"You're joking!"
"No."
Sighing, Daniel dropped into a patch of mud and scooted down until his teeth were at a level with Jack's wrists. "Fart and I'll kill you!"
There was no reply, and Daniel resigned himself. Bits of his face that desperately wanted to be left alone were chafing against Jack's arms, and the plastic was no real winner for taste and stuck between his teeth. Jack kept quiet. He'd either passed out again or he was brooding.
Daniel stopped and sat up, trying to relax his shoulders. The sun had crept over the treetops and onto their little patch of forest floor. It occurred to him that they'd been cheated out of a night and some much-needed sleep.
"I didn't fart!" So Jack had been brooding. "Keep going!"
"How about you entertain me by telling me why you retired?"
"You know why. You were there."
If there'd ever been a moment when Daniel wanted to cross his arms this was it. "Don't bullshit me. You quit-which isn't exactly a specialty of yours. So what's going on?"
"Daniel, I-"
"Spill it, Jack. I mean it."
Jack shifted over a little further, staring at a lump of moss. "This last year-"
"You mean the one when you were too busy being the alpha male to see daylight?" And Daniel had risen to the bait every damn time, until their usual banter deteriorated into personal insults. "Sony. Just gag me."
"Can't. I need you."
"Oh right. The flex."
"What else?" O'Neillese for the friendship's still there. Twisted and battered and bent out of shape, but still a friendship. Solid foundations.
"What about this last year?" Daniel prodded.
"You mean apart from the fact that I was prepared to blow up a spaceship with you in it? Or that I shot to kill when I shot Carter? Or that I left Teal'c to get his matrix stored in the gate? Notice a pattern? Too many bad calls, Daniel. The only reason why any of you's still around is that I got lucky each time. I can't afford to rely on that. You can't. The exercise sent up a red flag. That's what happens when luck runs out, Daniel." His fingers balled into tight fists. "The other day, when I shot that robot-"
"She was sentient, Jack."
"When I shot Reese? I shot her because I couldn't gamble. I was scared stiff of luck running out. I've lost too many people already, and so help me, I'm not going to lose any more."
You stupid son of a bitch!
Daniel grimaced. "Look," he said at last, "for what it's worth, I've always been convinced-still am-that, if I buy it out here, it won't be because you're there but because you're not. You've pulled our asses out of the fire more times than I care to remember and long may you continue to do so. Because I have every intention of living to a ripe old age, and I'm counting on you to keep that little fancy of mine viable."
"Gee! Thanks, Daniel." Jack sounded raw, but the attitude was encouraging. "Anything else I can do for you?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Daniel grinned. "Try stretching the flex. It might pop."
"You sneaky, underhand, devious little... You mean there was no reason for me to-"
"I didn't say that. I said it might pop. So it might still need some nibbling."
"And you might just stay cuffed!" growled Jack and did as he was told.
The flex popped. Ten minutes later, Daniel's hands were free, too. Rubbing his wrists, he looked for a doorway that would lead to the interior of the ruins, but all he could see was the gaping mouth of the stone face that held the Stargate. Not likely, despite the stone tongue that lolled out into the clearing like an entrance ramp. Besides, the maw stank of feces and God knew what else, and even Daniel's investigative fervor had limits. He began trailing the wall into the forest, noticing for the first time that the noises you'd expect in a jungle were absent. Except for an unnerving, insistent buzz. Following the sound, he rounded a huge tree and froze, bile rising in his throat. So much for peace and quiet.
From somewhere behind him drifted shouts. "Daniel! Wait up! I can't find the"-Jack came trotting around the bole and ground to a dead halt-"DHD..."
Clouds of flies dancing around it, the body hung suspended from a protrusion in the temple wall.
kay, sirs. That's it for today. As you can tell from your schedule, the role play exercise is slotted first thing tomorrow morning, so you might wanna go over your notes tonight. Thank you all, and I'll see you tomorrow." The hollow-chested lecturer, a warrant officer in academic uniform- baggy chinos, checked shirt, and beige corduroy jacket-shuffled down from the dais in front of the projection screen and immediately was mobbed by a gang of teacher's pets.
Like high school, George Hammond thought in disgust. Except, he himself had never hung around after class. He'd been too busy trying to set new records for the run between classroom and bleachers. Nothing to do with baseball. More to do with Betty Mae Turner. He smiled briefly-Betty Mae had ended up marrying one of the teacher's pets and produced a houseful of organ-pipe offspring.
However, this wasn't high school and more's the pity. If it were, or if he had more of Jack O'Neill's blithe disregard for institutional authority, he'd have carved This sucks! into the desk with a penknife. As it was, he simply gathered his-unused-notepad and sidled out of the row of seats and toward the exit. Below, the eager beavers were still wooing the lecturer, who was lapping it up. Presumably it was more attention than the guy otherwise got in a year.
Good for him. And good for Psych Ops. If they were striving to imbue their existence with some meaning, that was a laudable undertaking and all very well with Major General Hammond. However, he signally failed to understand why he should have to be involved in the ego salving. He had better things to do. More urgent things. That aside, a little advance warning might have been nice. The order for Hammond to participate in this extravaganza for general staff had landed on his desk yesterday morning.
The three-day seminar at Bolling AFB (Enhanced Understanding of Leadership and Dealing with Subordinates) seemed to be part of some obscure drive toward fluffier armed forces, and it was as redun dant as a pair of left shoes. A lot of wishy-washy psycho-babble that had nothing whatsoever to do with real life. Real life was fifty percent of SG-1 and Dr. Fraiser missing.
Hammond stormed down the corridor, dodging clumps of chatting people. His interest in discussing this afternoon's lecture (Voluntary Separation and How to Handle It) was strictly limited. Besides, his personal method (Wait Till Half a Team Disappears and See How Fast Their CO Bounces Back) wouldn't meet with the attendees' approval. As he rattled down the stairs he thought he heard somebody hollering his name, opted for temporary deafness, and ducked out the door. He needed to contact the SGC and check if there were any news, but he didn't want to make the call from Bolling. He had friends elsewhere whose phones would be secure.
Outside, the wind was driving sheets of rain across the lawn. The weather suited his mood. Head bowed and shoulders hunched, he hurried along the access road and through the main gate, guessing that it would take him at least half an hour to find a taxi at this time of day. He'd guessed wrong. Stepping out onto McDill Boulevard, he saw a yellow cab tearing toward him, and the driver actually responded to his wave. The cab pulled over, and Hammond, eager to get out of the rain, hopped in before it'd even screeched to a complete standstill.
"Andrews Air Force Base," he said, in a tone proven to discourage any outbursts of verbal diarrhea on the part of cabbies.
Apparently it worked. "Okay," said the driver and left it at that.
It took Hammond exactly five minutes to realize that the cabby's reticence wasn't based on sensitivity. Instead of driving east into central Washington, the cab sped into the maze of roads along the river, weaving in and out of traffic and steadily heading north toward Interstate 66.
"Hey!" He rapped against the glass partition. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"
The cabby, bearded and in a brown, wooly Afghan hat, cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror but didn't turn around. "Check your six, Ge
neral. The beige sedan, three cars behind us? They're after you. I'm trying to lose them."
Terrific! A conspiracy nut! Next he'd confess that he got this intel from the Cigarette-Smoking Man in an underground parking lot. Could this day possibly get any worse?
Then again... As instructed, Hammond checked his six. Sure enough, there was a beige, government-issue sedan three cars behind, and while this wasn't an uncommon occurrence in DC, its driver did look a little more intense than the rush-hour traffic warranted. The guy next to him was talking into a cell phone.
Hammond settled back into the seat. "Who the devil are you?"
This time the cabby did turn, grinning broadly and revealing a sturdy set of teeth with a pronounced gap between the upper incisors. "We'll chat soon, but right now you don't wanna distract the driver."
With that he goosed the engine to 70 mph, nearly clipped the rear bumper of a black Lexus in front, cut right across an eighteenwheeler that tooted Beethoven's Fifth on its horn, and shot over three lanes onto the ramp for Custis Memorial Boulevard. The beige sedan missed the exit and drove on straight, its co-pilot gesticulating furiously.
At least Hammond's question had been answered. The day had got worse. By a considerable margin. He was trapped in a speeding cab, steered by a convicted traitor, rogue agent, and con artist. On the upside, this promised to be more diverting than tomorrow morning's role play exercise. The cab was out on the 1-66 now and doing 80 mph.
Thirty-five minutes later they were passing Dulles International, and his chauffeur finally slowed down a little to retrieve a sports bag from under the passenger seat. He slid open the partition and shoved the bag into the rear.
"I suggest you change, General. It'll attract less attention than a dress uniform. I won't peek, I swear."
The bag contained a pair of jeans, trodden-down sneakers, a windbreaker, and, to Hammond's dismay, the man's favorite fashion statement, an unbearably lurid Aloha shirt.
It'll attract less attention?
By the time he'd zipped the windbreaker up to his neck to tamp down the effect of the shirt, they were pulling into the parking lot behind a seedy truck stop.
"Now are we safe to talk?" Hammond snapped.
His chauffeur backed the cab into a slot beside a forty-foot Winnebago. "Inside," he said. "They do a great chocolate meringue pie. I've been looking forward to it all day."
Then he killed the engine, exchanged the ethnic headwear for a dozer cap, and got out of the cab. He was wearing grease-stained mechanic's overalls to go with the hat. Climbing out, Hammond figured that dressing up as Bobo the Clown still beat running around like the Trucker King of Hicksville.
A state cruiser parked directly outside the cafe, and as they ambled closer a trooper back-pushed and rotated through the door, balancing two cups of coffee on a box of donuts. It probably explained why they hadn't been caught speeding.
"I should just hand you over to them," Hammond muttered angrily. "For reckless driving, if nothing else. You're a menace, Maybourne."
"Please, General. I just saved your butt, and I'd prefer it if you called me Hutch. For, uh, personal reasons." He shot a sideways glance at Hammond. "Maybe I should-"
"Absolutely not! Whatever else happens, you will not call me Huggy Bear. Do I make myself clear?"
"Just a thought."
"Do the world a favor and stop thinking!"
The interior of the cafe lived down to expectation; dark and dingy, with the smell of old fries thick in the air and Formica tables stuck between tattered red seats. They also were out of chocolate meringue pie, as George Hammond noted in a bout of petty satisfaction. Maybourne had picked a booth at the back of the room, directly under an antique speaker that hissed and drooled country music between the static. A waitress brought two mugs of coffee and a plate of apple pie-runner-up, going by Maybourne's face.
The coffee wasn't too bad, and Hammond took another sip and waited until the girl was out of earshot. "Right. What the hell is going on? And don't even think of bullshitting me. Kidnapping's a federal offence, in case you'd forgotten."
Tearing into his apple pie, Mayboume observed, "Our boy Jack's got himself in trouble again, hasn't he?"
"What do you care? You shot him!"
"I'm hurt!" He put down a heaped fork and sent Hammond a baby-blue look of wounded innocence. "You mean Jack hasn't told you? I didn't shoot him. I can guess who did, but it wasn't me. I mean, why would I?"
"I don't know. Why do you do anything, Maybourne?"
"Hutch. I'm serious, George." The baby-blues turned cold as he finally dropped the Endearing Goothall routine. "If you're in my... predicament... you've got to keep an ear to the ground. I do. So I hear things. Lately I hear that Jack screws up an exercise past recognition, decimates his own team, and resigns. Then I hear that somebody out Cheyenne Mountain way is sniffing at a high-ranking Marine who happens to have organized said exercise. Then I hear that the NID doesn't want said high-ranking Marine sniffed at and is proposing to remove the sniffer. And then you get sent to DC, which is the last place you ought to be, on some lame excuse and with a couple of NID heavies on your tail. How's my hearing so far, George?"
Wondering who'd redefined the meaning of Top Secret and when, Hammond snarled, "Accurate. Except for one detail. Colonel O'Neill didn't resign."
"Where is he? He isn't at home. I tried to get in touch with him."
"Off-world, and I shouldn't even tell you that much."
"General, what do you think those guys in the sedan were going do to? Ask for directions? They had orders to solve the NID's problem. You're hip-deep in it, and I'm the only ally you've got right now. You'll have to trust me."
Trust Harry Maybourne. As far as George Hammond was concerned, the ex-colonel had all the credibility of a psychotic rattler. On the other hand there was no getting away from the fact that Jack O'Neill trusted him, and Hammond knew better than to ignore Jack's instincts. Repeated threats to shoot Maybourne notwithstanding, Jack actually liked the guy. Not that he'd ever admit it. And Jack had publicly revised his opinion as to who'd parked that bullet in his arm.
"What's in it for you?"
Maybourne smirked. "Jack's got that quaint loyalty thing going. If anything happens to you and he finds out that I could have stopped it, he's gonna come after me and bust my ass. I'd like to avoid that scenario."
"Christ! I could get court-martialed just for being seen with you," drawled Hammond. Then he leaned forward, nearly knocking over his mug. "If I ever hear so much as a whisper of this from any source other than you or me, Tm gonna come after you and bust your ass. Are we clear on this, Colonel?"
"Crystal."
Doubting his judgment all the way through, Hammond laid out the entire story for Harry Maybourne. Who rapidly lost interest in the apple pie. By the end of it he was attacking the tabletop with his fork.
"This is uglier than I thought." He quit stabbing, rummaged through his back pocket, produced an envelope, and slid it across the table. "I'm hoping the Air Force'll pick up my expenses."
"For what?" asked Hammond.
"Two tickets to Seattle. I gotta show you something."
The faces, serene and beautiful, seemed to be smiling at her in approval. They were everywhere, on walls, pillars, doorjambs, and they wore elaborate hairstyles and headdresses shaped like pagodas. There were full-length statues, too; countless round-busted, widehipped women, their arms raised gracefully, and men almost too pretty to be male, though you could hardly miss that they were boys. Some talked to her, or so Janet thought. Or perhaps it was the voice speaking through them. It had got louder and more distinct since she'd entered the city. Another sign that she was close now. Close to home.
But mostly she knew because she felt at peace. There was no noise at all. The cackle of the rainforest had stopped as soon as she'd stepped through the great gate. No noise, and none of that merciless itch to run, run, run that had driven her to collapse yesterday. She could take her time now. And she would. So muc
h to see, and it would be a shame to rush. Suddenly she realized that this had to be the same kind of excitement that drove Daniel.
Whom?
Janet gave a small mental shrug, unwilling to get into an argument, and went back to studying her surroundings. The voice acquiesced. In front of her stretched a broad corridor-well, not exactly a corridor, seeing as it had no roof-that led to a sun-flooded hall of pillars. The ground was covered with grass, short and thick and velvety.
"So who's mowing the lawn around here?" She giggled.
Obeying an impulse, she took off her boots and socks. The grass felt as luxurious as it looked, warm and springy under her feet. It practically begged her to skip, and so she skipped all the way into the hall, finally forcing herself to stand still and look around. The ceiling soared sixty feet above her head, crumbling with age in places. Plants had nudged their way through brittle masonry, and some of the vines, studded with delicate, fragrant blossoms, brushed the ground. No telling what this hall had been once. Perhaps a throne room, something out of The King and L Janet started whistling a tune from the show, then cut herself off, surprised at a giddiness that wasn't normally hers.
There is nobody here to see or hear you. Why be embarrassed?
Because.
That is no answer.
"It isn't me!" she shouted, the sound whirling around pillars and vines and toward the lofty ceiling like a living thing.
Oh, but it is.
A second later it was her whirling and skipping around pillars and vines, whistling `Shall We Dance?' and curtsying to an invisible king. The laughter of the voice bled into the hall and drifted through the ceiling on shafts of sunlight.
She wanted to scream, yell at it to stop, and found she couldn't, because she had to skip and whirl and whistle, whistle like a madwoman, whistle a tune she didn't recognize anymore, eerie and frantic and alien. Somewhere in her mind, compacted by utter panic, formed the thought that she was going insane.
No. No. No. No. No. "No!"
The wail, released at last, broke the compulsion, made her feet arrest mid-skip, and she stumbled and fell hard. No grass here. Red stone tiles, rough and unforgiving. She skinned her elbow and curled into a ball, whimpering like a child.
Stargate SG-1: Survival of the Fittest: SG1-7 Page 13