what to say. She knows Grogan compared himself to Elliot in a way that she didn't. They weren't ever trying to be the same thing, any more than she and Satterfield compete over which is more important, wormhole physics or being able to talk to the people they meet out there.

"That doesn't matter anymore," Satterfield says finally. "You're here, and he's not. Nobody ever said this was going to be fair."

He squints at her. "That's all you've got?"

"I think that's all anybody's got," Hailey says. She wishes it were different, that there were some complex system of equations she could work through that would tell her why Elliot had to die, or tell them how they can go out there and do the things they want to do and be sure they'll always come back.

She's pretty sure the universe doesn't work that way. `

"To heroes," Grogan says, and raises his nearly empty glass. They knock their glasses together, and then raise them up to the light and drain them dry.

feedback

G is for Guilt
by gategremlyn

Doctor Cameron Balinsky, formerly of SG-13, stood beside his desk and dropped his last book into an open box. He was reaching for the tape to seal it when his boss came in the door.

"Wait," Daniel said, "I've got one more for you to add."

"Thanks." Cameron took the book from the outstretched hand and looked at it. "You can keep this one, Doctor Jackson, um... Daniel," he said and handed it back.

"Oh, well, thanks." Daniel hefted the book in his hand as if weighing it. "Yeah. Geology really isn't my forte, you know, because Sam mostly deals with that stuff, so this book should come in handy...." The words petered out. Without waiting for an invitation, he placed the book on the corner of the desk, pulled up a stool, and sat. "You're all packed then?"

It was obvious that he was packed since his office shelves were empty and a dozen boxes stood by the door. The desk was littered with half-packed boxes and assorted artifacts, some of which were on there way to storage. Those boxes contained the things Cameron couldn't take with him, things discovered through the Stargaze that were awaiting further research--research he would now have to leave to someone else. "Yeah."

"Where will you go?" Daniel asked.

"First I'm going to farm out some projects to other staff, and then I have to see General Hammond to sign the paperwork, the non-disclosure agreement, and the severance papers."

"I mean after you leave here," Daniel said. "Are you going on a dig, or are you going to teach, or are you going to go to the lake and fish?"

"Fish?"

"Sorry. I'm thinking of Jack. Whenever he wants to get away from something, he goes to Minnesota and goes fishing."

Cam blinked in surprise. "I have a hard time picturing Colonel O'Neill fishing." As though fishing was not something a colonel working for the most secret military establishment in the world would do. "He goes fishing?"

"Not exactly," Daniel explained. "He sits on the end of the dock and holds a fishing rod. And a beer." They shared a smile at that image.

Seeing that Daniel wasn't about to leave, Cam sighed and pulled up another stool. "Teaching has kind of lost it's glamor," he admitted. "After what we've seen, I don't know if I'll ever be able to go back to the classroom, although I'd like to someday. I enjoyed in when I did my graduate work."

"Yeah," Daniel nodded his agreement. "I've often thought that I'd like to back to teaching once I'm done here, but I don't know if I could either. But a dig, I'd like that. Just the chance to stick with something and see it through to the end."

"Yeah." Cameron fingered the tape on the box. "You don't get to do that much around here."

"That's for sure. I've got enough projects on my desk to last two or three lifetimes." Daniel squared the book with the corner of the desk and then turned it and squared it again. "Cam, I've still got some connections in the archeological community if you need a job. With my reputation, I'm not sure how much help it would be, but I'd be glad to make some calls for you."

"Thanks. I'd appreciate it. I'm going to take a couple of weeks and regroup, but after that I'll give you a call."

"Anytime," Daniel said. "Or a reference. If you need a reference, just ask."

"Thanks. Really."

The two of them sat in silence. Daniel fiddled with the flap on one of the boxes, and Cam waited for him to go away.

After a few uncomfortable few minutes, Daniel stood and reached inside the box. He pulled out a small but broken ebony statue of a bull. "What's this?"

"We found it on PJR 287."

"PJR 287?" He turned the figure, running his fingers over the smooth surface. "That doesn't sound familiar to me."

"Oh." Cam shifted in his seat. Of course Daniel didn't know about it. He'd been... gone. "We found it the year you were...." He waved his hand toward the ceiling.

"Got it," Daniel said. He placed the little statue on the book. "I'll bet that was fun, when you found it. I remember when we found Tuplo's people on P3X-797. They had these huge bull statues in the temple. I knew... I knew that his people had been transplanted from Earth. I was beyond excited; I had a Minoan culture as well as solid evidence of the Broca Divide."

"Me too!" Cam said. "When I found the temple, I knew they were Minoan. I mean on PJR 287. Although the temple also showed some signs of Oriental influence and I have no idea where that came from." His face lit up in front of a receptive audience. Daniel knew what it was like to make such enormous discoveries. "I keep hoping to find the time to go through my notes again. Maybe I could find the connection, but I'm always so busy, you know."

"Yeah, I really do know." Daniel wrapped the little bull in bubble wrap and placed it in the box. "P3X 797 was also the first time I met Janet Frasier. We were infected by some microbe, and she figured out how to help us. She and I both have allergies, and she realized that the antihistamines inhibited the microbe. That's amazing, isn't it? Did you know she had allergies? But I don't think she ever missed a day of work."

Cam stood and walked behind the counter to continue placing items in the box. A few more, and he'd be gone. He could send for anything he forgot. Soon the little bull was covered. After one more layer of bubble wrap, he sealed the box, completed the label, and set it by the door to go to storage.

Daniel lifted it from its spot and put it back on the desk, placing the book on top, and sat back down. "If it's okay with you, I'm going to take this to my office. Maybe I can find the time to have a look at it... sometime in the next two or three lifetimes."

"Thanks." Cam put both hands flat on the desk. He was done but for one last thing. Before he left, he had to confess to someone. "If I hadn't asked to stay, Daniel, she'd still be alive."

"If I hadn't asked for an aerial survey, she'd still be alive," Daniel said. "If we'd had another unit with us, she'd still be alive. If I'd had a weapon in my hand instead of a camera, she's still be alive. But she isn't." Daniel stood. "She isn't alive, Cam, and it stinks on so many levels. But it's not your fault and it's not mine. No matter what you think, it's not your fault."

Cam blinked and blinked again. "I was so excited about finding the ruins--ruins of an Ancient city. How often does that happen? More than anything, I wanted time to explore, even after we found the probe. I begged-- Daniel, I begged General Hammond for more time."

"You were doing your job." Daniel stood, placing his hand on the box with the statue. "You were supposed to beg for more time. You're an archeologist and an geologist. Janet Frasier was doing her job, too. She was a doctor. Think about it, Cam."

"Yeah."

"Well," Daniel said, hefting the box and settling the book on top, "let me know what I can do to help, and keep in touch, okay? If you change your mind, my department always has a opening for you." He shifted the box again so that he could hold out a hand.

Cam shook it, knowing he was leaving the job of a lifetime. "I seem to be saying 'thank you' a lot today. But thank you. All the opportunities, all the help. Thank you."

Daniel nodded. "Keep in touch," he repeated.

"Yeah."

"Well...." Daniel shifted the box again, scanning the room. Then he turned and walked out the door.

"Doctor Jackson." Cam ran out of the room, calling after the retreating body. "Can I have that box back?"

"Back?" Daniel returned to stand in the doorway.

"Yeah. I case I get some time between missions to look at it." He took the book from Daniel's arms and put it on the desk. He put the box beside it. Then he slit the tape, unwrapped the little bull, and put it on the shelf behind him.

Daniel grinned. "I'm keeping the book, though. If you need it, you'll have to come and get it. You know where my office is, right?"

"I know." Cam smiled his first real smile in days.

As he turned to leave again, Daniel used the book to wave. "There's more than one bull out there, Cam."

He snorted. "Daniel?" The man turned, raising an eyebrow in question. "It's not all right."

The smile faded. "No. It's not all right. It's never going to be all right."

"But it's not all there is either."

"It's not all there is, Cam, trust me. What we do here matters; Janet Frasier knew that." He tapped his fingers on the book. "I'm going to back to work now, and I think you've got some unpacking to do."

"Daniel," Cam called one last time, already putting things back where they belonged. "Thanks."

"Anytime, Cam. Anytime."

feedback

H is for Help
by aelfgyfu_mead

"Are you sure bringing it back here was such a good idea?" Bill asked nervously. The smooth black object had a surface that looked like polished wood, but it was heavy enough that SG-1 reported they'd had a lot of trouble getting it on the FRED. Considering what Teal'c alone could lift, that was saying something.

The shape made Bill nervous too. It resembled a coffin, complete with a lid. A coffin for the Hulk, perhaps. Well, maybe not the Hulk. That depended on which version; how big he got varied.

"We couldn't exactly study it on the planet," Daniel said, a little snidely, to Bill's ears. "Little things like the acid rain, generally corrosive atmosphere. . . ."

"Still safer than bringing it to Earth, Bill," Colonel Carter reminded him.

Bill couldn't disagree; the safety of Earth was paramount. He'd be happier, though, if he were still on Earth himself.

"Sam, I think Teal'c and I are going to get out of these suits and find some lunch," Daniel said.

Daniel's suit was looking a bit worse for wear, now that Bill looked closely at it. So were Teal'c's and Colonel Carter's.

"Did the acid eat into your suits?" Bill asked in horror.

The colonel regarded the now-pitted helmet she held in her gloved hand. "You see why we didn't want to stay."

Teal'c nodded to Bill, and he and Daniel turned and left the gate room.

"Oh, oh, right!" Bill felt silly now for complaining that they'd brought the artifact back "Of course. I'll have some Marines get it to the lab, and I'll secure it. We won't try to open it until you're there and we have the thing safely in quarantine. Why don't you change and come after you've had some lunch?"

The Colonel smiled at him. "I'll grab a sandwich and join you in the lab. I can't wait to see what we've got! I want to know how this thing survived the acid rain without a scratch, and what these energy readings mean."

She followed her teammates while Bill got men to help him transfer the object onto a cart to bring into his lab. In the end, it took four heaving Marines using a block and tackle to get it onto the cart. They could barely fit the thing through the lab doors. Maybe they should have bigger doors. If the object were any larger, they'd have to move it to the hangar instead, and that would make the pilots really unhappy. Bill made a few notes for improvements, things he could work on in his downtime--if he ever got through his backlog of projects.

The shiny ovoid looked like it might be some kind of life pod. SG-1 had found it on an otherwise barren planet, sunk partway into the ground. Despite the atmosphere that Daniel had described, and the real possibility that it had fallen to the planet from space, the pod had no scratches or dings that Bill could see. They'd washed it, the FRED they'd used, and the three members of SG-1 still in their suits the moment they all came through the Gate to contain any acid or other contaminants they might have brought through. Other scientists were now studying what had washed off.

Bill got his best magnifying glass and looked more closely at the surface under bright light. Nothing. He still couldn't see any imperfections. He couldn't identify the material just from looking. He shivered a little at the dark thing looming over him. He hoped Colonel Carter would bring her sandwich soon.

Bill put on a light pair of gloves, hoping he could get a better idea of the material through the thin layer of latex. One couldn't be too cautious with alien artifacts, even if the acid should have killed anything, and then the bath had removed the acid. He moved his fingers slowly towards the surface.

Bill snatched back his hand. The object looked as though it should be cool, but it was much warmer than the ambient temperature. He touched it again gingerly and took his hand back. It wasn't hot, but very warm. He pressed his palm gently to the surface--about body temperature, he guessed.

Of course, that was when all hell broke loose.

***

The mess hall here made Sam miss the SGC's, but Daniel and Teal'c were hungry enough to stay and have real meals to make up for their missed lunches. She was bringing the least objectionable sandwich back to Bill's lab when the klaxons sounded. She broke into a trot and was close enough to see the door to Bill's lab slide shut. Then the lights went out, and she was in the dark.

A moment later the emergency power came on, bringing up the lights. Should she get a weapon and a team here, or try the door first? Maybe she could get Bill out before things got worse. Decision made, she took the last few steps to the door and tried the panel. Nothing. Damn. It wasn't really a surprise; they'd designed the labs so that they could lock them down securely. Now Bill was locked securely in his lab with an alien artifact, and they had no idea what it did.

***

When the lights came back, Bill verified what he already knew: the door had shut. He never closed that door when he could avoid it. Ever since Honduras, he hated closed doors, especially in concrete bunkers built inside mountains. He couldn't breathe. That thing must have cut off the air somehow. He looked back at the casket; a hose snaked from the previously smooth surface to the power supply in the middle of the lab. It must be sucking all the air out of the room. Bill already felt warm and lightheaded. How could it take the air so fast? He sank to his knees, bent over the floor. No, wait--not good for breathing. He lay down on his back. That was it: don't compress the lungs. Keep them open. Breathe. He should breathe slower, use up the air slower.

A low hum filled the room. Bill decided he wouldn't even worry about what the pod was doing. He would run out of air first. He knew he should have resigned. He was never safe in the Stargate Program. He began running through every disastrous moment he'd had since he joined the program.

He'd made it past the time he thought General O'Neill, Colonel Carter, and Daniel were going to kill him for getting Teal'c trapped in that game chair when he realized that his breathing had actually eased. He opened his eyes. He wasn't dizzy any more. He wasn't excessively warm.

Bill sat up. Oh, God: he'd just hyperventilated and thought he was dying. He wondered if anyone was watching on the monitors; they had cameras in every lab. It wasn't like humiliation was anything new for him, though.

***

"Bill's claustrophobic now," Daniel said slowly, clearly unhappy. "He was fine before we went after the Telchak device, but. . . ."

"We noticed, Daniel," Sam told him, hoping to ease his guilt. "You're not actually betraying a secret here. We'll get him out as soon as we can."

Sam stared at the monitors before her. After her first attempts to open the door had failed, she'd come to the control room to see if she could get a better grasp on the situation. The others had joined her. Unfortunately, security monitors were down all over the base. They couldn't get video or audio feed from Bill's lab.

Another scientist called her over. "Main power is back on, but we're seeing a big drain; it looks as though it's coming from Dr. Lee's lab," Dr. Chankul indicated, pointing to a monitor. "Shall I shut off main power again?"

"Do it," Sam told her.

"I can't," the scientist responded a minute later. "I've tried everything, but I can't seem to shut down the power!"

"Has anyone called Bill?" Daniel asked abruptly. "I mean, on the phone?"

***

The hum from the pod seemed to be increasing. Bill looked around for a weapon. Nothing. He worked on weapons all the time; how could he have nothing in this lab? Oh, because they were all in his lab at the SGC.

Keeping his distance from the pod, Bill tried to get a better look at the hose. It was shiny and black like the pod, and about four inches in diameter. It ran to the power supply, where it suddenly became a much larger bulb and covered the whole set of outlets. It must be draining power from the base. Didn't they have a way to lock out that sort of drain? Maybe they didn't. He'd have to work on that.

The hum was now so loud that Bill covered his ears. Suddenly it changed pitch, and then it decreased. He could see a change in the pod. It looked as though the side away from him was sliding open. He screwed up his courage and began to tiptoe around the pod, on the side by the lab's door, so that he didn't have to step over the hose. The humming stopped so suddenly his ears rang.

Then the hum began, though more quietly and at a lower pitch. Something else rang, and Bill jumped. Wait--that was his phone. It was on the open side of the pod. He looked at the pod, just in time to see a bright light shoot out. The phone on the wall exploded.

A moment later, Bill thought: damn. They didn't have a working mobile phone network in this mountain.

***

"It stopped ringing," Sam had to tell them as she hung up. "We have to assume something is happening in there."

"It looked like a life pod," Daniel reminded them. "Maybe something came out?"

"Or perhaps an automated defense system activated," Teal'c suggested.

Sam nodded. "Could be either. That power drain may have been to revive a being in stasis, or it could have been powering weapons. Or both."

Daniel looked as grim as she felt. "There's no telling what Bill is facing."

No one said, "If he's still alive," but no one had to say it.

***

The monitors didn't have sound, did they? Bill was pretty sure they didn't, so they might have seen him jump, but no one heard him shriek at the blast. He'd never have heard the end of that, assuming he survived the whole thing anyway. The energy pulse had come from inside the pod, above the head of a groggy alien. A groggy, furry, bipedal alien that looked like a stuffed animal his daughter would have in her collection.

The alien was about two-thirds Bill's own size. He could see grey, black, and white fur on its face and forearms. It wore boots and gloves of a brown material that looked like leather and a silver coverall that covered its legs and upper arms. The suit had pockets everywhere and some emblems across the chest no doubt meant something wherever this creature came from. It blinked slowly at Bill. Most of its face was covered in a plastic breathing mask. Black straps across its torso held the creature in something like a seat.

"Hi!" Bill said, holding up his palms to show that he had nothing in his hands. The little mounted gun that had shot the phone wasn't moving any longer, but why take chances? "I come in peace!" No, that wasn't quite right. Boy, he wished Daniel were here.

The alien blinked more rapidly and turned its head from side to side. Then it looked to its left for a longer period of time. It appeared to be reading some panel inside the pod, but Bill didn't want to go close enough to be sure.

"Do you come in peace?" Bill shook his head. He wasn't supposed to be making first contact. He wasn't that kind of scientist at all. "What's your name? Oh, mine's Bill! William Lee, actually. But you can call me Bill."

The creature turned its head back to look at Bill again and pulled off the mask.

"You can breathe our air? Good!" Bill blathered nervously. "At least, I hope that's good," he added in an undertone. "I don't suppose you can understand me?"

The creature did something with the straps, and suddenly it was free--and it fell forwards onto the floor.

"Oh, no!" Bill exclaimed and stepped forward to help it.

The creature's head snapped up and it opened its mouth, displaying rows of fangs that would not have looked out of place on a shark.

"Okay!" said Bill said, backing away slowly. "You don't need my help! What was I thinking?" He realized that he had been looming over the alien. He had reached the wall already; he slid down it slowly and sat on the floor, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. That had never worked for him before, but there was always a first time.

***

"So here's what we know," Sam announced to the full complement of scientists, along with part of the Marine and Air Force complements. They were in the hangar, the only place they could all assemble. She recounted how the initial lockdown had been triggered by their own safety systems when the pod began drawing a large amount of power, but main power had been turned back on from inside Bill's lab. They couldn't open the door from the outside the room or from the command center. Monitors inside the lab were offline. She took a deep breath and told them about the phone that stopped working in the middle of ringing.

"We don't know whether we are dealing solely with alien technology, probably programmed to defend itself, or with an incursion," she concluded. "We may have an intruder now. We must assume at this time that it is hostile."

Sam could see Daniel's lips pressed together. He didn't like the assumption, but he made no attempt to argue. Or maybe it was the fact that he accepted the assumption that he didn't like.

Colonel Pierce took over from there. "Colonel Carter will work on that door, backed by Teal'c and the Marines. Chankul, you and your team will find some way to get us a view in there, whether it's through the air vents, or a hole in the wall, or sliding a mirror around! The rest of the scientists will work on maintaining security of base systems and then and only then will attempt to re-establish control over the door mechanism and the monitors in Dr. Lee's lab. Air Force personnel here will keep this hangar secure. Dismissed."

Daniel cleared his throat loudly enough to be heard over the sounds of people departing to their stations. "I'm not going to be much help with the base systems."

Pierce paused and looked at him. "So what do you propose?"

"As Sam said, we may have an incursion. If there's someone there, I can attempt to establish contact."

Sam nodded. "I'll be happy to have him, sir, if you allow."

"Of course."

As they geared up, Daniel said, "You know, we never trained Bill for combat situations, but he seems to keep finding himself in them. Maybe he'd be safer just at the SGC? I mean, I know it wouldn't keep him completely out of harm's way, but it seems like every time he goes on a mission. . . ."

Sam thought ruefully of a Daniel who had once been untrained for combat situations too. He'd learned pretty quickly. Bill was . . . not quite the same. How could he be? No one would expect an archaeologist to do all that Daniel did; no one should expect more of an engineer and physicist than Bill already did.

"Dr. Lee has handled himself with courage and resourcefulness at times," Teal'c said.

Daniel nodded vigorously. "We never give Bill enough credit. He's still working with us despite the kidnapping and the torture. I mean, he's the one who developed these vests." He tapped his own.

Sam didn't mention that Bill had nearly let a plant take over the SGC (as General O'Neill reminded them every time Bill's name came up, even though that fiasco had nothing to do with SG-1). Worse, he had given up on General O'Neill when Maybourne had sent them to that moon. She didn't mention these things, but she couldn't help remembering them.

"He just has the worst luck!" Daniel said, mostly under his breath.

Sam snorted. "I thought that was you."

***

The furry alien was talking to him, Bill was sure of that. He just wish he had some idea what it was saying. The voice was a little too high-pitched to be pleasant, and it seemed to think that he should understand it. He was pretty sure it kept repeating the same words. It was sitting on the floor in front of its pod now and looked much less woozy, and more than a little scary.

"You know, it would help if you'd, say, point to something, so that I could learn your language," he said as inoffensively as possible.

It stopped short and bared its many, many teeth, but it didn't move towards him. It kept looking at him, apparently expecting him to talk more.

"Why don't we start with introductions?" Bill tried to think what Daniel would do. He'd seen him in action often enough. Of course, the actions he'd seen from Daniel usually involved artifacts, and not first-contact situations. Unless one counted human kidnappers as first contact, and Bill didn't think that he should.

He pushed the bad memories back and focused. He tapped his chest. "Bill." He repeated the gesture and the word twice more.

What came out of its mouth next sounded like "Byo."

"Right!" Bill couldn't keep the excitement from his voice, but that seemed to startle his new friend; it bared its teeth again.

"Bill," he said one more time, tapping his fingers on his chest. Then he held his hand so that his fingers pointed to it instead. "You?"

A long string of sounds came from its toothy mouth. How did Daniel do this? Where was Daniel?

***

"I'd feel better if we could see," Daniel told Teal'c yet again. Sam gritted her teeth. Did he think she couldn't hear? She had the door panel open and had tried everything. Nothing happened whatsoever. The panel had been completely locked out, or maybe even burned out. Maybe the whole mechanism was burned out. None of her overrides worked.

She had Teal'c try brute force; that got them nowhere, as she expected, but it was worth a try.

Daniel suddenly touched her arm. "Command," he said grimly, handing her a radio.

It was Pierce. "We've lost our other monitors," he told her. "Something in there is still accessing our system, and we need you here to help us shut it out."

Sam gave herself a moment to imagine throwing up her hands and saying, "Fine! It's not like I'm doing anything here anyway!" Then she acknowledged the command properly.

"Keep an eye on things," she told Daniel and Teal'c. "I'll be back when I can."

***

Bill was pretty sure the alien was telling him its name. But was it that whole long string of sounds, or just part? He couldn't make most of those noises if he tried, and he couldn't remember them long enough to try.

Daniel would probably be having a field day here. He wouldn't be claustrophobic, and he wouldn't wonder if the alien ate other intelligent species, and he would actually be able to communicate, damn it! But it was no good thinking like that. Daniel was on the other side of that door.

That was the key. If Bill could get that door open, he could introduce the alien to Daniel, and Daniel and it could have a good time, and Bill could run out of the base and look at the sky and hyperventilate as long as he wanted.

He stood up slowly. He meant to look harmless, and his knees creaking and cracking probably helped. The alien looked curious rather than scared.

"I'm sorry, but I'm just not getting your name," Bill explained. "Maybe we can try some other words?"

He walked slowly to his desk. The alien tensed. He put his hand on a drawer handle.

"Closed," he said. He tapped the handle. He went down to the next one. "Closed," he repeated, and he tapped the handle. The third: "closed." He went to the other side and did the other two drawers.

"Open," he said, pulling a drawer open.

The desk above his hand exploded, and he dove for the floor.

***

"Energy burst in Dr. Lee's office!" exclaimed Dr. Prentice. "It's over already."

"Do we know what it was?" she said, leaving the monitor she had just begun using and going to his.

He pulled up a graph of the energy spike.

"That looks like a weapons burst," she had to say.

Her radio crackled, and Daniel's voice came through. "Sam, we heard what sounded like an explosion from inside Bill's office! It was muffled, but it didn't sound good."

"Bill's still alive," she said, trying to convince both Daniel and herself. "If Bill weren't still alive, whatever's in there wouldn't be. . . ." She just couldn't keep up the act.

"Shooting him?" Daniel asked pointedly.

***

The shooting had stopped, Bill told himself. The shooting had stopped. Just one shot, and it wasn't near him. He tried to uncurl from the little ball he'd rolled into. He gradually determined that nothing hurt, except his heart pounding in his chest. He thought he heard faint voices calling his name, but that might be in his head.

Bill looked at the wall. They'd need a new phone there, that was for sure. The wall behind seemed undamaged, though. Precision shooting? The pod wanted to stop the noise, and it stopped the noise.

Bill turned slowly towards the alien. It was partly back in the pod now. Could that be an apologetic look on the furry face? It looked kind of like a dog that had been yelled at, but--no. It looked like his daughter used to look when she'd done something wrong, before she started thinking she was all grown up. Now got defensive instead of being sorry when she misbehaved. The alien looked at him a little sideways, not directly, as if she was embarrassed. Her head was down, just like Katie used to do. And then Katie would whisper an apology, and he'd forgive her.

"Apology accepted," he said shakily. "But how am I going to teach you 'open'?"

***

Sam cursed under her breath. Whatever had happened in that lab, it had made things worse; the alien artifact had tapped into their systems and kept shutting things down. Now lights were going on and off. It shouldn't be that easy! What would they do if it got into life support?

"Colonel Pierce? We've got a problem. I think we need to keep some doors locked open, with heavy objects wedged in them." She began to explain.

Daniel had drifted back to the control room, obviously frustrated with his inability to do anything for his friend from the corridor outside the lab. He was now having Chankul talk him through her attempts to get visuals on Bill. Sam hoped it wouldn't slow her team's work.

"Webcam!" the young woman exclaimed suddenly. "If I can get control of Bill's webcam, the way he has his desk positioned, it should show us most of his lab!"

***

The alien was not speaking to him, Bill finally realized; she was talking to her pod. She'd turn to look at him often, but her rapid sounds were aimed inside the thing. The conversation seemed awfully one-sided, though. He hoped she was telling the pod to stand down, or that he was a friend, or whatever she needed to convey to get it to stop firing at him.

On the other hand, the thing couldn't have missed at this distance. Even while his pulse still raced, Bill knew that must have been a warning shot. The pod's defense system could have killed him twice. It shot the desk above where he reached. It had shot the phone to pieces, so he knew it didn't miss by accident. It must be trying to defend the furry alien.

Now that Bill thought about it, the alien looked a hell of a lot smaller than the flight couch inside. That could hold something nearly twice her size. Perhaps she had an expression like his daughter used to get because the alien was herself very young. Perhaps the pod was set to defend her automatically because she couldn't defend herself. Even with all those pockets, the alien showed no signs of having a weapon. She had bared her teeth, but she hadn't really moved to bite him. Maybe baring her teeth was some kind of smile? Daniel had told him about a race SG-1 had encountered once where smiling looked like a threat, and they had to be careful not to show their teeth. Could he be the alien thinking that bared teeth were a threat when she'd been trying to look harmless? He remembered that he'd been trying to look harmless at the same time.

If she was not just an alien, but a child, what did she make of this place? Clearly, she had seen technology before. Yet had she ever seen a human being before? Bill had seen many aliens, but new ones still startled him. He could look pretty scary. When his kids were really small and he took them to play dates, babies and toddlers would cry if he got too close.

Daniel had won friends by sharing food, hadn't he? Bill had a supply of chocolate in his desk. He could use some right now himself. He hadn't had lunch, standing by the comms and discussing readings with Colonel Carter before SG-1 brought the pod to the Alpha Site.

"Excuse me?" he asked when the alien had been quiet for a while. "Could you tell me if you have in fact disabled your, um, rather overprotective defense system there? I don't suppose you even know what I mean."

The alien slid back onto the floor, gracefully this time. That pod definitely seemed built for something larger than she was. She let loose another string of sounds.

"And I have no idea what that means," Bill murmured to himself. If she was a child, continuing to talk might set her at ease. Either way, it made him feel a little better. Plus, somebody had to be the adult here, and he was starting to think it might be him.

***

Prentice cursed loudly. "It was much easier to get in here last time!"

"Well, if you hadn't posted a video of Bill singing and dancing in his lab to the entire base, maybe he wouldn't have secured his webcam so well!" Chankul said angrily.

Secure the base, Sam told herself. Pay no attention to the scientists having petty fights. Even if they're trying to save the life of a man you've worked with for years--and whom you'd miss if you lost him. God. Would they really lose Bill? Had they already?

After one last test, she announced, "I've isolated power and life support. I'm confident the alien system can't take control."

Pierce came over. "Have you cut off power to the thing?"

"Not yet," she conceded. "I'm--well, sir, I might be able to do it, but I'm not certain. If I try and fail, I may not get a second chance. I'm afraid of the reaction an attempt could provoke. If Bill is still alive in there, I want to save cutting off its power until last. I'd really like to get a look in there before I try it, sir."

Pierce took a long pause before responding. "I want you to work out how you'll cut power. If that thing gets any further into our systems, or poses any more of a threat than it does now, you need to cut power immediately. We don't even know if Dr. Lee is still alive."

***

"Pencil," said Bill. "Pencil." He twirled it a little in his fingers.

"Pezzz," the alien seemed to say.

"Good! Good. That's right. Pencil. Now let's see what we can do with it." Bill knew his hands were shaking. He didn't know if the alien knew what that meant. He carefully took a piece of paper off his desk and flipped it over.

"We can draw." He tried to draw the alien. His sketch was horrible. His kids would have laughed. The alien looked intrigued. That was probably because she was too far away to see how bad his drawing was. It wasn't the quality that counted, Bill told himself. Keeping the alien happy--that was what mattered.

"We can write." Help! Help! his hand wrote, before he really thought about it. No, he was going to stay calm. He could do this.

He put the pencil through the handle of the desk drawer that held his stash. Thank God he had left it unlocked, even if that jerk Prentice sometimes helped himself. He still suspected Prentice had used the spare key to get in at least once while it was locked, anyway.

"We can use it as a simple lever. Open," he said, slowly pulling the drawer open with the pencil.

The alien's eyes widened, but the pod didn't fire.

Bill put down the pencil.

"Closed," he said, gently pushing the drawer shut. He then showed "open" and "closed" several more times.

"Chocolate," he said, inching his hand into the drawer and slowly, ever so slowly, drawing out a bar of Special Dark. Prentice hadn't eaten it, because Bill had swapped the wrapper with a Mr. Goodbar. Prentice had eaten the Mr. Goodbar.

"Chocolate," he said again, revealing the bar to the alien. He slipped off the paper that said "Mr. Goodbar" and slowly peeled back a little foil.

"Chocolate," he said several more times, and then he finally took a bite and smiled. He held it out to her. She was moved from feet away to just inches from him so fast that Bill jerked back, afraid she was attacking him. Then he got a grip on himself and moved back towards her, slowly handing her the chocolate bar, trying to keep one eye on the pod while looking like he wasn't.

She grabbed the bar and sunk her teeth in as if she hadn't eaten in, well, who knew how long? She probably hadn't.

Wait. Dogs were allergic to chocolate--deathly allergic. What if he poisoned an alien? What if he poisoned an alien child?

***

"Got it!" Sam crowed as the image popped up on the screen.

"What is that?" Daniel asked, but Sam had no answer.

The screen showed mostly the profile of an overgrown Ewok with a frightening mouth dripping some substance that Sam couldn't immediately identify.

"What color is that?" demanded Chankul, who had joined them. "That's not blood, is it?"

"Sam, can you refocus?" Daniel asked, tapping the upper right-hand side of the screen. "There's a piece of paper on the floor."

The printing was too shaky to be sure it was Bill's hand, but as Sam coaxed more out of the camera, her stomach dropped. HELP HELP, it read. Clearly the creature didn't write that, but she couldn't see Bill at all.

***

No respiratory distress, no sign of hives--would he see them under that fur? Bill very much hoped the alien wasn't being harmed by the chocolate.

She sure seemed to be enjoying it. She was even chewing a little foil. No fillings, apparently; Bill didn't see any sparks. Then he wondered what was wrong with him, to think about aliens with fillings. The way her teeth looked, bad ones probably just fell out and were replaced.

The rest of the bar disappeared all too fast, and Bill was pretty sure it was the last he had.

Perhaps he could return to the language lesson? "You know, we have more food. We just have to get out of this room. See? Open?" he opened another drawer.

"Owa!" Chocolate and saliva dripped into the fur below the alien's mouth. She seemed much happier now.

"But the drawers won't get us anything else good. What if we go . . . over here?"

Bill walked the long way around the room, his skin prickling. He didn't want to go to close to the alien. At any moment, that pod could shoot. It could probably shoot him even though he was walking around the side of pod that remained closed.

The alien got to her feet and trotted after him.

"Right! Long way around, but we'll get there. Door."

Bill put a sweaty hand up to the door panel and tried to open it. He wasn't at all surprised that it didn't work.

"Owa!" said a little voice at his side. The alien was so close he could touch her. He wouldn't touch her. He didn't want to scare her--or her pod.

"Yes. Open. At least, I want it to open." He looked at the pod. "I think your craft broke it."

***

"There's Bill!" Daniel shouted, pointing at feet in the far part of the screen. "He's walking; he's alive!"

"Are you sure?" Prentice asked.

"Those are Dr. Lee's shoes," Teal'c said authoritatively.

Sam could not get sound from the webcam. It should work! Damn it! Bill's security was better than she thought; they were lucky they'd been able to get video. Did he disable the microphone separately? Who did that? Then she remembered the audio file that had made the rounds of the SGC emails a few weeks back. Bill had cause.

"Carter, is the whole base secure?" Pierce demanded.

"No, sir."

"Then get on it! We know Lee's alive, but we're not getting anything else out of that camera!"

Sam reluctantly moved back to another station. It was true: the creature had run across the screen and then disappeared. She couldn't tell if Chankul's interpretation of what had dripped from the creature's mouth was correct and the thing really did have blood on its teeth, or if Chankul had been watching too many horror movies on her laptop.

"Look, we've recalled the Daedalus to see if we can beam him out, but it's going to be another two days before it gets here," Pierce told her quietly. "I don't want to lose Dr. Lee any more than you do, but we need to make sure we've locked that alien system out of ours! Once you've done that, we can work on getting eyes on Lee again."

"He's still alive, Sam," Daniel reminded her.

***

Bill's hands had left sweat marks all over the door. Of course it wasn't moving. He couldn't open it by force! He doubted Teal'c could; it was built to stay locked once it was locked. A signal would be needed to allow it to open. The alien trying to help him push the door was really cute, though. He wondered how developed she was and how much bigger she'd get. And how much smarter. Whoever had designed that pod had a higher level of technology than they did; he could tell that just from the outside. The inside looked complex, as well, as far as he could tell from the looks he snuck. He didn't want to look directly at it for too long.

"Your pod won't let us out," he said, sinking tiredly down the wall. "Unless it's our security system, but then I think we'd at least get some blinking lights. I think your pod is trying to protect you, so it secured this room, and it isn't going to let us open it until it's confident that we're not going to hurt you."

The alien sat down next to him. "Owa?" she asked.

"Yes, I want it to open."

A set of sounds that meant nothing to Bill followed. She repeated them.

"Wait!" he said on the third repetition. "Did you say 'chocolate'?"

"Shach!" she said, with a guttural sound at the end of the syllable. She pointed to her mouth, still slightly smeared with chocolate.

"Chocolate! Yes, there's more! Out there! Open!" he said, tapping the door. "We have to get it open."

The alien jumped to her feet and went back into her pod.

Suddenly the door opened.

"Just like that?" Bill said, starting to stand. "Well, not just like that. I suppose I did--"

Everything seemed to happen at once: Teal'c appeared in Bill's field of view, dressed in a protective vest and holding his staff; the alien let out what could only be a scream; and an explosion hit the wall above Teal'c's head. Then everything froze. Bill didn't dare move a muscle, although he felt as though any moment all those muscles might just give out. Teal'c stood stock still too, clearly considering his options.

"Teal'c's a friend," Bill said cautiously. "Teal'c, put down your weapons, very slowly, and tell my friend here that you're a friend too."

Teal'c blinked and raised his eyebrows, but he did not object. Thank God for Teal'c's calm. Bill wished he had it. Teal'c slowly lowered his staff and then straightened.

"I am a friend to any friend of Dr. Lee," he said solemnly, and he added a nod at the end.

"Now tell her you have chocolate," Bill said with a forced smile.

"I have chocolate," Teal'c dutifully repeated.

A series of squeals erupted behind him. Bill continued to stand very still, and he closed his eyes for good measure. Then something brushed his side, and he looked to find the alien taking his hand.

"Shach!" she said, and the three of them started down the corridor together. The pod didn't shoot. Bill didn't faint, but it was a near thing.

***
Sam could hardly believe it when Bill introduced her to the toothy alien in the infirmary. The thing that had looked so big and bloodthirsty on the monitor seemed much smaller and less threatening in person. Still, its lifepod had shot up Bill's lab and the wall outside.

"I'm glad you're okay," she told Bill. "We were worried."

Bill smiled, taking his eyes off the alien for just a moment. "I'm fine now. I just want to make sure this little one is okay."

"You're sure she's a child?"

The alien began speaking her musical language again, and Bill didn't answer.

"Pretty sure," Daniel chimed in. "As Bill said, the pod can handle much larger lifeforms, and her coordination . . . could be better." He gestured at a stain on the front of the clothing the alien wore.

Dr. Chen tapped his foot impatiently. "I really think it does not take four of you to keep her calm so that I can finish her exam."

Bill volunteered to stay; Sam realized she should have expected that after what she'd heard about him bonding with their visitor. She got to her feet. "I've got work to do. Pierce is really unhappy about base security."

Daniel and Teal'c didn't move. Sam sighed.

"Good job, Bill," she told him.

That got his attention. "Thanks!" he said, sounding surprised. Did she compliment him so little? Maybe she should pay more attention to him in the future. He deserved better.

Bill resumed discussing the alien with Daniel as she left.

EPILOGUE

Bill was sorry to see his little friend go, but Thor had come to collect her before the Alpha Site's doctor even finished examining her. It turned out that General O'Neill had contacted him as soon as he'd heard from the Alpha Site that they had an unknown alien. The Asgard insisted that he could not take Bill to her planet, and the alien (whose name was apparently a series of whistles that didn't translate into English) had to be returned to her home immediately. Thor did tell them that he'd learned from the pod that she had been stranded on that planet for nearly a decade. Her parents must have given her up for dead; Bill's heart went out to them. Thor also acted as translator for one short conversation, allowing thanks to be exchanged on either side. Even with Thor interpreting, however, the words didn't make a lot of sense to Bill; the language was filled with metaphors. Apparently Bill was now somehow equated with chocolate in the girl's mind, and also with birdsong and flowers, if Bill understood correctly.

Everyone praised him. Everyone, even Colonel Pierce and General O'Neill. The girl had finally turned off her pod's defenses entirely (in the pursuit of chocolate). That in itself was interesting; the whole scientific complement of the Alpha Site couldn't shut it down, though the pod could get into their systems. Unfortunately, Thor had said something about the Fifth Race not being ready and claimed the pod himself, so they wouldn't be reverse-engineering it any time soon.

"Two questions," General O'Neill asked him in the briefing room back on Earth, just before Bill left for a richly deserved two-week leave. SG-1 stood around to hear the answer, so Bill suspected they weren't just the General's questions.

"How did you know she was a girl?"

"She reminded me of my daughter," Bill admitted. "You know how kids look when they know they've done something wrong, and they're afraid you're mad at them?"

"Wow," the General replied. "Your kid need a lot of orthodontia?"

Bill had no idea how to answer that. He ought to know the General well enough now, but the man still surprised him.

"Jack." Daniel was being nice to Bill now. He'd clearly been worried for him. Oddly enough, it felt good to know that, even though he already knew Daniel would risk his life for him.

"And the other question?" Bill expected it would be about chocolate.

Sam was the one who asked: "Why did you write, 'help, help' on a sheet of paper and leave it in front of your webcam?"

"Oh, um." Bill fumbled a bit. That moment seemed ridiculous now. He'd been the hero of the day; he didn't really need to admit how scared he'd been, did he? "I meant to say that I was helping with the situation, but I got a bit distracted while writing it."

In the perfect silence that followed, Bill knew that he hadn't fooled anyone.

Yet the General said, "okay," and then he was free to go. Well, free to go to finish his report on a laptop while he sat on the side of the mountain--enjoying the fresh air and the breeze and the sunlight.

Bill headed for the elevators. After he finished that report, he would pick up his kids and take them to the park. He'd bring chocolate.

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I is for Idiot Proof (with bonus Indiscretion)
Lead Off Course
by camshaft22

Major Paul Davis stood in General O'Neill's office at attention, his face betraying nothing as he waited for the acknowledgement of his presence and the order to start his report.

"Well, Davis, get going. And relax, will you? Take a seat. You're making me want to starch my shirts."

"Thank you, Sir," Paul told him, taking a seat. "The plan worked. But there were a few things that didn't quite work out like we hoped."

"Not so idiot proof after all, Davis?"

"Not so idiot proof, Sir. But, I also said that no plan is idiot proof. That was all Major Pearson."

"Duly noted."

"But the reporter has nothing on the F-305 project and I just have a bruised pride to show for it. So, we're still in good standing with the government and our allies."

"I'm glad to hear that, Davis. Except for the bruised pride, that is," General O'Neill told him sympathetically. "What did you tell them again?"

"That the F-305 was merely a code name for Senator Kinsey's past indiscretion with a woman and gave them some false starts on that end. I hate to speak ill of a dead man..."

"But he was a snakehead and even if he is dead, which we never saw a body so that's still up in the air, it was a good fake and it's not like the man is here to defend himself anyway. You're cold, Major. Not bad."

"Thank you, Sir. Sometimes you have to be."

"I do know that. I just want you to know I appreciate it. Anything else to report?"

Paul shook his head. "No, Sir."

General O'Neill nodded. "Dismissed. Take the rest of the day, I plan on it."

"Thank you, Sir."

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J is for Jonas Hansen
by campylobacter

"Then he goes, 'Hanson, Hanson, Hanson. I am disappointed in you, my son.'"

"Right before he sets you on fire," Sam says, completing his story before he can.

"Almost sets me on fire. I'll never forget the look on that Arab devil's face when the ambassador barged in with armed guards and ended that 'interrogation' session right quick."

Jonas thinks he sees Sam stifle a yawn, or a wince. So what if he's told her about the Tehran mission before? He needs to make sure that she never forgets what really happened to him, just in case she ever hears something different. He changes the subject to throw her off. "So this transfer you're getting. It requires security clearance higher than mine?"

"How..." She frowns, totally surprised that he knows. Oh yes, he has channels. He knows men up her chain of command. Plus, his black ops training includes wiretapping expertise. She hesitates before continuing: "It's only analysis of deep space radar telemetry."

"Yeah, right, Doctor Nanotechnology."

"Jonas," she hisses, looking around the tavern like a paranoid freak. It's so easy to make her do that.

"What? You can't hide anything from me, baby, so you might as well tell me everything. No secrets."

Then she stands up, pushes her chair away. "Oh my god. Here is not the place. Actually, there's no place where-- you know what?" Her cheeks are flushed, and she's losing some of that Strong Woman composure. She's so ravishing when she's vulnerable. "I'm calling a cab. You can play your sick little control game all by yourself tonight."

He watches her leave in a huff. Do all military babes learn that Feminazi act in Basic Training? But he knows how to get to her. He doesn't call her for two days, then leaves messages about how he's lost without her, yadda yadda, will hurt himself, et cetera.

Damned if it doesn't work this time around. Three evenings later he finds a long note on his kitchen counter with the key to his apartment. After paragraphs of touchy-feely stuff about how "it's not anyone's fault", it closes with these lines:

I can't fix what only a therapist can. Please get help before you sabotage your own ambition. Schrodinger misses you, and so will I.

He only pretended to like that stupid cat. Then he sees the ring he gave her tied to the same ribbon as the key.

***

When they see each other again, she's shocked that he's made it into the deepest levels of Cheyenne Mountain, and he's a little surprised that she now bears the same rank he does.

"Lookin' good, CAPTAIN Carter." He lets his eyes wander appreciatively.

"Captain Hanson. Wow." She smiles as though she's forgiven him and they're long-lost colleagues. "It's been, what? A year?"

He grins. "About that long. Heard you got assigned to Colonel MacNeal's unit."

"O'Neill. Two Ls," interrupts a tall, cocky bastard with a smirk as he passes them in the hallway. "Carter's my second in command."

"Yeah, SG-1," she says, beaming. "We're geared up for our second mission." She nods to a stern dark hulk of a guy with a gold emblem on his forehead and a long-haired geek with glasses waiting for the elevator to Level 28.

"Wow. Second in command? Isn't that nice?" Then he plays his ace in the hole: "I just got assigned to SG-9. I'm commanding officer."

The look on her face is priceless. She's at a complete loss for words.

He shrugs innocently. "I lead in the way of righteousness in the midst of the paths of judgment." The strings he pulled to get here were worth it.

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K is for Kinsey
by wendybnyc

Thank all the gods that ever were that Kinsey and his weasel Samuels left when they did; for a minute there I thought O'Neill might just kill him. How goddamn stupid is that sonuvabitch to think shutting down the program will keep the Goa'uld away? O'Neill may not always strictly follow protocol (okay, almost never), but his strategic and tactical assessments are always right. Always. Even when he picks the most ridiculous teammates; only one is American military, and she -- yes, *she* -- is a physicist of some kind, who the hell puts scientists or women on a front-line combat team? An archaeologist, an off-worlder. But if the man tells us there's an alien invasion on schedule, then there sure the hell is.

The last couple of hours, O'Neill's team has been whispering in corners and looking shifty-eyed, I'm sure they're up to something. Whatever it is, I'm staying out of the way, because whatever they're planning is probably a good idea. And I'm working my own corner, just in case.

This asshole religious loon of a Senator thinks his God is going to protect a nation that pulls its soldiers off the field? Hah! I'll tell you what, prayer and a battalion of Marines will keep you safer than just prayer, every time. And he's not just some asshole Senator, he's *my* asshole Senator. I'm for sure not voting for him again, I even sent a donation to his opponent's campaign.

But that's not enough; I need to do more and I need to do it quietly, give O'Neill and Hammond plausible deniability. If our civilian leadership are going to drop the ball... suddenly, my oath to defend the nation from all enemies (foreign and domestic) is in conflict with my oath to follow all lawful orders. I know which one I value more. Last time Maybourne came around he was feeling me out about going around the chain of command, doing something through other channels. I brushed him off, but maybe... I think I'll give him a call.

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L is for Lvalue: Of Variable Assignments
by jedibuttercup

Jay's real problem, Chloe thought as she waited for word from P5S-117, was that he didn't know his own limitations.

She was probably in the minority opinion on that. General Hammond had made his feelings about Dr. Jay Felger and his record pretty clear over the last few days, and for all that Jay went on and on about unspoken bonds, Colonel O'Neill hadn't seemed much happier with him. He was a screw up, as far as they were concerned, and her position as his assistant wasn't doing her career any favors.

Chloe could see where they were coming from. On paper, two plus two just kept not adding up to four; he was a perpetual OBO error waiting to happen. But paper never conveyed the whole picture. Sure, Jay'd had a little trouble coming up with actual working prototypes for his theories. But the higher-ups had okayed his projects, every time; they wouldn't do that if his ideas didn't hold the seeds of brilliance. Not at the SGC. And he put the work in, day in and day out; he was enthusiastic about what he did, and creative in a way that really appealed to her-- professionally.

If he'd just spent a little more time working out the bugs in the 'photon torpedo' before showing off for Major Carter, Chloe was pretty sure it would have worked. She'd helped him build it, after all; the principles behind it were sound. The tech just hadn't been ready for the power he'd put through it.

She took a deep breath, pulling the Avenger code up on one of the monitors to go through again while she waited. Just in case she'd missed anything the last hundred times or so she'd combed through it. Not because there was anything she could do with it from the SGC, not if Jay was right about the virus embedding itself in the dialing program. But it might be important later to figure out exactly how it had done what it did-- just in case they ever wanted to do it again in future.

Hey, it could happen. At the moment, there were people stranded off world and Earth was separated from most of their allies and resources-- but that might not always be the case. Couldn't throw a perfectly effective solution away just because it overshot the mark, could they? Jay and Major Carter would fix it, and they couldn't fire him after that, surely. As projects went, it was by far his most successful endeavor.

The long strings of variables and function calls scrolling past reminded her of her college days, and Chloe summoned up a wobbly smile. For all she got fed up with Jay mooning after Major Carter, it had been nice to work with the older woman on the programming; she had got her bachelor's at a small private college where she was the only girl to graduate that year in her degree program, and there'd been maybe one or two other girls in each of her hard science classes. It had been kind of a thrill, coding with another woman so very brilliant and talented. Chloe could have talked to her about her hand-built DHD project for hours without getting bored with the topic.

She wouldn't want to be on a team with her full time, though. Major Carter was seriously focused and kind of intimidating to work with. Chloe doubted she meant to be, but it was like she was so used to being the smartest-- and the prettiest, and the deadliest-- person in the room, it cast everyone around her in shade. Which was okay when she was running with the likes of SG-1, saving the planet or even the galaxy every other week, but a little problematic to deal with up close.

Chloe didn't want to be that kind of person, a field operative holding the fates of worlds in her hands. She was perfectly happy to be who she was, a researcher helping another scientist with big dreams who'd never lost his sense of wonder explore theories and technology that the rest of the world wouldn't get to play with for ages. So maybe Jay had a tendency to get himself in trouble biting off more than he could chew-- but how many amazing concepts would he have discarded if he had known his own limitations? As soon as he got back-- well, she'd make sure he knew that.

She'd just have to make really sure he didn't arrange for any more demonstrations before she'd checked things over more thoroughly.

Chloe looked up from her monitor as the gate spun up again, biting her lip.

Just as soon as Jay came back. She couldn't wait to see what idea they were going to work on next.

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M is for Marines
by rinkafic

It was bad. The natives had SG-2 pinned down, cutting them off from the Gate. Kawalsky looked around at the anxious faces of his team as laser fire occasionally passed over their heads. They had not been able to dial out to call for backup, and their scheduled check-in was not for another four hours. Kawalsky knew that they did not have four hours.

"Major, they're getting closer," Sergeant Wales said after he peered over the boulder they were all braced against, popped off a few shots and dove down again. "I counted eight at the treeline and saw motion off to the west."

"They want us alive for their sacrifice, they're probably waiting until they have the numbers to overwhelm us," the major replied. They were running dangerously low on ammo.

"We're not getting out of this, are we sir?" Sergeant Binkerson asked as he continued to apply pressure to the wound on Doctor Maltov's leg. Maltov was out cold, if they didn't get him back to the SGC soon, he wasn't going to make it, a field dressing could only do so much.

Kawalsky poked his head up to take a look, he counted twelve before he had to duck down again. He pressed his lips together and refused to answer Binkerson's question. He wasn't ready to admit they were done for, not yet.

"I never told my family where I was going," Binkerson whispered after a few more tense minutes had passed. "My mom and my grandma didn't want me to enlist. I was gonna tell them, but I just kept putting it off."

"Well, when we get home, I guess you've got a call to make, or a letter to write," Kawalsky told the young marine.

Binkerson pressed down on Maltov's leg as the scientist started to stir and thrash. When Maltov settled down, Binkerson shook his head. "How can I? I screwed up, Major. I lied. They think I'm working my way across the country so I can go to school."

"Lies have a way of catching up with us, Binky. My advice is, bite the bullet, admit everything and take it from there. "

"This is gonna kill my mama, just kill her."

Reaching over, Kawalsky gave Binkerson's shoulder a squeeze. "Wouldn't it be worse for her to not know what you're up to?"

"I mean when she hears I'm dead. When the corps lets her know."

"Stop talking like that!" Wales snapped, firing off a few more shots at random. They all smiled grimly as they heard a distant scream from the direction of the woods. "Got one!"
One, when there were dozens out there. They didn't have the ammo to withstand the push when it came. For the first time in a long time, Kawalsky doubted he was going to survive a mission. He was about to start praying when he heard the pop and snap of automatic weapons fire. With a relieved smile, he peered over the top of the boulder.

"Well guys, the marines have arrived!" he called happily to his team as he fired a few shots at the remaining aggressors. Their positions had changed, the SGC had sent backup and now the natives were in the crossfire.

Kawalsky's radio crackled. "SG-2, what is your twenty, over?"

"Boulder formation about two hundred yards from the woods. We're damned glad to see you guys! You're in the nick of time."

"That's what we do best, Major. Hold tight, we'll have the way clear soon, the hostiles are making a run for it."

His P-90 was out of ammo so Kawalsky pulled his sidearm, he and Wales keeping watch over Binkerson and Maltov. He looked over his shoulder. "Well, Binky, looks like you're off one hook and on another."

"My mama is gonna kill me!" Somehow, Binky looked more scared than he had earlier.

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N is for Nautical
by stringertheory

Lionel Pendergast was not made for the sea.

His parents loved to illustrate that fact with an anecdote from his childhood. When he was just a toddler, he had been given two toys for his third birthday: a plastic tug boat and a wooden plane. A month later, the plane had been played with so much that its propeller fell off. The tug boat had become a chew toy for their spaniel.

While the other boys spent the summer holidays building newspaper boats and going on swimming trips, Lionel built model airplanes and hung around his uncle's aviation shop. He learned how to do minor repairs, watched the small planes the strip serviced take off, and sat in the cockpits of grounded ones and pretended to be a fighter pilot or a space explorer. He daydreamed not of the ocean, but of the sky. He'd known from the time he was ten that he was going to be a pilot. He'd known from the time he was thirteen that he was going to fly in the Air Force.

In flight school, he was known for having nerves -- and a stomach -- of steel. He could ride along with the most daredevil of instructors or attempt the most advanced maneuvers allowed for trainee solo flights and get both feet back on the ground without the slightest quiver. Yet when he went fishing with a group of fellow cadets, he spent the trip hanging over the edge of the boat. Considering that they were on a very small lake on a very calm day, the watery defeat of the group's steadiest member was the source of much amusement and good-natured ribbing.

No, Lionel was not made for the water, so the fact that he wound up commanding one of the largest ships in the U.S. military fleet was quite the twist of fate. That his ship flew -- in the sky, across the galaxy, among the stars -- just made it that much more special.

The Prometheus was beautiful and he was honored to be her commander, to be the leader of their world's first intergalactic battleship. He was only slightly peeved that he hadn't been the one to take her out on her maiden voyage. Since she hadn't even been complete at the time, and the flight had been a case of grand theft spaceship, he decided it didn't count.

He visited the ship in its bunker one night a few days before his own maiden voyage. He meandered the labyrinthine hallways, up and down through the many decks, in and out of rooms and holds and compartments. He did his best to memorize every passageway and hatch, every nook and cranny of what would essentially be his home for large portions of the year. The ship creaked and groaned around him, still settling into its own weight and shape. He sat in the mess hall, staring out the window at nothing, and listened to the noises, getting familiar with them. Even though his ship would be in space (where no one can hear you scream, he thought with a wry grin), she would still have her noises -- internal signifiers of external stresses.

He remembered one of his old friends, a navy officer, explaining how ship captains could tell the state of their boat just by her sounds. Lionel wanted to be able to do the same. So he listened.

Standing on the bridge a few days later, watching the ground fall away as the ship rumbled into the air, he tried to imagine ocean as far as he could see. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine salt in the recycled air, that the vibrating of the ship beneath him was actually the rolling motion of cutting through waves. He imagined, and for a split second he felt that familiar heave of his stomach. Then he opened his eyes to a view of nothing but dark sky and a sprinkling of stars. The ship gave a gentle lurch as the sublight engines fully kicked in now that they were above atmosphere. Lionel gave the final orders that would set them up for their first hyperspace jump and took a deep breath.

With the crew bustling behind him, he stared out the bridge windows, fighting the childish urge to press his nose against them. From his vantage point, the Earth glowed blue and green against the dark background of space. It looked much like the pictures he had seen taken from space shuttles or the ISS. It was something he'd never expected to see in person. It was beautiful.

He soaked in the sight, something in the back of his mind routinely identifying whatever areas of the planet he could spot through clouds. Staring down at the vast expanses of blue, he imagined the tiny pinpricks of ships sailing across the waters. On their tidy decks, miniscule figures hurried back and forth, focused on their tasks and unaware that far above them, someone was looking down. Lionel smiled to himself at the thought. Then he looked out at the sky -- at space all around him -- and watched the stars twinkle, seeming closer only because he knew he could reach them now. Just like he had when he was little, he picked out the brightest one he could see and made a wish.

It was odd at first, being on a ship -- living on a ship. It was a strange command for an Air Force officer, full of unusual tasks and unfamiliar jargon. The first time he gave the order to come about, he almost fumbled over the words. He sent people to various decks and berths. He gave the command for battle stations. And once he even ordered a sergeant to swab the deck -- all of deck 17 -- after catching the man joking that he'd heard "Pendergast can't swim, you know, and that's why he went into the Air Force so it's just, you know, ironic that a man who can't swim is driving a ship."

The orders came more easily, the lifestyle more naturally as time went by. Lionel knew the ship as well as any plane he'd ever flown, knew her quirks, knew the way she handled when she was whole and when she was wounded. He could see her in his mind without hesitation, every corridor and compartment, all marked out on a mental map that was clear and precise. And he felt at home on the bridge, guiding his ship through ethereal waters. In spite of all the odds, he had become a captain.

He was a captain until his last breath.

It was the final flight of the Prometheus. He could tell from the way she groaned with every move, the sound of weapons fire as it hit her hull: she wasn't going to make it. The last order he gave was to abandon ship, the image of a grand vessel slipping beneath the waves emblazoned in his mind. The ship was going down and he was going with her. If they had to go, he was glad they were going together. He imagined that exploding into dust in space was a bit like burial at sea. There would be no body to bury, nothing to take home to his family.

His navy friend had once told him a story of a frigate captain who sailed the treacherous waters of Lake Michigan. The man's typical freight was fuel: kerosene and whale oil, transported inland on his trusty boat, the Sea Otter. He and the ship were well-known, having been seen in port for nearly thirty years, give or take. On evening just as the sun was setting -- and not too far off shore -- the ship had hit something in the water and began to sink. The impact had also ruptured the cargo hold and part of its load, which then caught fire.

The captain had ordered everyone off the ship, but he had stayed behind. The crew had watched from the lifeboats as the man stood at the bow of the ship, puffing his pipe while the ship burned behind him and sank below him.

The memory of the story came unbidden as the ship rocked with another impact. The Prometheus was burning around him and the blasts just kept coming. But through it all, he could still see the stars through the front windows. He took a deep breath and sat a little straighter in his chair. The final blow came along with a final thought.

The captain goes down with the ship.

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O is for Opportunity
by 11am_street

Kevin Marks had known Lionel Pendergast for the majority of his military career. Shortly after graduating from the Air Force Academy, Marks was assigned under Pendergast's command. It wasn't long before Marks had established himself as an excellent pilot, most particularly flying F-16 Fighting Falcons. As Mark's reputation grew, so did Pendergast's respect and admiration for the young officer. Pendergast was constantly impressed with Marks' proactive nature; he was always ready to fire at a moment's notice.

The ability to always anticipate the next move proved particularly helpful for Marks when Pendergast was requested to identify potential candidates to join the Stargate Program. Lieutenant Kevin Marks' name was one of the first that came to mind.

When he was approached to join to an elite air force team working under a top secret project in Colorado Springs, Marks nearly died laughing.

"What's so funny?" Pendergast has asked.

"Sorry sir," Marks replied, stifling his laughter. "I thought hazing and practical jokes were a part of academy life."

Pendergast stared down the lieutenant. "This isn't a joke or part of some elaborate prank. Believe me, once you meet with General O'Neil, you won't want to turn your eyes away. You won't believe what the Air Force has been up to these last few years in Cheyenne Mountain."

"Cheyenne Mountain? You mean N.O.R.A.D.?" Marks' eyes lit up. Ever since his older brother had taken him to see Return of the Jedi when he was very young, he knew he wanted to be a pilot and one day perhaps join NASA. Perhaps now, Pendergast was offering him the opportunity to do so.

"Trust me; N.O.R.A.D.'s got nothing on this. Kevin, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. You will never regret signing this agreement."

Marks looked up at his former commanding officer, he only used his first name when he was speaking of something personal or very serious. He peered closely at the document; it was partly a non-disclosure agreement, partly a job application. He thought hard on his past life, that first time he saw X-Wing fighters on the big screen and when he saw Han Solo piloting the Millennium Falcon. He also thought of his deep respect for Pendergast, how the Colonel was an excellent and reasonable leader. Marks could not pass up the opportunity to work with him again. He knew this was something big, something grander than he had ever imagined.

Without another thought, he signed the form.

The day he entered Cheyenne Mountain and was taken to the 28th sublevel, he knew he had made the right call. His eyes were cast upon an ancient artifact found in Giza so many years ago. He could not look away. He heard chuckling to both his right and his left. Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter and Colonel Lionel Pendergast exchanged glances, both of them glad to have their newest recruit as part of their team.

Marks turned to Carter who smiled and said, "If you think that's impressive, Lieutenant, you haven't seen anything yet."

With wide eyes, Marks agreed. "I'll bet. Where is this new aircraft, the "Prometheus" you called it?"

"On another planet, Marks," Pendergast replied.

"Another, another planet, right," he said dismissively. When Marks noticed that neither Carter nor Pendergast appeared to be joking, he let out a breath, his eyes even wider.

Kevin Marks knew from that moment on, his life would never be the same. He never regretted his decision, even though a year and a half later, Colonel Pendergast sacrificed his life on the Prometheus to save most of his crew. When the Ori weapon was activated on Tegalus and fired on Earth's first successful deep space battleship, destroying the Prometheus along with its commander, Marks spent many a night wondering if that one time, he just hadn't anticipated the enemy's next move, wasn't ready to fire as he always was. He mourned, but nonetheless used this as an opportunity to honor his friend and mentor's name and always ensure he was ready to fire.

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P is for Paleontology, Polyglot, People, Planet, and Paperweights
by lokei

Paleontology

Robert was a museum kid from about five years old on. It wasn't the dioramas, the models, or the eventual movies and flashy interactive that started creeping in as he got older--none of that was what brought him back weekend after weekend, after school and on rainy summer mornings.

Robert was in love with the bones.

He loved the silent threat of hanging jawbones and stony claws, the curving patterns of vertebrae and ribs, and the hypnotic emptiness of hollow eyesockets. He loved walking in the park on the way home and imagining monsters sleeping under his feet, waiting for him to find them, destined one day for Rothman Hall in the new wing of the Museum of Natural History. His fingers itched for a trowel and a brush, for the contrasting textures of ivory and marrow.

The world was a broken puzzle, and Robert was going to put it back together.

Polyglot

There were three things Robert most enjoyed about his grad program so far. One was the fact that it was flexible enough to let just about anyone interested in digging up the past--animal, human, or geological--take classes together or not as it seemed relevant, with lots of opportunity to get ideas from other fields. The second was the coffee shop nearest the library. The third was likely to be the man in the office across from his, currently swearing at his computer in four--no, six--no, that was probably at least nine different languages, none of them English. Robert only recognized three of those swears, but if the others were equally colorful, then this particular scholar was a lot more interesting than his floppy-haired, big-eyed exterior suggested.

Robert tried German first, which seemed like a safe guess given the pile of books on--he checked the office door name plate--probably Daniel Jackson's desk. Most archaeologists needed at least some German. "Sometimes 'shit' is not enough expression for the university's technology, agreed?"

Probably-Jackson turned and blinked at him and the corners of his mouth turned up as he answered in French. "When it eats my syllabus half an hour before class, absolutely."

Robert grinned and switched back to English. "I think I can help with that. Robert Rothman, by the way."

The other man held out his hand. "Daniel Jackson. You wouldn't happen to need a research assistant's job this semester, would you?"

People (really bad at them)

Robert looked glumly down at his coffee, steaming gently as he sat alone. There was a ripple in its glossy surface as someone dropped to the bench next to him.

"Hey, Robert. Where's Allison?"

"Good morning, Daniel." Robert rotated the cup in his hands and held it up for the other man's inspection. The red ink on the paper cup glared at them both.

Congratulations. You remembered! I'm here on Monday. What day is it where you are? --A

Daniel winced. "It's Wednesday," he pointed out awkwardly. "So--getting better?"

Robert handed his cup to Daniel and cleaned his glasses. "Last time I was off by a whole week."

"At least you can say you're more accurate than carbon dating?"

"Though for a carbon-based life form I'm awfully bad at dating, yes, I know."

Daniel took a sip of Robert's coffee before handing it back. "I wasn't going to say it." He stood up and grabbed Robert's bag as well as his own. "Now come on. I've got this really fascinating pair of scrolls I just finished translating, and Sarah's threatening to brain me if I read them to her again."

Robert grinned. He could call Allison to apologize later.

Planet

The first time Robert's feet touch truly alien soil, it's actually a moon, not a planet, but there's a startlingly oppressive red gas giant hanging in the sky. Robert's knees hit the dirt without him willing it so.

He vaguely registers one of the soldier-types asking if he's feeling sick with a regrettable "What's up-chuck, Doc?" but he has no attention for them. When he can drag his eyes from the sky they settle on the strange red glint off Daniel's familiar glasses, his surprisingly short hair, and his face, utterly peaceful and comfortably amused, more at home here than Robert has ever seen him. Robert wonders how long he will be the one feeling alien in this new reality his friend has dragged him into. He breathes hard, his lungs drawing in vital oxygen along with the dusty, curiously tangy smells of this empty satellite. He, whose greatest ambition was once to publish something solid and satisfying to offer one or two new insights into Earth's past for the benefit of scholars yet to come, is now further from that quiet existence than he could imagine.

"You all right there, Robert?"

He looks up at Daniel and manages a shaky smile. "Out of this world."

Paperweights (Can Still Be Deadly)

"Robert." Something jostled him and he grumbled and turned his shoulder away. "Robert, wake up or I'm making you correct all the Arch207 essays."

Robert's eyes snapped open. "You are *not!*" He blinked as the apparition in front of him laughed.

"That gets you *every time.* I haven't taught that class in years."

"Daniel? Daniel! You're alive!"

"And you're sleeping on my desk," Daniel's lips curved. "Just for that I should take a week off and make you go through the 'gate with Jack in my place."

"Only if I get to throw the paperweight at him," Robert grumbled, readjusting his glasses. "What happened?"

"Something about the crystal focusing a specific intersection of radiation and alien intent." Daniel shrugged. "I ended up shifted a few submolecular states away. And now I'm back." He grinned. "And still wondering why you're in my office instead of yours."

Robert shifted uncomfortably and cleaned his glasses again. "You had the references I was looking for. I got tired of walking back and forth all night."

Daniel paused in the act of circling his office, touching everything as if he couldn't believe he could.

"You worked through the night? For me?"

"Of course I did. If it wasn't the paperweight, it had to be something else. I was going to find it."

Daniel's smile was just about the most open and vulnerable expression Robert had seen on him in years.

"Thanks."

Robert sniffed. "Don't expect me to make a habit of it."

Daniel just smiled. Robert hadn't fooled him in a long time, and his old friend was surrounded by much better bullshitters these days anyway.

And when a ridiculous hot pink plastic 'crystal' skull keychain ended up on his desk a few days later, Robert clipped it to his laptop case with a grin.

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Q is for Q-Ship and Quarantine
by ivorygates

Graham Francis Simmons was (say it along with his mother, his two sisters, and his youngest brother, but don't, for God's sake, say it in his father's hearing) a member of "a fine old American military family". His mother was in the DAR. His father was in the Air Force. His grandfather (1918-1976), E. Dwight Simmonds (Senator Simmonds's son, such a nice young man) had joined the Army Air Corps in '41. E. Dwight already had a pilot's license. His father the Senator (D-SC) was a good friend of Charles Lindburgh.

In due time, E. Dwight had selected the former Miss Katherine DuBois of Charleston to be his bride, and Katherine, quite properly, produced Francis Edward. E. Dwight subsequently chose Miss Sarah Cunningham (Arlington, Virginia) as Francis's appointed mate. In due time, Sarah Amelia Cunningham Simmons produced Graham Francis Simmons.

Graham, like his father before him, attended the Air Force Academy. Graham, unlike his father before him (Colonel Francis E. Simmons, having been thwarted in his reach for the (General's) stars, had turned his eyes upon politics, resigning his commission but keeping his titles in a fashion that would have horrified both Graham's mother and Debrett's Correct Form) wished to serve his country. America's new warfighters were technical specialists, and in 1998 Graham graduated the Academy with a degree in Military Communications.

His grandfather was proud. His mother wasn't well enough to attend. His father said he'd pulled a few strings to arrange for Graham to get a fasttrack posting. And so, that July, Graham reported to Cheyenne Mountain Military Complex to join Stargate Command.

His technical skills came in handy (he hoped it was that, and not his father's puppeteering) and he was assigned as Gateroom Tech. He was rightly terrified of Chief Master Sergeant Walter D. Harriman, and restricted his activities to the communications equipment (it was pretty easy except when aliens were trying to contact the SGC; then, Graham spent as much time chasing down the right frequency as a lepidopterist did pursuing a prize specimen).

The time it really mattered, though, Graham (in his own opinion, one not borne out by General Hammond or Captain Carter), blew it. He came into work that Friday thinking about the embassy bombings in Dar es Salaam, oversaw SG-1's gear-up (full space suits) for an offworld mission to a place the dialing algorithm called P5C-353, and then was tasked to run the telemetry package as Dr. Jackson and Captain Carter examined what they'd brought back. (It looked like a big gold softball, and Captain Carter said it had been built by aliens over a hundred thousand years ago.) Graham loved his job.

He also loved Samantha Carter. At least he thought he might. She didn't have any time for him, but then, she didn't have any time for anybody -- fast-tracking, ambitious, driven, and probably out to make General, just like her father had. (They could have bonded over prescriptive military fathers, but Graham didn't talk about His Father The Colonel to anyone.) He'd thought his feelings were his own secret, until Dr. Jackson made a joke in the lab. (Opinion about Dr. Jackson was divided at the SGC. Nobody was sure what to make of him and a lot of people said they wouldn't trust him, except that Colonel O'Neill so obviously did. And Dr. Jackson was brilliant, and witty, but sometimes smart guys didn't notice, or care, when their jokes hurt people. So Graham just smiled and pretended it hadn't hurt. He'd gotten a lot of practice at that.)

And because nobody thought he'd noticed, he was back monitoring the alien softball thirty-six hours later. Dr. Jackson and Captain Carter hadn't left the Mountain since the mission, and Graham wished he hadn't, since His Father The Colonel phoned from Washington to give him another hour-long lecture on intelligence, duty, patriotism, and loyalty. Graham had been getting these phone calls roughly every four days since he'd joined the SGC, and Graham (who had graduated in the top five percent of his class, something his father seemed to think was no big deal) was not dumb. Stargate Command was a black books MAJCOM, which meant it wasn't just secret, it had a specific portion of the Air Force mission as its mandate, and answered only to Headquarters Air Force. And clearly His Father The Colonel was out of that loop, and had decided that his eldest son would be the perfect Q-ship. (He was wrong, but Graham had stopped arguing with His Father The Colonel some time around 1984.)

Graham had listened to His Father The Colonel's lectures for so long (and there'd been so many of them) that he could recite them himself. Some of them (about loyalty) appeared on a standard schedlue, but others (about the Cult of Personality and how leading men by personal charisma was the greatest sin a commander could commit), had been on heavy rotation since Graham had joined the SGC.

It was all he could think about, later, seeing Colonel O'Neill pinned to a concrete wall by an alien machine that clearly did not want to go home. Cult of Personality. Patton's Disease. MacArthur's Folly. Colonel Simmons said Colonel O'Neill was the same way, that he wanted his command to follow him instead of following orders, that soldiers (airmen) who subverted the natural military order of things were flawed and dangerous (Colonel Simmons did not say that such men should be put down like rabid dogs and the man who did it was a hero, but His Father The Colonel usually hadn't been drinking, these days, when he and Graham had their little talks).

All Graham could think (reading off measurements, hoping Captain Carter could broker a miracle or maybe even Dr. Jackson could translate something that would help) was that every time a Gate Team stepped through the Gate, they were representing not just the Air Force and America, but Earth to everyone they met, and it really didn't matter whether those people were trying to kill them or running away from them: they'd remember.

Then he wondered how long they'd have to remember before they saw someone else from Earth. And he tried not to wonder if he'd ever see the sun again, because the Base was sealed up once the alien softball turned out to be a hostile alien softball, and Graham was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to know, but he was Colonel Simmonds's son, so he did know -- about Wildfire, about the countdown, about the nuclear detonation that would come at the end of it. (The last thing Wildfire did was open the Gate to a neutral destination, so the force of the blast would have somewhere to go once it had turned 28 floors of people and concrete into ash and molten lava. The wonks said the Gate would survive and still be active until it was sealed up.)

He was congratulating himself on keeping his head, keeping cool, helping (following orders, not trying to start his own Cult of Personality, even if that were possible, just Graham Simmons, doing his job) until they shifted the lights to UV from the Control Room and he looked down and realized his skin was covered with whatever it was that was eating Colonel O'Neill alive.

He scrubbed off in the Decontam showers in the Infirmary (he was pretty sure that wouldn't help; he'd seen Captain Carter's face) and got into a set of scrubs. He was pretty sure Dr. Fraiser could cure anything (maybe including death), so he was still trying to be hopeful, right up to the point she checked his tags.

"Allergies?" she asked.

"Nothing important, really," he said, "just tetracycline, you know, it's really common...."

And she gave him a bright artificial smile, and dropped the little bottle she'd been holding into the pocket of her jacket and said: "We'll get you fixed up, Lieutenant, don't worry."

***

It didn't seem fair, he thought, that something that wasn't even alive could make you sick. He knew by now that the only thing slowing it down was tetracycline, and he would have told Dr. Fraiser he was willing to risk it, except he also knew they were running out of it. The Infirmary was filling up, and supplies of it were running out (it wasn't the first line of defense in a modern pharmacy, but nothing else was working), and what was left had to be prioritized to the people still working on trying to save them. Like Captain Carter.

He knew she blamed herself for this, but none of it was her fault. It was all by the book, by General Hammond's orders, by Colonel O'Neill's, and she'd done nothing wrong. He thought he'd tried to tell her that. He was never sure, afterward, if he had. The next thing he remembered was Dr. Fraiser wiping hs face with a cool cloth and telling him he was going to be evacuated soon, and everything was fine.

He spent a week in the Academy Hospital before they'd let him go home. Everything he knew was by guess and by gosh (one of the upperclassmen at the Academy, a southern guy named Mitchell, had a cornpone clich? for every occasion, and some of them had stuck in Graham's mental monologues), but it was pretty clear that the Good Guys had won. Colonel O'Neill even came to see him while he was on the Sick List, so Graham knew he was okay too.

His phone was ringing (he could hear it through the door of his apartment as he approached) and Graham almost turned around and walked away. He knew who was on the other end, and he'd been playing over the conversation in his head for most of the last week (both sides; if there was one thing The Colonel His Father was, it was predictable). But if there was one thing Graham had learned since August 7th, it was that the SGC wasn't a matter of field units and support personnel. Everyone was on the front lines. Together.

Lieutennant Graham F. Simmons was. And Colonel Francis D. Simmons...

...was not.

So he opened his door, and he picked up his phone, and when The Colonel His Father demanded to know where Graham and been and what he'd been doing (and more urgently, what the SGC had been doing, somewhere Colonel Simmons couldn't see), Graham did what every ounce of birth and breeding and training had prepared him to do.

He lied.

And he went on lying for the next eight months, until The Colonel His Father (having ascended in some nebulous hierarchy Graham was kept in ignorance of), decided his son was of no further use where he was, and had him transferred. "For the good of your career," he said, and Graham pulled strings of his own and got his Pentagon posting exchanged for one at Area 51. (They were glad to have him. He had experience.) Graham knew where he belonged, though. It took him three years to get back there. (His father being sent to prison helped, apparently, even though neither Graham or his siblings ever quite knew why Colonel Simmons was sent to Leavenworth.) By the time he got back, Dr. Jackson was dead, and the first orders Graham was given were to report all contacts with his father directly to General Hammond. (Just in case, you know, he managed to escape from prison.) Three months after Graham was back at the SGC, Colonel Simmons (not really him, General Hammond told him later; a Goa'uld) was dead. (Colonel Simmons was listed as Missing In Action, if you could be missing in action after escaping from prison, stolen a starship, and having retired besides.)

Graham found it hard to grieve.

Dr. Jackson came back from the dead a little while after that, and two years later, the Goa'uld Empire was defeated (finally, really, conclusively, definitely), and everybody, human and alien (Graham had gotten used to having aliens around in the last few years; Teal'c had never really counted as an actual alien because he lived here), was talking about having been freed, and saying SG-1 were heroes.

Graham already knew that. And they'd freed him a long time before.

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R is for Recalibration
by sg_wonderland

"Mr. O'Neill, a word, please."

The voice stopped him just short of the door. He turned reluctantly. "The bus..."

"You drive to school, young man. I just need a moment of your time."

Jack slouched his way back into the room. "Ms. Oliver..."

"Have a seat, the faster we get through this, the faster you can escape." Jessie Oliver boosted herself up on her desk, swinging her sneakers, waiting patiently for her student to sit. Well, really, it was more like a sprawl. "Mr. O'Neill, why are you here?"

"Here?" He asked. "I'm here because you dragged me back in here."

"No, here as in here in high school."

"Because the law says I have to be here." He snapped.

"You're an emancipated minor. If you wanted, you could take the High School Equivalency test today and walk out the door." She crossed her arms and stared him down. "So, you're here because you choose to be. Why?"

"Because I have to get into the Academy!" Jack blurted out.

Now, we're getting somewhere, she thought. "You want to go to the Air Force Academy."

"I am going to the Academy," he corrected her forcefully, his eyes daring her to contradict him.

It was those eyes that had drawn Jessie to this particular student; they spoke volumes of things sixteen-year-olds shouldn't know. She'd pulled his file because he'd intrigued her. He had no family; his emergency phone number was some general on some Air Force base who was also the recipient of his grades and progress reports. In the semester he'd been at her school, he'd joined no clubs, no sports teams and as far as she could tell, had made no friends. She had to assume the solitude was his choice.

"You want to be a pilot?"

"It's all I ever wanted."

"You know it's a lot of hard work? Your grades have to be exemplary, attendance counts."

"Yes, ma'am, I know what it takes. And I know it's hard. But I'm smart and I'm motivated." The words were said without heat, a statement of fact.

She nodded. "I can see that. I hope you make it."

A cocky half-smile transformed his face. "I will make it, Ms. Oliver."

"You know, we're not the enemy, Mr. O'Neill. We're here to help students live up to their full potential." He glared at her silently; she stared back at him. "I don't scare easily."

Despite himself, humor flitted across his face. "Why not?"

"Because, Mr. O'Neill, I teach high school for a living." She forced herself to pull back, to give the youngster the time and space to decide, to make his own choice. "You're excused."

He wasted no time getting to the door, where he paused. "Ms. Oliver?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks." He disappeared down the hall, sprinting for the parking lot and freedom.

Jessie watched his truck pull out. "I think you just might make it."

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S is for Stuck and Strangers
by roeskva

*What if we cannot return? Hundreds of thousands are dying from the Ori plague back in our universe. We need to go back, need to find a way to save them and stop the Ori.* Martouf sounded anguished.

*Well, there are currently sixteen Samantha's in this universe. If she... they cannot solve the problem of getting us home, then I do not know who can,* Lantash offered, trying to calm his host.

*True.* Martouf sighed. *I really do wish to believe that, Lantash. It just all looks so bleak - and it has done so, for so very long.*

*Should they not succeed in returning us, there are many other competent people back in our own universe. They will prevail against the plague, and the Ori. We are not irreplaceable, however pleasant that thought may sometimes be,* Lantash made a mental sigh, giving up on his attempt at lightening the mood with humour. "Martouf, We must believe our reality will be free of the Ori. Yes, it looks hopeless, and the Ori are much more powerful than the Goa'uld ever was, but we must not despair. I have lived much longer than you have, and I have seen dark times often before. So have you, for that matter. If we should find ourselves forced to remain here, we can fight the Ori just as well in this universe. That cause is no less worthwhile.*

They entered the mess hall and for a while they allowed themselves to focus on nothing else but picking out food and drink, and finding a place to sit.

***

*It does all look so familiar, Lantash. The base, the food, the people... at first glance, it appears as if it would be easy for us to fit in, if we needed to. The only difference is that while we know a great number of them, they do not know us! We would be strangers! Would they even trust us?* He cast a glance at the guard at the door, who was keeping an eye on Martouf/Lantash, as well as the three other alternate universe visitors that were currently in the room.

*We will always be strangers on this world. You know that. We are strangers even in our own reality. Yes, we have friends, and the people at Stargate Command trust us - most of them, but there are always those who will see us as Goa'uld.*

*I know it has been harder for you, especially when we are on the planet's surface. There, you are only rarely allowed to take control, and never when someone who does not know us are present. Perhaps it is time to return to the Tok'ra. If we are trapped in this universe, there is no reason why we would have to stay at Stargate Command.* Martouf took another bite of his sandwich.

*We have discussed this before. We swore allegiance to the Tau'ri, and we promised to remain with them for a period of time, almost five years of which has not yet passed. I do not wish to break that promise. They have benefitted greatly from having a Tok'ra on one of their teams - there has been a great many situations which would have had most unfortunate consequences, had we not been there to advice them. As well, the Tok'ra have benefitted too, and it has brought our people closer.*

*I agree, but that oath was to our Stargate Command, not this. Would the Tok'ra here accept us, or be suspicious, do you think?*

Lantash pondered it for some time. *I believe they would accept us, especially with the word from Stargate Command of what had happened. From what we were told, the Tok'ra here have suffered much greater losses than they have in our universe. They would probably welcome us.*

Martouf sighed. *That means we have a back-up plan. It makes me feel better.*

*Me as well. For now, I think we should volunteer to help Samantha... the Samanthas. As a Tok'ra, we have knowledge the humans do not.*

*I agree.* He ate the last piece of bread on his plate, and washed it down with some water, then got up. *We should go and find them. I am guessing Samantha's laboratory is located in the same place here, as it is in our universe.*

*That would be a reasonable assumption,* Lantash agreed.

They picked up the tray with their plate and glass on, and dropped it off on a counter with the some dishes, before leaving to help find a way back to their own universe.

For now, they - and the many other SG members from different universes - were still trapped here, but Martouf and Lantash intended to do their best to help get everyone home. If that failed, at least they had a plan for their own future. They could fight the Ori in any universe.

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T is for Tester
by samantilles

Bill Lee eyed the Volsiini Virtual Reality Pod warily. During the latest test, Bill's scenario came close to a defeat. In the event of an SGC takeover, Bill felt hopeless, and the virtual reality software was learning more and more his weakness as a defender. He needed courage, but for the past year, he felt as if he had none. He had let Daniel down in the jungles of Honduras, and the software was reading this loud and clear when he was connected to the pod.

If he could only go back in time. Bill paused at this thought. What would he have done differently? He closed his eyes and suddenly saw himself in his head as an aging, bald Rambo with Teal'c's staff weapon cannon strapped over his shoulder, clearing the field in front of him of a hundred different Rafaels and a thousand zombie rebels. Just like in his imagination, his face had a devious smirk as he re-imagined how Honduras should have gone.

It was a crazy idea that hit him next. He was sure MacKenzie would have vehemently argued against Bill's next action, but the adrenalin was pumping, and he knew this scenario would be exactly what he needed to further his research into the Virtual Reality Pod software. He squeezed himself into the pod and felt the normal pull of his consciousness into the software. But as he felt the pull he imagined the deep green and browns of the jungles and forced the software to bring up the new environment instead of the SGC. The software also put the canon in his hand and almost instantaneously, he saw the first zombie rebel come out of the woods. Once again, Bill smiled. Victory would be his.

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U is for Universe
by eilidh17

It's either very late or very early, depending whether you are coming or going, but sit and I'll tell you my story. First, you need to know why this old leather-bound journal I have clutched to my heart means so much to me and why these tears of mine just won't stop.

I remember the day my mom announced over dinner that my pop had cancer. Her tone was crisp and even, her gaze hard but distant, and I knew there would be no point in asking the how's and why's of Pop's sickness, because in her mind there was nothing more to be said.

There never was.

Mom said as she worked all day at the hospital, someone had to stay home and take care of him, and that someone was me.

So, one summer when I was about twelve years old, my grandfather moved in with us. Up until that point, Pops had been a shadowy figure in my life--such as it was when he lived so far away. We had become acquainted through an old picture sitting among others on the mantle, of a man with stringy red hair and whiskered cheeks that framed the most enormous smile I'd ever seen.

The impression I'd given myself of this larger than life man was about to be threatened, but any hesitation I had was banished the moment he walked in the door, flashing me a toothy smile and singing, "The best things in life are free." But I was smart enough to see mom wasn't impressed. I smiled back shyly, and sensed a kindred spirit.

Pops came into my life as such a big man, but by the time summer had gone, he was skin and bones. The cancer had been relentless, and my pretty, perfect, bossy mom cried at night when she thought I couldn't hear... because she couldn't fix him.

Now, while most kids may have railed against having to spend their summer vacation babysitting a crazy grandparent, that summer changed my life. Pops was an amazing storyteller, and I soon found myself hanging onto his every word. He'd seen the world many times over, and late one night, when the cancer had made his life unbearable, he told me his last story. He had a Japanese friend who believed that after you die, you needed to spend three days in limbo. In this time, you choose one memory from your life to take with you to the afterlife. All other memories will be erased. He passed away that morning, and as I sat on the porch red-eyed and blotchy-faced, Mom gave me a parcel wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Kathleen, this is for you it seems. Naturally, my father forgot about me, his only child, but what's new there?"

I had wanted to wait until mom had left, but she stood there, tapping her foot with her customary impatience. I slowly unwrapped it, more to annoy her, and then I finally saw my gift. It was a beautifully bound leather journal, and on the inside cover he had written: Kitty-Kat, you are that memory. But know this... the universe will never be denied.

"Universe? Memories? This dribble is what he leaves you?" Mom clicked her tongue, and we never spoke of the journal or what he'd written in it again.

And nor my beloved pop.

The years flew by, and while I travelled the world, determined to make as many memories as I could, I always knew I'd come home. I survived war-torn countries, and lived in places where I thought I'd never leave... but I always would. And yet in all that time, I never found that one special memory I'd take with me to the after- life.

Then, in a military hospital deep within Cheyenne Mountain, the most secure place in the world, I met a man who saved a world. Wrapped in bandages, all I could see was his sky-blue eyes, but he told me stories that mesmerized me. Of a beautiful woman he had loved and lost. Of the man he called a brother who had caused it all. And despite the great pain he was in, he made me laugh while explaining his crusty, bad tempered, flawed best friend, who he'd miss more than anyone. I could see tears welling as he told of his brilliant soul-mate who he knew would one day change the world with her ideas. Then with a catch in his voice, he spoke of how much he would miss the man with the heart as big as Texas, who fondly called him son.

And I smiled through his rasped rendition of 'Row-row-row your boat," because even though I didn't know the significance of the moment, it clearly meant something special to him.

When the pain became too much, he'd stop talking and I told him a little of my journey. He nodded when I tried to explain, but couldn't finish, of how much I loved and missed my crazy grandfather. He whispered he thought his grandfather and mine would have been the greatest of friends.

The night wore on so slowly, and his friends came in one by one to say farewell. I felt I knew them all by more than just their reputation now, and the love there made it all seem somehow bearable. I went for a break, knowing when I returned that he'd be gone. I opened my journal, determined to write every single word but when I finished all I had was: His memories aren't done with yet; the universe will have to wait.

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V is for Victuals
by fignewton

Master Sergeant Sophie Wilkes never got below Level 24 at Cheyenne Mountain, but that didn't matter. Her kingdom was Level 22: the general mess, the officer's mess, and the main kitchens. She supervised round-the-clock meals for a military base that never quite seemed to manage a regular schedule, taking the most bizarre situations in stride.

It didn't matter if it was a delicately-worded order for "vegetarian, organic foods for our... current refugees" or a personal request from General Hammond for a good steak meal with all the trimmings for "an old friend and former general, who will be visiting us today incognito." A muttered instruction to make sure that the officer's mess never ran out of blue jello or decent coffee left her unfazed. She dealt with finicky civilians and starving Marines with equal aplomb.

Her tenure at the SGC began with a relatively low security clearance and strictly need-to-know information, but as time went by, Sophie's security rating rose and her knowledge of the people she fed increased. Part of this might have been attributed to her calm reactions to situations such as "the petty demands of our visiting dignitaries," as Doctor Jackson disgustedly phrased it, but she suspected that General Hammond had been more impressed with her ability to keep a temporarily-incapacitated SG-1 amply stocked with pie and other desserts. Whatever the reason, Sophie was glad to know more about these people that were, in many ways, her personal charges. Teal'c hadn't seemed all that odd in comparison to some of the wider-eyed non-coms that passed through her domain, but the revelation of his alien origin certainly explained a lot. He seemed pleased that she no longer scolded him about the high cholesterol in his diet, now that she knew that his symbiote would take up the slack.

Sophie tried to stay impartial and serve all personnel with equal commitment, but she couldn't help developing a soft spot or two for certain people. When the combat teams trudged into the mess with dragging feet and haunted eyes, the roast beef sandwiches were a little thicker and juicier than usual. She kept a careful eye on the civvies from Level 19, who tended to live on coffee and doughnuts when she didn't put real food on their plates. Sergeant Siler, who could fix a broken freezer unit faster than anyone else she'd ever met, had a particular fondness for chocolate eclairs; Sophie made sure there were always a few put aside for him.

Her job seemed simple, commonplace: supervise the preparation of wholesome, good tasting food at Stargate Command, and keep it readily available. But jokes about armies marching on their stomachs aside, a well-fed SGC was a more capable one. Sophie might be a minor cog in a vast machine, but whether she was dealing with the Great Mashed Potato Crisis of 2004 or creating a feast for a gluttonous Goa'uld, she always did her part. Aliens, civilians, military personnel -- they all needed feeding. That was Sophie's job, and she was proud to do it.

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W is for Worth
by elder_bonnie

"You never did tell me."

"What?"

Elliot popped another chip into his mouth. "What they did to you during your training. You said I should've seen what they put you through."

Jennifer Hailey shook her head and pushed back into the couch. "It's not a big deal. I knew it was a test right off the bat."

Elliot smiled openly around the chip he was chewing. "Yeah right. Come on, you were part and privy to my test, you gotta give me the details on yours."

Hailey pursed her lips and glared at Elliot. He offered her a chip, which she ignored.

"Come on, Hailey. It's not like there's anyone to eavesdrop. My apartment is soundproof, I swear."

"Fine," she snipped, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. "Like I said, it wasn't a big deal." She paused, already rethinking. "Let's just say they tried to play on my ego."

"Tried to? I don't see what else they could've gone for."

"Shut up, I'm not that bad. Anymore."

Elliot offered her another chip, which she also ignored.

"Anyway. Since we're not allowed to talk about these," she looked at Elliot pointedly, "My details will be vague. But... Carter was involved. And Colonel O'Neill. I had a choice to make, and they made me believe -- at least, they tried to make me believe that the world was going to end if I chose wrong."

"That doesn't sound too different from what happened to me."

She narrowed her eyes, "No, yours was in the base."

Elliot sat up melodramatically. "Not in the base, eh?"

But her lips were shut. Hailey stood and walked toward the door to answer a knock that Elliot apparently hadn't heard around his chewing. Satterfield was standing in the hallway with a carton of hard cider and a pizza.

"It took you long enough," Hailey said with a smile as she took the carton from Satterfield's hand. "Did you get in a fight with the Phoenician alphabet?"

"Ha," Satterfield shut the door with her butt and walked forward to set the pizza on the coffee table in front of the couch. "No, Dr. Lee needed Dr. Jackson for a consultation on some alien technology, but Dr. Jackson sent me to run interference."

Hailey grinned. "Bet you didn't mind one bit."

Elliot offered Satterfield a chip. She took it and began to nibble, avoiding the question.

They continued in pleasant conversation for the rest of the hour, eventually joined by a few more friends from the SGC, including Carl Grogan. They talked about life in their respective circles and life outisde of the Stargate Program. Elliot spent much of the night making sure everyone knew that he was finally going off world. SG-17 was embarking to the Tok'ra base first thing in the morning.

Everyone had been so excited for him.

It was a while before they started hanging out together again. The whole group dynamic was different. Everyone felt uncomfortable at first. But when Satterfield offered a chip to Hailey and Hailey burst into tears, the tension broke like a dam and when everyone finally left, the floor was a mine-field of used tissues and empty bags of tortilla chips.

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X is for Xylophone
Commissary Sonata
by traycer

Every dessert in the commissary was sitting on a table near the entrance. Yogurt; fruit-filled pie slices, some topped with dollops of whipped cream; thick slabs of brownies; various kinds of cakes, ice cream and Jello; and even a smattering of fruit. Everything piled squarely in front of a Colonel who had a look on his face that reflected both gratitude and disgust.

Sergeant Michael Crafton watched as Colonel O'Neill dipped his spoon into the yogurt then popped it into his mouth with a relish that belied the expression that followed the action. Mike couldn't decide if the expression was disgust or disbelief. He watched wearily, all the while wondering when he was going to have to jump up and run after O'Neill again. The man just wouldn't stay put. Following him around was like following a tornado.

Still, there was hope that he'd get to sit for a while. With the amount of desserts on the table, Mike figured this meant he'd get a chance to relax, if only for a few minutes. His mood improved somewhat when he looked up and saw Major Carter walk in with Dr. Jackson and Teal'c. They sat down at the table with the Colonel and started to eat and talk, which was music to Mike's ears. Maybe he'd get to sit for a bit after all.

He glanced over at the other guards and shrugged his sympathies. Baker looked bored, while Kelinski and Houghton stayed alert, ready for whatever came next. And for good reason. SG-1 was acting weird, which legend has it, was par for the course. If it wasn't one thing, it was another.

This time around, they were talking to an imaginary friend, or something along those lines. He had overheard the doctor talking to them about the whole mess, but he still had a hard time understanding everything. He wished he had paid more attention, but from what he gathered, an imaginary alien with the power to aggravate with just a word had compromised the team, and now Mike and the other guards were assigned to keep them all in line.

Kind of hard to do when the alien was imaginary.

Still they waited, and with nothing to do but watch SG-1 eat, Mike hummed a tune to himself. His son was learning to play the xylophone and now the song he played over and over again was stuck in Mike's head, a tune that seemed to fit in with the craziness of this place.

An announcement over the intercom had them all jumping up again. Mike followed his charge, only to stop when O'Neill went back for another piece of pie. Must be excellent, he thought as he followed the entourage down the corridor. He picked up the pace in order to keep up with the whirlwind he was guarding, all the while making plans to head back to the commissary when his shift was up. The reviews were in, the commissary desserts were the best around and he couldn't wait to get his own.

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Y is for Yunnan (Pure Gold)
by magibrain

Siler showed up on the stoop at some ungodly hour, after three but before six, right in the wobble time when the night was moribund and the morning inbound with injuries but neither one could hurry up and get where they were going. He didn't knock, or anything, which was just about normal for him, and Evans just finished the last line on her word processor, closed the computer, and went to the side door to greet him.

"Coffee?" she asked. Then she thought better of it, and said "My niece sent me tea."

Siler shrugged. "Nothing against tea."

"Right then."

Evans turned and walked into the kitchen, and after a moment Siler followed; she heard the side door close, then his feet on the linoleum, strange and familiar.

She hadn't really questioned these unexpected visits when they started -- which was months ago, now, after a long run of days when the maintenance staff was in an upset (because nothing worked right when cameras were around, and there were more things in the SGC that couldn't be fixed as easily as equipment failures) and the Infirmary staff was in a fugue (because even with their lives always narrowly circumscribed by death, losing one of their own still meant something; every death still meant something), and she had a suspicion that the sparse back-and-forth between them, which would read as terse to anyone else, was just about as close to the expected warm banter of friendship as Siler really got. And she suspected that he'd rightly suspected the same thing about her.

Communication wasn't as necessary when understanding was already there.

She pulled down the tea leaves and started the water; pulled down the clay teapot from its spot on a cupboard shelf otherwise bare. Behind her, she could hear Siler installing himself on the couch in the livingroom.

Where he sat, for a moment.

Then he got up, wandered into the kitchen, and lingered there, by the doorway.

Evans exhaled, then turned to look at him. "Something you need, Sly?"

He stood for a moment, coming as close to a fidget as he ever did, then broke one of the cardinal rules and said, "Wondered if you wanted to talk about it."

Evans jerked back as if slapped.

They didn't talk about work, these nights; they talked about hockey, or politics, or storms in the Gulf of Mexico, or whose cousins were married and popping out kids and whose cousins were in jail and would never clean up their acts so why bother waiting for them to do it, and sometimes they talked about whether or not it was all worth it, and that was the closest they came: it. And invariably, the answer was:

"To be honest, I'm not sure what I could compare it to."

"Don't know where I'd be without it."

Except this it was different, specific. Out-of-bounds.

"I'm fine." The reply came more curt than she had intended. Of course, she'd already had her moment of panic back at the SGC; maybe she'd just already exhausted all the words she felt like spending on that.

Not that she'd spent that many there, all told.

And as though to further counter that theory, the next words shot out of her without her intention: "Do you?"

There was a moment of silence.

Siler grimaced, as though whatever process had been going on in the back of his brain finally output a signal to his face. "No," he admitted, and then shrugged, as through in apology. Then, after a moment, the night making liars of them both, he said "That wasn't even the closest we've come."

To being taken over, being blown off the face of the earth, to whatever. It was true. It was a few long days of monotony interrupted by a stretch of complete chaos, bodies usurped left and right and one of her patients walking out to his death, and then it was over. It wasn't like the Stargate had blown up, or even tried to.

Siler sighed, and Evans could all but hear the words that he wanted to slot onto the breath. They were gone, though, maybe misplaced under a pile of specs and wrenches and leather gloves with too many scorch marks for comfort. She heard the water behind her start to bubble, turned off the burner before the kettle could whistle, grabbed the tea and, with quick precision, measured out a dose to fit the pot.

Siler wandered in. "What is that?"

"Yunnan Dianhong Pure Gold," she said. "Or something like that."

"Hm," Siler said, and watched her pour the water in to steep.

Silence again, and not the usual kind. The usual kind was comfortable; they'd said what they needed to, and after that, they just existed, and shared the experience and evidence of their own existence. A reminder that they and their worlds didn't terminate at the edge of Cheyenne Mountain, and that there was a home to come home to and a friend to visit so long as the Earth was still there.

This silence, though, was full of jostling intentions to speak, uncertainties of what to say. Evans resented that.

Three minutes passed, Evans counting out the time in her head, and she pulled the tea strainer out of the pot and fit the lid on. She grabbed mugs and made to go back into the livingroom, but paused, and gave Siler a critical look, up and down.

"I feel like this is the sort of thing that changes relationships," she said, and the corner of her mouth quirked up despite itself. "The kind of relationships people like us get, anyway. Talking about work when we're not at work. And you know how these things go - I don't know what our friendship will look like, after all that happens."

Maybe better, maybe worse. Maybe there'd be nothing there at all. It was the gamble you always had to take when those lines of intimacy got re-drawn, even if these were the sorts of lines normal, non-SGC people probably didn't think were lines at all. Talking about work? What kind of a taboo was that?

An SGC one, she thought, but the heat was beginning to bleed through the clay and sting her hands, so she went into the livingroom, cleared a spot on the coffeetable, and set the teapot down.

"I guess maybe I could talk," she admitted, but it felt sour in her mouth; she poured herself enough tea to cover the bottom of the mug, and let the steam carry a sweeter scent up to her. "I just don't know if I want all that coming home with me." She shrugged. "Your choice."

Even if it wasn't a choice she was happy with him making.

She had gotten used to these meetings, these little atypical grasps at normalcy, sometime when she hadn't been paying attention. It was nice to pretend that their lives were normal, now and again; that even if the things they say under the mountain were the most important things any of them had ever seen, the things they did the most important things anyone had ever done, that there was something outside of it which merited occasional attention. That there was somewhere left to get away to.

So she sat, waiting for all of that to break, until Siler cleared his throat and peered at the teapot. "Yunnan's in China, isn't it?"

It caught her by surprise, and she started laughing.

"Yeah. It's in China, Sly. Where my niece is. I've told you about my niece, haven't I?"

"A few times, yeah," Siler said, and she thought -- she thought -- there was something of a smile at the corner of his lips.

Evans reached over and poured the tea into his mug. "She saw the words 'mountainous terrain' and 'unnavigable rivers' in an article somewhere and apparently took it as a challenge. But that's my family, for you; no Evans has ever done things the easy way..."

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Z is for Zwitterion
by lord_spyridon

Major Louis Ferretti leaned back against the large marble wall behind him, keeping an eye out for trouble while the other kept track of the crew of archeologists digging away. The younger generation of doctors and the very few graduate students were removing as much dirt as they could as the stone sarcophagus was slowly revealed from the ground. Reports said that the site was of Aztec construction with a little of Olmec culture influencing certain structures. At what was suspected to be the town center, a large, grand statue of a feathered serpent coiled and wreathed, its beak, snout, whatever, pointing toward the rising sun in the morning. One of the older archeologists was leading that excavation but Ferretti was keeping watch over the second site, located at what was believed to be a mausoleum or cemetery of some sort.

He grinned as one of the graduates stumbled, dumping a pile of dirt onto his companion's backside. It was inevitable that it was going to happen as the crew dug their way further into the ground.

"Damn it, Josh, watch where you're going." His female friend yelled as she tried to keep the dirt from going down further her pants.

"Sorry." Josh looked like he wanted to disappear, preferably to some place where she wouldn't catch him.

The head of the leading archeologist rose at the commotion, his blue eyes dancing merrily as he took stock of his graduate student brushing away the dirt. "Jennifer, you want to take a break and go to the lake to wash that off. Plus you don't know what's in the soil and I don't think Janet would appreciate it if you brought something back to the SGC." Daniel Jackson stated calmly, eyebrow rising as the graduate student continued to curse.

"You're so lucky I don't kill you know and put your body in the grave we're digging." Jennifer stiffly said as she tried to walk carefully away. "Eww, this is so disgusting."

Robert Rothman, one of Daniel's geeky friends who worked at the SGC, snorted, carefully scrapping away at the side panel he was working on. "Before you do anything else, Clarence, you might want to pack the dirt leading up from the sarcophagus to make a nice pathway. You wouldn't want to fall down on some artifact and crush it. Just make sure you dump the dirt where it won't fall back in."

"Yeah, sure." Josh Clarence blushed, going to work on the pathway, the tips of his ears red.

Ferretti grinned as he looked back toward the tree line, thinking about how some of his buddies from the service wouldn't believe him now. When he had been younger and more arrogant, he had been derisive of anything that had to do with science. As a rookie, he had whined when he was given the duty to watch over scientists in foreign countries that had hostile forces. He had never understood why the geeks would risk the lives of men and women for shards of old things and decaying bodies in looted tombs. The view hadn't changed when he had arrived at the NORAD four years previous with a new mission in hand; to explore and analyze an alien landscape for hostile aliens.

When he had first met one Dr. Daniel Jackson, he had immediately labeled the man a dweeb and he had been right. The doc had been the one to open his mouth and get them stuck on a foreign planet light years from earth with no way to get home. Kawalsky had humiliated the doctor in front of the entire squad and Ferretti had done nothing to stop his friend.

Over the course of the next couple of days, however, Ferretti had to admit at the end that the doctor had impressed him. Exactly how many people would give up their life for a colonel that hated him and was suicidal on top of that? Hearing that the doctor had died giving up his own life for the colonel had given Ferretti and Kawalsky the slap they needed. Seeing Daniel and the colonel plotting with the natives to take back their freedom was a sight. And there was the kissing.

But nothing compared to the bond that had formed between Daniel and the colonel.

Ferretti had heard of bonds being formed in the battlefield and was witnessing one forming between these two different men.

Now three years later, that bond was a point of confusion to most of the SGC who hadn't seen the two men work in tandem to find out a way to save the Earth from annihilation along with the other two members of their team. Many times, older officers and newbies would comment how two seemingly different men could have a friendship that was as deep and strong as the one Daniel and the colonel have. Ferretti had trouble those first few months, his answers just consisting of shrugs and small smiles, unable to explain the friendship.

It wasn't until Ferretti had met the other resident genius to actually come up with a way to describe it.

Samantha Carter, a captain at the time, had told him the bond between them was like the bonds in a zwitterion.

Confused, Ferretti had asked her what she had meant.

She had explained it to him and when he finally got it, he had to agree with her that the zwitterion seemed to fit his friends perfectly well.

In her words, a zwitterion was a neutral compound that had positive and negative regions that canceled each other out, giving the compound its neutral charge.

Ferretti definitely saw Daniel as the positive region of the friendship since the man always firmly believed in the best of people even if they were odd and hostile looking. Even if the native people had a dagger to his throat, the first thing that Daniel believed that it was a cultural misunderstanding and would immediately try to figure out what it was that went FUBAR. It would never cross Daniel's mind that the hostile people were in fact hostile because they wanted to carve them for a ritual sacrifice or that they just like killing newcomers. Considering at those moments that Daniel usually had no clue about the language, it was an astonishing feat once he did figure it out. Though, it did give the colonel grey hairs and sent other military officers on edge. Then, there was the saving people thing Daniel had plus the weird little thing about women falling in love with him. Ferretti guessed it was that people were drawn to Daniel because of the goodness in the world that he seemed to represent, the innocence resonating in how he spoke of the wonders of the stargate. It also had the effect of drawing the ones who wanted to stamp out of him. Thank god, Teal'c and a couple of the other officer had taken it upon themselves that Daniel didn't get jumped from the younger soldiers who thought geeks shouldn't be on the front lines.

Then there was the colonel.

Jack didn't mean to be the pessimistic one to Daniel's optimism but the hard life of a Black Ops colonel rarely allowed innocence to live long in the service. Usually, it just got you and your teammates killed faster. Colonel O'Neill made damn sure that any hostile threat that was in their vicinity, especially Daniel's, was quickly dealt with. Then, there were times where the Colonel and Daniel went at it. The first few times, Ferretti believed that the Colonel had slipped back into the personality before the Abydos mission and that he had to step in before he shot the doc dead. He was shocked when the two men slugged it off and went to O'Malley's for a bite to eat when they had been at each other's throats two minutes before.

It had taken a while for Ferretti to understand that it was just part of their solid but somewhat volatile friendship, which made for some amusing incidents like when the Colonel had been juggling a few of Daniel's rock- artifacts, Ferretti reminded himself- in his office while Daniel looked on in concern for the priceless objects. Then there was that time where Daniel started cursing the Colonel out for switching the coffee to decaf that one time on Janet's orders. Ferretti had never known that it was in him to go all potty sailor mouth on the flyboy.

Yup, just like a zwitterion with its hydrogen atom being switched between the carboxyl and amino group; one end taking, the other giving.

Of course, the exchange between the two men depended on the environment and the circumstances. If Daniel needed it, Jack would give him the support, watching his friend's back as they played diplomats. He also made sure the doc ate when they were on base, making sure he didn't skip meals while submerged in his research. Other times, the exchange went in the opposite direction; Daniel would make sure the Colonel had all the information on the enemy they were fighting, guided the colonel on the moral path, or play soldier. When it came down to it, Daniel was a pretty good shot, on par with most of the career officers at the SGC.

"Okay, folks, dinner time!" The colonel announced as he walked into the ruins, Teal'c by his side. "Let's go, people." Ferretti assumed it was about time since the pale blue sun was beginning to set in what they had labeled the east.

"Jack, five more minutes. We're almost done here."

Tilting his cap back, the colonel checked his watch. "You said that twenty minutes ago when I asked you the first, second, and third time. The food is warm and ready to be consumed."

"But-"

"Ah, I think you shouldn't forget that it's not only you are the only ones here." The colonel pointed to his direction. "Ferretti has been kind enough to watch you guys toil away at dead people. I'm sure he's hungry too."

Daniel looked like he wanted to argue but eventually caved in. "Give us some time to cover the sites up." The colonel nodded and Daniel went back to ordering his small troupe in protecting the sites they opened up.

"I didn't think they would stop anytime soon." Ferretti said to the two SG-1 members. "They're just happy scrapping away at the dirt."

"Bunch of rocks and dust particles," Jack grumbled, pulling his cap down over his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if I should just get Daniel a sandbox."

"Apartment complex wouldn't allow it." The archeologists were beginning to pull tarps over the exposed areas, spiking them down to prevent them from flying away. The wind patterns on this planet were unpredictable at times.

"What is a sandbox, O'Neill?"

"Oh, it's just a large wooden box filled with sand. Kids play in it and build things out of the sand. Do you guys have anything similar?"

"No, we do not."

"We should take him to the park. I don't think Janine would mind taking the kids out for a picnic." Ferretti said.

"Carter and Harris found tracks about half an hour south of here. We might not be alone on this planet." The colonel announced, eyeing the forest on the other side of the ruins, covering the mountainside. His finger was lying straight alongside the trigger.

"Human?"

"Looks like it."

"We're done." Daniel came up to them, the rest of the group heading toward base camp. "Thanks, Ferretti. It gave us enough time to find some really fascinating things we wouldn't have found otherwise."

"You can tell us once we're sitting by the fire." The colonel said, waving them all forward like a mother duck herding her little ducklings. "You know how Carter gets if the food goes cold." The older man began to herd the archeologist toward base camp.

"Jack, I'm a grown man. I've been on dozens of digs around the world."

"I'm surprised you've made it this far. Knowing you, Daniel, you could have died in sand traps in Egypt or fallen into one of those water holes in Mexico."

"Actually, colonel, I think they're called cenotes." Ferretti corrected, knowing immediately what geographical landmark the colonel was referring to. He had heard Daniel talk about them to know that the indigenous people of Mexico had used them as sites for sacrificial offerings. "Me and Janine have been discussing about maybe going cave diving . . . ." Ferretti trailed off as he noticed that Daniel and the colonel were looking at him, one with disbelief and the other with amusement. "What?"

"Nothing, Ferretti." The colonel replied going back to herding the archeologist along, muttering under his breath.

Yeah, maybe he was hanging out with the geeks too long and he needed to go hang out with the other officers at the shooting range. But being friends with Daniel wasn't bad. it just life way more interesting and exciting.

He just hoped that he just didn't jinx the excavation. Knowing SG-1's luck, some Goa'uld would stumble upon them and chase them back through the stargate. Ferretti sighed, rolling his eyes skyward.

Just for once, let the mission go as planned, God, if it isn't too much trouble.
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Comments

[lokei]

Looks great, Fig! I'm looking forward to getting to read through all these in detail.

[fignewton]

Ha ha YES. I'm going in alphabetical order and I'm only as far as F!