“Tell me again about the people’s right to know—and tell me what happens when they find out,” O’Neill continued. “Tell me what all the conspiracy theorists are going to do, what your dear old dad will do, when they hear you tell them that Earth is only one very small spot in a very big universe. What will all the decent, rational, fair-minded citizens of the world do when you try to give them a whole new perspective on their daily lives?”
Kinsey pulled another chair over and propped what was left of his heavily bandaged foot upon it. He shook his head, ignoring the question for the time being. “Is Dr. Jackson going to be all right?”
“He’s going to be in physical therapy for a while.” Janet Frasier, sitting at the other end of the desk, was smiling as she closed her clipboard. “Apparently he was injected with some kind of venom, but it’s a compound native to Etaa and the effect was negligible—anesthetic, if anything. His injuries are pretty serious, but he should eventually regain full range of motion in his shoulders.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to hear it.” He closed his eyes, still remembering for some reason the contrast of a smear of blood against the utter paleness of Jackson’s face. It was an easier image to hold than some of the others. “What about the paralysis field? Is that going to have any effect?”
“None that we can determine. There are no residual aftereffects. So far as I can tell from what you’ve all told me, it had something to do with the effect of the sound the moths made upon the human brain. Unfortunately the recording quality of the camcorders wasn’t quite up to reproducing the effect.”
They had tumbled back to Earth only to be pounced upon by a well-trained horde of medical personnel. He’d found himself on a table next to Jackson, had an opportunity to see for himself the shredded gore of Jackson’s torso. He’d been grateful to whatever powers there were that the man was unconscious, and wondered how he had managed to keep his lungs intact to breathe. Then the doctors had closed in around him and he hadn’t seen Jackson anymore.
“Well, Mr. Kinsey, do you see why we insist that the Stargate project remains secret?” Hammond inquired gently.
“Fire in the crowded theater,” Kinsey said softly. “Panic. Distrust. All those things humanity does best.”
Hammond smiled thinly. “That matches our own assessment.”
O’Neill took up the thread. “Give us time to allow the teams to carry out our missions of threat assessment and discovering ways to protect Earth. Give us a chance to prepare a defense. In a war, you don’t take a vote on how to proceed. War isn’t a democratic process, not if you want to survive. You limit your complications, and you follow orders.”
“Speaking of following orders,” Hammond said grimly, addressing O’Neill, “I do recall ordering you to make sure our guest didn’t get hurt. You were supposed to show him consequences, not let him suffer them.”
O’Neill sat up straighter in his chair, ready to protest.
“Wait a minute,” Kinsey interrupted, looking around at the three officers and wondering how his father had managed to survive a full-court press. “I’m not sure I completely agree yet that the public doesn’t have a right to know the details, but I know where you’re coming from. And anyway, I’m not sure anyone would believe me. Even with this”—he pointed to his injury—“it’s just not believable. Praying mantises and giant moths that turn people instantly into greasy black powder? If you think I’m going to put my name on that kind of article, you have another think coming. They’d cart me off to the funny farm. No, General.
“Going through the Gate like that—I don’t know. I could have written about all this, maybe, if I hadn’t done that. It’s almost credible up until you really do it—then it’s just, I don’t know, science fiction.” He paused and smiled wryly at O’Neill. “But now I’ve got some idea of what you’re up against, and what you’re willing to do to fight it. So you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to say anything to anybody, at least for the time being. Not even to dear old Dad.”
“That’ll drive him nuts,” O’Neill remarked.
“Yeah, won’t it?” Kinsey grinned.
“Good,” Hammond said, slapping his hand on the desk as if finalizing a deal. “And you’ll let me know if you change your mind.”
“Oh, definitely,” Kinsey replied, with a small smile.
“I think I’d like to go lie down again,” he went on, and Harriman stepped forward to escort him back to Medical. Frasier followed them out the door.
O’Neill and Hammond were left alone in the general’s office. O’Neill got up and opened a cabinet, revealing a decanter of whiskey and a set of cut crystal glasses. Cassidy and Pace were not the only ones who had emergency reserves.
Hammond shared a wry glance with O’Neill as the colonel handed him a half-full glass. “It worked this time,” Hammond said. “But I don’t think we’ll ever pull a stunt like that again.”
O’Neill heaved a sigh of relief and the two of them clinked glasses. “You’re a good judge of character,” he remarked. “I wasn’t sure it would work. Especially when we almost lost Daniel.” He took a healthy slug of liquor. “But he pitched in. I’m not sure we would have made it back without his help.”
“That wasn’t in the plan.”
“Er, no sir. Especially the part about Daniel.” O’Neill started to take another drink, looked at the glass thoughtfully, and set it aside. “And what about our friend Samuels?”
“I have plans for Bert Samuels,” Hammond growled. “He’s going to find himself on TDY. Very long term TDY. In a very, very cold place.”
Jack O’Neill smiled.
Late that afternoon, Hammond’s driver was standing by to open the door of the sedan and take him away from Cheyenne Mountain. As he settled in on the backseat with his briefcase full of reports, he wondered once again whether he should go ahead and take retirement. He could throw a steak on the grill and plant irises, sit back and have a drink, improve his golf game. Command, after all, wasn’t what it was cracked up to be.
But within a few minutes, as the blue sedan wound its way down Cheyenne Mountain, he was deep in studying the preliminary reports on possible new destinations for Stargate missions. O’Neill was right. It was a war, for Earth’s very survival, and like O’Neill and the rest he was signed up for the duration, even if—if they were lucky—the world never knew.
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