07 - Survival of the Fittest

by Sabine C. Bauer - (ebook by Undead)

  “As far as I can tell they weren’t really alive to begin with,” Jack offered. He knew exactly whom—or what—she was talking about, recalled the staring eyes and blank faces and refused to even consider this as a form of human life. If he did, all notions of individuality, of personality, would fly right out the window. Self-protection perhaps, but there it was, and he wouldn’t hesitate to admit that he was glad they were dead. One less thing to worry about, and Fraiser was a priority. “Are we okay, Doc?” he said softly.

  “I should be asking you that.” The bedspread was in trouble again.

  “Works both ways, Janet. So, are we okay?”

  “We’re okay, sir.” The smile—definitely a smile—returned at last.

  “Good. ’Cos I’ve got something for you.” Jack produced a parcel he’d been hiding behind his back up until now and put it in her lap. “Open it.”

  She graced him with one of those patented Fraiser looks. “If that’s the ladies’ model of Sergeant Siler’s pajamas…”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “Would I?”

  “At the drop of a hat. Sir!”

  “Daniel, that’s not resting. Resting is lying on the couch at home, with the shades drawn and maybe a little quiet music playing.”

  It was a very polite way of saying Leave me the hell alone, I’m working! Sam didn’t have the heart to put it bluntly. Besides, Daniel was concussed and should be at home. Unfortunately, he’d got fed up, knew that—with Janet in the infirmary—there would be no one to put him in restraints, and decided that his time would be best spent distracting Sam. She hoped to God he wasn’t going to develop a taste for it. Normally this type of visitation was executed in fine style by Colonel O’Neill, usually when he was supposed to write reports. One hyperactive kid bouncing around her lab was plenty as far as she was concerned.

  “Does this thing work?” Daniel was poking at an old TV set that vegetated at the back of Sam’s lab.

  “Turn it on, wiggle the antenna cable, and slap the top,” recommended a voice from the door. “The Simpsons should be on in five minutes.”

  Speak of the devil!

  “What are you doing here?”

  Daniel had beaten her to it, so Sam confined herself to adding “Sir?”

  By ways of an answer, the Colonel put on an A-grade sulk and headed for the TV set, leaving a trail of constant mutter. “Hi, Jack! We’ve missed you. How’re you doing? You’re looking great. Thanks. I’m peachy. Good to see you, kids. And by the way, what are you doing here?”

  This last question was directed at Daniel, who grinned. “I got fed up at home.”

  “Ah,” said the Colonel, implying it was perfectly reasonable that anyone suffering from boredom should converge on Major Carter’s lab. Then he proceeded to turn on, wiggle, and slap the TV.

  Instead of The Simpsons, the image established on a reporter in too much makeup and something that was a dead ringer for Donald Trump’s toupee. Clutching a microphone and his own importance, he was posted outside the Pentagon. “And we have just received official confirmation of the number of casualties. A total of ninety-seven Marines were killed yesterday, in what can only be described as the most devastating tragedy in the history of the US Marine Corps. No names have been released yet, as the commanding officers are going to personally inform victims’ families.” The image cut to an unspecified stretch of ocean, a swarm of SAR choppers, and three Navy frigates circling some floating debris. “Early reports indicate that the USS Kabul, a Tarawa class destroyer conducting exercises, sank after a massive explosion in the engine room. However, insiders speculate that there may be more to it. This morning a high-ranking Marine, Lieutenant General Philip Crowley, was detained pending a full investigation of the horrific accident. We will keep you informed as the situation develops. This is Dwayne Keller for—”

  “I don’t believe it,” whispered Sam, half convinced she’d misheard. Her next thought was that, all things considered, this version of events would be a blessing for the relatives of Private Joe Gonzales.

  “What exactly is it you don’t believe, Major?” the Colonel asked dryly. “The guy’s hairpiece or the cover-up?”

  “Cover-up?” Daniel gasped it out, his eyes as wide as the bruises would allow.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? They—”

  The Colonel’s explanation of the implausibly sordid was interrupted by two new arrivals, and Sam was beginning to consider getting an espresso machine and maybe setting up a couple of tables and chairs. She could also serve ice cream with little paper umbrellas in it.

  For the time being she resorted to, “Morning, General. Teal’c.”

  “O’Neill, I am pleased to see you,” Teal’c intoned solemnly. “And you—”

  “See? Here’s a man who knows how to make a guy feel welcome.” Jack O’Neill grinned. “I missed you, too, T. How was Chulak?”

  “Cold.”

  General Hammond was doing his best to ignore the exchange, peered at the TV set and finally at the Colonel and Daniel. “What are you doing here?” he enquired.

  “I think he means you,” Colonel O’Neill informed Dr. Jackson in a stage whisper that probably carried halfway to the commissary.

  “I mean the pair of you,” clarified Hammond.

  “I’m legit. I got my walking papers, sir. Clean bill of health. Daniel, on the other hand, absconded from house arrest.”

  The General didn’t rise to the bait.

  “Something on your mind, sir?” Sam asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” He heavily sat in her computer chair, looked at them one by one. “Seeing as you’re all here, I might as well tell you. You’ve seen the news, I take it.”

  “Yeah,” Colonel O’Neill acknowledged grimly. “Whose idea was that?”

  “Simmons’. And mine.”

  “Excuse me?” If someone had proved to him the Earth was flat, Daniel couldn’t have looked more stunned. “General, you—”

  “Hold your horses, Daniel.” The Colonel’s voice held a mix of disbelief and concern, but mostly concern. “I’m thinking there’s an explanation. Butt-ugly but good.”

  “I’m not proud of it, people.” Going by the way it came out, the words tasted like cod liver oil. Hammond grimaced. “The crux of the matter is that I was seen with our friend Harry. Simmons lost no time pointing out just what exactly would happen—not just to me, but to the SGC in general and Sergeants Siler and Harriman in particular—if anyone got wind of my shielding a convicted traitor. The rest was pretty straightforward, as you can imagine.”

  “Let me guess.” Colonel O’Neill discovered that month-old donut mummy under a workbench, hooked it with the tip of his boot, and kicked it across the lab and into the corridor. It hit the far wall and disintegrated. Going by the gusto he’d put behind it, he must have been picturing Simmons’ ass. “Amnesia all round. Simmons forgets Harry exists, and we forget Simmons climbed into bed with Nirrti. Crowley—and probably Norris?—get to take the fall, and everybody lives happily ever after. Am I getting warm?”

  He’d said we forget not you forget, and Hammond hadn’t missed it. He sent the Colonel a grateful smile. “There’s going to be at least one sacrificial lamb from Simmons’ side. The official version is that one of the agents the NID had on ’335 has gone rogue.”

  “Van Leyden,” Daniel said darkly. “My heart bleeds.”

  “Don’t fret. I’m sure Van Leyden’s going to have a nasty accident, only to reappear a few months down the line in a different incarnation.” Giving up on his search for further footballs, Colonel O’Neill perched on a table. “I’m assuming the base on ’335 will be closed down?”

  Hammond nodded. “Orders went out yesterday. They’ll start evacuating today at fourteen hundred Zulu. And St. Christina’s is being scoured by scientists from Area 51.” After a little pause he added, “The deal does have its advantages. Simmons has conceded that all bets are off if he doesn’t stay clear of the SGC in future.”

  “He’ll be m
issed.”

  “I’ll make sure to write.” Sam felt a smile quirking at the corners of her mouth. “Does he know that some of his so-called Jaffa are still alive, General?”

  “No. He demanded that any surviving Marine Jaffa be handed over to the NID, but rather than discussing the ethics of that, I told him Bra’tac’s men killed the guards at the gate and everybody else died on Yamalok.”

  To Sam’s ears it sounded a little surprising. “And he believed you, sir?”

  “He met Bra’tac. Briefly, but the encounter left an indelible impression.”

  “Master Bra’tac has always displayed an aptitude for leaving those.” Apparently Teal’c had reminded himself that keeping watch wasn’t necessary here in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain. He abandoned his post by the door where he’d been hovering until now.

  “And I take it he’s doing the same for his new recruits?” The Colonel scooted a little further along the table so Teal’c could perch next to him.

  The six Marine Jaffa who had escaped from Yamalok, together with the foursome that had been captured on ’335, had been taken to Chulak, to learn the skills they needed to coexist with their symbiotes. None of them would be allowed to return to Earth. A harsh decision, and one that had caused vehement protests, but it couldn’t be helped. Nobody was willing to take the risk of importing ten larval Goa’uld to Earth. The only other option would have been permanent confinement to base at the SGC, and that was a prospect people relished even less.

  Teal’c had met the men and helped them settle into their new life on Chulak. “There were some initial disputes over authority, albeit short-lived. According to Bra’tac, training is progressing well.”

  “They’re going to make it?”

  “Indeed, Daniel Jackson.”

  For some reason, the reply brought conversation to a standstill, and an odd silence settled over the lab.

  They—the Colonel, Teal’c, Daniel, Janet, Sam herself—had made it, too, and it truly was over, even if each of them had picked up a couple new demons along the way. Simmons would live to scheme another day, but at least Daniel and the Colonel had made their peace. That was worth something. Sam would have to make her peace with Private Joe Gonzales who now lay buried under a molten temple on a planet called Yamalok. Daniel had said it was Hindi for Hell. The Goa’uld sure had an uncanny knack for naming things.

  Without preamble, General Hammond rose, a little tiredly, the strain of these past weeks showing in the way he moved. “Well, I guess that’s all people. As you were.”

  “Sir?” Colonel O’Neill slid off the table and not quite stepped into the General’s way. “When can we expect to be back on duty?”

  The question made a warm little puddle of relief pool in the pit of Sam’s stomach. They’d never discussed his resignation after their return—even Daniel had tiptoed around the subject—as if, by unspoken agreement, they’d decided to leave well enough alone. Evidently it’d been the wise thing to do.

  A small, sly smile crept across Hammond’s face. “Any time you want to use the shredder in my office, son, feel free.”

  “Understood, sir. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. And to answer your question, SG-1 remains on stand-down until Dr. Jackson’s face returns to a state that doesn’t scare the natives. Bed rest would help, I suppose.” General Hammond leveled a sharp stare at Daniel and started heading for the door. “Meanwhile you can look forward to a nice, quiet diplomatic mission. The planet’s called Kelowna. They want to negotiate a trade agreement.”

  Barely suppressing a wince, the Colonel listed in Teal’c’s direction. “I hope he means Kelowna, British Columbia,” he muttered. “Great wine, world-class golf course.”

  Hammond ground to a halt, turned on his heels. “He means Kelowna, P3X-4C3. As far as I’m aware, they haven’t been introduced to golf. By the way, Colonel, you wouldn’t happen to have any thoughts on what became of Harry Maybourne? He didn’t gate back to the SGC with rest of the people from the tel’tac.”

  “Uh, funny you should mention it, sir.” Ears red, Colonel O’Neill had straightened up, just about coming to attention. “I had an email from him this morning. He sends his regards. Seems like there were concerns that he might have to be arrested as soon as he popped from the gate here. Somebody instructed Tabal to take Maybourne back Earthside in the tel’tac and deliver him to a destination of his choosing.”

  “In that case, Colonel, you may wish to remind somebody of the value of diplomacy. You may also wish”—Hammond’s lips twitched—“to convey my appreciation for somebody’s initiative. And now get out of here and get some rest, SG-1. All of you. That’s an order!”

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