A little later they reached the central square of the camp. One side was taken up by a large metal hut, along the others stood several smaller structures. East of the square stretched rows of tents. Nothing differed from the arrangements Teal'c had come to expect in a Tauri camp, except-
"That's the commissary cum class room," said Major Warren, pointing at the large building. "You'll be doing your lecture in there, Doc." Dr. Fraiser nodded, and his finger moved on, indicating the smaller huts. "Ammo, communications, sickbay, storage, and lavatory... Uh, I guess we gotta think of something for you ladies. At the moment it's Boys Only." He broke into a sudden grin. "Something's telling me you're gonna be hugely popular."
"Not if Colonel Norris has anything to do with it," Major Carter groused. "Is there someplace where I can set up a temporary lab? We've been having trouble establishing a wormhole to `335, and I'd like to check it out." When she noticed the major's frown, she hastily added, "Nothing to worry about. Probably to do with the moon's orbit causing some intermittent gravitational distortion. You won't get stuck here, Warren."
"I damn well hope not! But yeah, we can rig something for you. I'll see to it in the morning." He jerked his chin at the tents behind the square. "Right now quarters are more important. Nights can get chilly. Carter, I hope it's okay if you and the doc share a tent, and Teal'c, you can move in with me, unless you mind."
"I do not, Major Warren."
"Alright then, let's go."
Teal'c was about to follow when he realized that Major Carter had remained in the same spot, looking around in puzzlement. It was then that he recognized the cause of the subliminal worry that had bothered him since arriving here. The camp was uncommonly quiet. Too quiet.
"Warren?" asked Major Carter. "Where is everybody?"
"Where is he?" Dr. Jackson muttered under his breath, hopping from foot to foot and wishing he'd brought a jacket. Even at the end of April, Colorado nights could get fresh. He stabbed the doorbell again, listened as the chime ding-donged through the house and faded. Nothing.
Okay, so maybe he should have tried calling first, but Daniel seriously doubted that the soft-spoken Japanese lady with the clock fetish would pass on messages. At least the truck was parked in the driveway. Chances of Jack having shot off to Minnesota were slim, which came as a relief.
A few months later he drove his car into a ravine.
He couldn't have gone for a run either. Janet Fraiser had said the bruising would get worse for a couple of weeks before it got better, and even Jack's masochism had limits. Probably. Knowing him, he was standing on the other side of that door, pulling faces and whispering Shoo!
Daniel was in no mood to be shooed. General Hammond's little story had left him rattled, which explained why he was here-Jack's admirable efforts to avoid communication notwithstanding. He shivered, blamed it on the night temperatures, and gave up his attack on the doorbell in favor of a reconnoiter around the house. The living room curtains were open, and as he peered in from the deck he saw a light in the kitchen. Just a light, no movement. No movement anywhere else either. Unless Jack was hiding in the basement, he-
"D'oh!" Daniel leaped back onto the walkway, tore around the comer and past some bushes, and ducked under the low-hanging branches of a tree to get to the ladder.
Halfway up, the beam of a flashlight exploded in his eyes, and a disembodied voice asked, "Drew the short straw, Daniel?"
Had he mentioned that, in addition to a finely honed sense of personal accountability, Jack O'Neill possessed the stupendous talent of making Dr. Jackson spit tacks in two seconds flat?
"Dammit, Jack! I can't see a thing!" The beam slid away to illuminate the rungs and allowed Daniel to discern Jack's silhouette above. The rooftop should have been the first place he looked. "You must have heard me down there. I don't suppose you could have shouted or something?"
"I knew you'd figure it out eventually, and if not..." The silhouette gave a shrug.
"You want me to leave?"
"Would it make a difference?" The beam danced back into Daniel's face and was followed by an appreciative whistle. "Shame you haven't got green eyes."
"What's wrong with blue?"
"Well, one's red. If you had green eyes, you'd pass for Milton's devil. One red, one green."
Squinting, Daniel heaved himself onto the roof deck and swatted the flashlight away. "You've read Paradise Lost?"
"The abridged version. Though it doesn't explain why the guy's running around looking like a traffic light."
"There's an abridged version?"
"One word: Oops."
Daniel hadn't really meant to groan-the less encouragement Jack got, the better-but it slipped out anyway, if only because Paradise Lost seemed strangely apposite. "Remind me not to discuss literature with you. Ever."
Without warning the flashlight winked out and left Daniel blinking. He heard footsteps, the scrape of metal on wood, and knew that Jack had retreated into the chair by the telescope. Gradually the neon spots in front of Daniel's eyes receded and solid darkness crumbled to shades of gray as his night vision returned. Jack sat in his chair, hunched over the eyepiece, fingers playing with screws to adjust angle and magnification. The tension in his shoulders and neck gave him away. Half of this was show. All of it was screaming Leave me alone! If Jack had looked any less lonely, Daniel might have taken the hint. As it was, he leaned against the railing, folded his arms across his chest in hopes of warding off the cold, and waited.
"So, if not literature, what do you want to discuss?" Jack said at last.
"Should we discuss anything?"
"You tell me."
Great. They could engage in the question and counter-question game until the cows came home. Better to hop off that particular merry-go-round. And maybe just being here was enough. "Looking at anything nice?"
"Check it out." Jack shifted over and surrendered the eyepiece.
It was a pale beige speck on black velvet. Stifling a yawn, Daniel straightened up and returned to his perch. "Exciting."
"Yeah. It's lo."
Their solar system's own version of Netu. Not unlike the stuff you saw when you opened a medical textbook under `A' for `Acne'. Only worse. Usually even the wildest zits didn't spontaneously erupt. This did. Close up, Io's surface would be a heaving, angry melee of reds and oranges and black.
"A moon of Jupiter, right?" Daniel asked, curious to discover where this was going.
"Innermost moon. Jupiter's gravitational pull exacts huge pressure on Io. Its crust shows a tide of up to one hundred meters. The moon gets squeezed out of shape, hence the eruptions. I know how it feels," Jack added and resumed his study of Zit Central.
Daniel bit his tongue. Hard. You didn't have to be a genius to guess that Jack's empathy with a volcanic moon wasn't open for discussion. "What are you going to do?" he finally asked.
"About what? lo?"
"Yourself What are you going to do with yourself?"
"Don't know. Move to Minnesota, start up a fishing business."
"There are no pesky fish in your pond, Jack."
"Yeah, well, that's par for the course, isn't it?" It was trailed by another silence, vast enough to swallow the Rockies whole. After an eternity and a half, he enquired, "So, did you draw the short straw?"
"No straws. Why do there have to be straws?"
"I don't see Teal'c or Carter."
"I'm sure they would have loved to join this lively little gettogether, but they're off-world."
For once the reaction was completely unguarded. Jack's head snapped up, and his voice held an odd mix of disappointment, regret, and more than just a trace of jealousy. "Where?"
"You miss it already. It's only been two weeks, Jack. How long do you plan for this retirement thing to last?"
The dark shape by the telescope stiffened, fingers clenching in an effort to contain either a sharp reply or the longing to be out there and do what he'd always been meant to do. "Technically I'm still off-duty. Where?"
>
"M3D..."A premature mosquito zeroed in on Daniel. He slapped at it, slapped again, missed again. "335."
"Of course! M3D 335, the marvel of the galaxy-Goa'uld fashion malls, Tollan karaoke clubs, and Nox hairdressers. Care to be a little more specific? What's there?" And that sounded completely like Jack. Whether he liked it or not, leadership was second nature. If he couldn't physically command a team, he did his clucking vicariously. "Daniel? What's there?"
"A Marine base."
"A what?"
The temptation to spill everything he'd told General Hammond was so strong Daniel had to grit his teeth against it. It would be counterproductive. Any mention of the exercise having been rigged would be a red flag to Jack, who'd already made abundantly clear that, for him, ignorance was no excuse. The trick lay in feeding him just enough information to keep him interested. As long as he was interested, he'd stay away from cars and ravines.
Daniel pushed himself off the railing. "Look, I'm freezing my butt off up here. Let's go downstairs, have a beer, and I'll fill you in."
"I thought you didn't like beer."
"I've been known to make exceptions for friends."
think this'll do, ma'am." The corporal, detailed by Major Warren, twisted and squirmed and yanked until he and the table he was carrying popped free of the frame and catapulted through the door.
They'd cleared out half a storage hut-well, mostly they'd just pushed and piled crates together-to make space for a desk and Sam Carter's laptop, a few other bits of electronic equipment and a small naquadah generator to supply the power. It still looked like a derelict woodshed, but this was as good as it got and besides she'd only be stuck here for a day.
"This'll do nicely, Corporal," said Sam.
"Anything else I can get you, ma'am?"
She squinted at an indecisive patch of brightness in the side wall. "A bucket of hot water and a rag to clean the window, maybe."
"I'll do that." His indignant tone implied that the mere idea of an officer fiddling with buckets and rags was a court-martialable offense. He made to leave, hesitated, turned back. "And ma'am?"
"Yes, Corporal?"
"Yesterday... that was pretty damn impressive, ma'am."
If truth be told, the compliment came as a surprise. It could as easily have been resentment, given that he was one of the new arrivals who'd got their heads ripped off after that impromptu little race. She decided to return the favor.
"Look, Corporal, under normal circumstances you guys would have outrun anyone but Teal'c. Once you're acclimated to the thin air, you'll leave the rest of us standing."
"That's good of you to say, ma'am." He shot her a crooked grin, blushed. "'Cos Colonel Norris-"
"Corporal, between you, me, and the crates, Colonel Norris had no right to treat you like that. If you were any less fit, you'd have keeled over."
"Thanks, ma'am. I mean it. I..."The blush deepened, andhe stared at her with open adoration until he caught himself. Whereupon, and despite the fact that the major wasn't covered, he saluted crisply and fled the hut.
Sam clamped down on a laugh and set about installing her equipment, soon accompanied by the squeak of leather on glass. Her corporal was spit-shining the window. Just over an hour later-the squeaking had ceased by then-she sat on a crate, elbows propped on the desk, chin on her fists.
"Okay, that is weird," muttered Major Dr. Carter, ogling the graph on her computer screen.
"What is?" asked a voice from the door. "Morning, Sam."
She gazed up and at Dr. Fraiser, swathed in the freshly-scrubbed glow of a recent shower. "Hi, Janet. Anybody ever tell you that you snore?"
"Hey! Being field personnel doesn't give you the right to get mouthy."
"It does, according to Colonel O'Neill." As soon as it was out, Sam wished she hadn't said it and forced a smile.
Very few things got past Janet. "You miss him."
Of course she did. Who wouldn't? But, to quote the Colonel, she and Janet had had this discussion, and they were not having it again.
"Parris Island to Sam. Come in, Sam." Head cocked, Janet gazed at her. "This anything to do with why you got up in the middle of the night?"
"Uh, no. It's just... Pull up a box and look at this."
"How about you scoot over?" Janet squeezed next to her onto the crate and stared at the innocent graph. "So, what's so remarkable about this?"
"Nothing. That's what's remarkable." Despite the claustrophobic skyscape it created, '335's primary fundamentally consisted of a lot of hot air. It had nowhere near enough mass and was too far away to mess with the moon's orbit. "Obviously gravitational fluctuation isn't what's interfering with the gate."
"Is that good news or bad?"
"Don't know yet." Sam shrugged. "I'll just have to go back to the drawing board."
"Yeah, but not now. I'm about to go sing for my supper, and I need moral support."
"What about Teal'c?"
"I haven't seen him since last night. Warren says he took off at first light, probably reconnoitering."
"Oh." Sam was surprised that Teal'c hadn't let her know. Then again, this wasn't a mission, and she hadn't been put in official command. "Well, the problem's not gonna go away." Closing the lid of her laptop, she rose. "Shall we?"
Though the planet overhead had gone back to its killer satsuma look, the day was pleasant enough. A gentle breeze sent streamers of dust swirling around the square, and halfway across Sam decided that joining Janet had been a very good idea. From the commissary drifted the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee.
Inside, somebody had arranged tables and chairs classroom-style, facing the short wall and a blackboard. Janet took one glance, sighed, and dragged her feet to the lectern. Leaving her to her fate, Sam veered off to the bar to get that coffee. As she sipped the hot, bitter brew she watched the Marines trickle in, ignoring a mix of come-on grins and hostile glares-the latter from Colonel Norris and his cronies.
Yesterday they'd been told that two thirds of the men were assigned to night maneuvers, which explained why the camp had been so quiet. This morning it did seem a little more populated, but there were sixty men supposed to be permanently stationed here. Right now, the commissary held just over thirty and all chairs were occupied. So where was the rest? Not interested in alien diseases?
Major Warren marched to the front and introduced Janet. The response was a polite smattering of applause and a nucleus of hoots and whistles that pinpointed SG-3's position. A scowl at his team clashed with the emcee routine, and Warren said, "Over to Dr. Fraiser."
Janet was a natural. Within five minutes she had the Marines eating out of her hand. Of course, the subject wasn't exactly boring. Glowy, aerobic, intelligent bacteria that proposed to take over Earth and eat a conveniently skewered officer alive while they were at it... That one had been a joyride and a half, thank you very much. Sam, who'd witnessed the effects of most and fallen victim to a representative selection of alien organisms, wasn't really keen on a trip down memory lane.
"The trick actually is lateral thinking," said Janet. "Sometimes what you'd consider to be a common garden variety remedy can be life-saving. How many of you suffer from allergies?"
Twelve hands went up.
"Got antihistamines on you?"
"Yes, ma'am," chorused a few voices.
"Congratulations. You guys won't get the Neanderthal bug. About four years ago..."
Sam had sudden visions of sweet little tank top numbers, locker rooms, and alpha males, felt a hot tingle across her chest and up her neck, and knew she'd just gone bright scarlet. If Janet so much as breathed a word of who and what had been involved in that incident, she'd kill her.
Mercifully, at that moment the door opened and a few stragglers trudged in, temporarily interrupting the lecture and bringing the attendance total up to thirty-six. Right behind the stragglers entered Teal'c, and Sam didn't like the expression on his face. At all. She'd seen it only a few times over the years, but on each occasion the crap
had started raining from on high shortly thereafter. Putting down her coffee mug, she began sidling over to him. A barely perceptible shake of his head stopped her, and Teal'c casually leaned against the wall by the door, pretending to be enthralled by the lecture.
Sam followed his lead, picked up the mug again, and tried to look fascinated between halthearted sips. From the comer of her eye she watched the newcomers move up along the counter. The guy in front was about four meters away from her when she sensed it and instantly knew what had rattled Teal'c so much.
It wasn't really a feeling, at least none she could describe. Some kind of amorphous tug, a forgotten scent, a caress of cobwebs, everywhere and nowhere and completely unique. Like other people could taste the coppery tang of blood, Sam could taste naquadah. She tasted it now. The three Marines who ordered coffee at the bar carried Goa'uld.
Conrad's upper lip curled a little as though he'd smelled a stealthy fart. His version of a sneer, quite understated for a Goa'uld. It was directed at the jerry-rigged communication globe, which admittedly wouldn't win any beauty contests. The design was courtesy of Harry Maybourne who'd been in the habit of tossing alien gadgetry at his renegade geeks and saying Make it work! The geeks had been incapable of reproducing Goa'uld anti-gray technology, and so, instead of hovering gracefully, the globe was hardwired into some sort of metal briefcase.
Frowning, Simmons decided to ignore the design flaws. "What are you waiting for? Turn it on!"
"Yes, my lord." Conrad's sneer lost any trace of understatement.
"Considering that I can make your head blow off at the push of a button, I suppose that, yes, I am your lord. And you heard me. Turn it on!"
As Conrad activated the globe, a flare of his eyes incinerated the smirk. Obedience didn't sit well with him.
Stargate SG-1: Survival of the Fittest: SG1-7 Page 6