Black Thursday

by whizzy

 

 

Series: Part 9 of the Black Helicopters series (on AO3)

Notes: this is a WIP, never finished, and it ends on a cliffhanger.

Pairing: McShep

Words: 69,916

Rating: Explicit

Warning: for major character deaths (not John or Rodney, and hopefully temporary if the WIP is ever completed)

 

~~

 

[We also need to re-catalog the contents of vault Bravo-five.]

 

"Already done. All alien tech present and accounted for."

 

Rodney was accustomed by now to having a radio glued to his ear; even better, his hearing had rebounded to the point that he no longer needed to crank the volume to ridiculous levels to catch all of Sam's rapid-fire instructions. Given his extracurricular duties, and hers, he'd hoped she might cut them some slack. But noooo. The woman was a slave driver, multitasking herself into exhaustion—and Rodney by extension right along with her.

 

It was just another of those perverse ironies Rodney had come to expect from his life: the newest, least respected, and most maligned researcher at Area 51 was the one Carter had chosen to act as her eyes and ears and hands on base, while she remotely administered the disaster recovery process.

 

The Air Force would need to select a new Head of Research, eventually. (When stress threatened to overwhelm him, Rodney clung to the heartwarming notion of Dr. Benjamin Ingram spending his well-earned exile rotting away in a Siberian salt mine.) But the hiring process could take months, and Carter had been the only viable candidate to step in and hold the helm, despite civilian protests that the temporary appointment—Carter herself couldn't stress that part often enough—placed Area 51 completely under martial control.

 

Tensions weren't helped any by the perception that Carter's chosen second had... "gone native" was the phrase Kavanagh's crowd was using, under their breath but not quite softly enough that Rodney could pretend he didn't hear.

 

It wasn't like he'd had a choice. His apartment in Vegas had been ransacked, his possessions carted away as potential evidence; he sure as hell didn't have time to go shopping, so his options had been to revert to wearing SGC-issue uniforms or go naked. After the kidnapping, John had insisted on the new quarters in the military section of the base as a security precaution. And it wasn't so much that he enjoyed the taste of the MREs that had become a staple of his diet, more that they were portable and quick and beat a case of the shakes when he couldn't waste an hour hiking back and forth across the compound for a meal.

 

So you know what? Fuck Kavanagh's crowd.

 

[That's good Rodney, but did you check to make sure they all work?] The radio lag was bad today for some reason, worse than usual between Nevada and Colorado. [Because it wouldn't be the first time someone stole a device and slipped a fake in its place.]

 

Rodney knew that. Hell, Maybourne had done it with an entire Stargate. "Let me rephrase. All alien tech accounted for and verified in front of multiple witnesses. Integrity of vault security has been reestablished. The new access routine requires the presence of at least two senior staff, one civilian and one Air Force. And Sam, you know this would be a lot faster”—Easier too, but he didn't say it—"if you were here, right? I mean, I've been managing the other stuff okay, but the vaults in particular..."

 

[I know, and I'm sorry to have to dump the brunt of the work on you. SG-1's field work has to take precedence. Daniel thinks we're close to finding the location of the Lost City of the Ancients. Really close.]

 

Rodney could tell her where the city was. It was at the end of the rainbow, along with the pot of gold and the unicorns and the sleeping ensorcelled princess; and even if they did find it, there was no guarantee it would offer anything to help them defeat the enormous Goa'uld armada that intel still insisted would be bearing down on Earth any day now. Saying that they were close to finding the Lost City was like saying they were close to being able to petition for a miracle.

 

Sometimes, Rodney was sure Carter knew that. Other times, like now, maybe... not so sure. SG-1's aptitude for success against impossible odds surpassed luck to approach the divine.

 

"Well, of course that's more important," Rodney agreed, like he believed it. Then, "Wait. Field work? Is that why the radio delay is so bad? You're off-world?"

 

[Scheduled check-in, we're not due to return for a few hours. I asked Walter to patch me through to Area 51 while the gate was still open.]

 

John appeared in the office doorway. Rodney glanced down at his watch, a huge model with a lot of extra little dials that probably would have meant something to him if he'd been a pilot. He wasn't even late yet. Okay, he would be by the time he trekked down to the jumper shed. But he didn't usually warrant an escort unless he was an hour overdue.

 

[You're still talking to McKay? I thought it was going to be a quick update] O'Neill bellowed in the background. [Don't make me take away your long distance privileges. This has got to be the most expensive phone call in the history of ever.]

 

[Technically sir, the power requirements for maintaining an active wormhole are insignificant next to the cost of forming one. And since we opened it on our end-]

 

Rodney made a shooing motion to try to keep John at bay. Of course it failed. "Major Carter," he raised his voice in greeting, guessing who was on the other end of the line.

 

"And Colonel O'Neill," Rodney grumbled.

 

[Is that Sheppard?]

 

"Tell her I'm here to pick you up, will you?" It was something of a joke between him and Carter now, sharing joint custody of Rodney.

 

[Yes, please, take McKay! That's an order! I need Carter back!]

 

[Sir, he can't hear you.]

 

[Well why not? I can hear him.]

 

"Just a minute– Hold on, Sam and I aren't finished–"

 

There was a wash of incredibly fake-sounding static, then O'Neill said, [What was that? Didn't copy. Connection must be breaking up. She'll call you back when we return to base!]

 

"Wait. Hello? Sam?"

 

The line was dead. Rodney pulled off the earpiece and dropped it on his desk, resisting the urge to toss it in the trash.

 

John didn't say anything, just smirked a little and rocked on his toes.

 

"Fine, fine. Let me get my coat."

 

~~

 

The morning was overcast but still and mild, even for late January in Nevada. John, who claimed to be more sensitive to the cold, hadn't even opted for a hat or gloves. His stride was buoyant as he fell in beside Rodney, expressing too much energy for someone who'd been awake to greet the ass-crack of dawn, and who'd managed a run and a shower before breakfast.

 

"You're disgustingly chipper," Rodney accused. The ability to achieve such a state before noon and the liberal application of caffeine was unnatural, and doubly undesirable in a roommate. But John made reparations with coffee, so when Rodney grumbled about the noise and rolled over to shove his head beneath his pillow, it was with fond annoyance rather than the urge to murder John and dump his body in the desert.

 

Then again, they'd been back to sharing quarters for less than a month.

 

"And? Last time I checked, that wasn't illegal." If they hadn't already cleared the labs and the more populated end of the base, John probably wouldn't have veered in to bump Rodney with his shoulder. John's personal space buffer seemed to increase in direct proportion to the number of witnesses they had.

 

"Okay, spill."

 

John shrugged, but steered them off their customary route, aiming more for the JANET commuter terminal than the hangar block.

 

"No, really. And if this is about the drive pod evaluation, I already told you, we're looking at a week minimum of trials—satisfactory trials!—before I'll be comfortable clearing the jumper for test flights." It was a monumental relief to have the decision square on his shoulders, where it belonged. His position as project lead had meant nothing to Ingram, who'd tried to counteract him every step of the way, whereas Carter wouldn't second-guess his judgment, even with the brass leaning on her for faster results.

 

"I'm not arguing," John said, and it was true. He hadn't. Maybe wheedled a little, but that was all. "I made it clear a long time ago that you're the only person I trust to fix the jumper and do it right."

 

And speaking of wheedling... "Please, not even close to one of your better efforts."

 

"Too blatant?"

 

"Lay it on any thicker and I'll collapse under the weight."

 

"How do you know that's not my strategy, hm?"

 

The theatrical groan was for John's benefit, and to mask how close the flattery had cut to the truth. It was a matter of self-preservation that Rodney's standards were excessively high. He was going to have to suffer the anxiety of balancing John's life against his repairs, and the only way to survive it would be to make certain that his work was flawless.

 

And even then, it was going to be an absolute bitch to let it go, when the time came.

 

An Airman blew past them, hell-bent on some task, but not too absorbed to fling John a salute. "Well?" Rodney pressed after the man was gone, and caught John with the lingering twinge of a smile on his lips.

 

"There, see? I keep telling you, you're the recognizable one around here. If I'd been alone, that guy probably would have mowed me down without a second glance."

 

"Like the entire base doesn't recognize you from the time you spent farting around with Colonel Mitchell's squadron. And that's not what I meant."

 

John finally relented. "I've got a guest arriving on the next commuter bird, and I figured you'd want to be in on the fun."

 

"Fun?" Rodney's brow wrinkled. If the mystery guest was someone John was looking forward to seeing, why hadn't he mentioned them before?

 

"Yeah, you know. Despoiling the virgin? Back when you were missing, O'Neill pulled some strings and got me booked on an express flight from Nellis back to the SGC. I sorta wanted to, uh, repay the favor, so I asked him to pull some more strings, and the result is one clueless pilot with squeaky new security clearance and absolutely no idea what he's gotten himself into by agreeing to visit the base."

 

Rodney was catching on. "You mean he hasn't been briefed yet? At all?" "Nope. O'Neill's making me do it as a condition of the favor."

 

"That's horrible," Rodney grinned. "No, wait, not horrible. What's the word I'm looking for?"

 

"I like horrible. So, are you in?"

 

He pretended to consider it. "I don't know. We'd be wasting time that could be spent on those drive pod simulations. Then again, how often am I invited to participate in

 

officer-sanctioned hazing?"

 

John said primly, "We're not going to do anything evil to him, just give him a tour, maybe show him the spaceships before delivering him to Mitchell's waiting arms."

 

"I've long suspected that your definition of evil and mine don't quite coincide." "So?"

 

"Of course I'm in. But if you think this even begins to make up for the fact that I wasn't around to see Teal'c introduce Radek to Junior..."

 

John altered their heading again, putting them on a direct intersect course with the terminal. He assured, "Don't worry, I'm well aware I'll be atoning for that one for the rest of my life."

 

~~

 

It was always easy to spot the new guys. They were the ones who got hung up at the top of the boarding stairs to rubberneck, as if they were expecting to find a flying saucer or two pulled up next to the 747 on the tarmac. John's guy then realized what he was doing and nearly flung himself down the incline. At the bottom, he paused to straighten his uniform and reassert his dignity, while the stream of other arrivals split and washed around him on both sides.

 

Rodney leaned in to whisper, "So this is the cream of the Air Force crop? The best of the best? The elite?"

 

"Shut up," John told him brightly, lips not even moving enough to dislodge his smile of greeting. "He can probably do things with an F-16 that would make me come in my pants." Just like that, he was striding forward, leaving Rodney to scrape his jaw off the asphalt.

 

Salutes were exchanged, then John was towing the guy back with him, giving Rodney the chance for a quick once-over while the guy was still distracted. On closer inspection, he could have stepped off an Air Force recruitment poster. Not a hair was out of place. And maybe it helped that he didn't have any hair, but he was the type who could pull off a shaved head and not look like he was trying to disguise a retreating hairline.

 

At least he wasn't wearing aviator sunglasses. Rodney would have been obligated to hate him a little, then.

 

John drew up, spine stiff, heels together. Almost at attention, but not quite. "Major Price, this is Dr. Rodney McKay, my project lead. Dr. McKay, Major Mark Price."

 

Price thought about saluting Rodney—it had to be the uniform—but turned the aborted gesture into a handshake instead. "A pleasure."

 

"Yes, likewise and all that." John's project lead, huh? He'd said it in a way that implied Rodney was his boss, and there was no way in hell Rodney wasn't going to exploit that. "Let's get you checked in with security and issued a badge."

 

Price fumbled with the one he was already wearing to make sure it was facing the right direction.

 

"Oh, I meant a temporary visitor's badge. That's your temporary base clearance badge, which is enough to get you here, but not good enough to get you access to any of the interesting stuff."

 

"I see." His expression said that he really, really didn't.

 

Just to be cruel, Rodney asked, "That is why you're here, isn't it?"

 

"I–" Now the poor guy looked like he was afraid his summons to Area 51 had been some sort of mistake, and was expecting to be marched right back on the plane under armed guard. "I don't actually know, sir. I was hoping you could tell me."

 

Oh god, Sheppard was right. This wasn't just going to be fun; this was going to be the most fun Rodney had had in weeks. "Major Sheppard?"

 

"I was advised that Colonel Mitchell would have the particulars. Sir." With a special emphasis on sir that suggested it would be a cold day in hell before he bestowed that honorific on Rodney again.

 

Price must have caught it, because his gaze flicked uneasily between them.

 

Rodney was sorely tempted to demand John drop and give him twenty for the insolent tone. But that would have blown his cover for sure, so he huffed, "Then I suppose Colonel Mitchell will fill you in, major. In the meantime, let's see about that badge and a tour of the facilities, hm?"

 

Sheppard even deferred to Rodney to lead the way.

 

Oh yeah, too much fun.

 

~~

 

Rodney prided himself on driving Price to a state of glassy-eyed stupefaction without even resorting to the aliens word. Science alone was sufficient; Price cracked during an explanation of the physics behind the F-302's hyperdrive. But the best part of the initiation was Mitchell's arrival. Rodney was sure the bastard must have arranged the timing beforehand with John, because he breezed into the hangar at the perfect moment, all loose and chummy and candid; as if on cue, Price nearly swooned into his rescuer's arms.

 

Well, as much as a big, intimidating guy you wouldn't want to meet alone in a dark alley could swoon.

 

The last Rodney saw of him, Mitchell was leading him away with an arm slung across his shoulders, saying, "I understand your tour with the Thunderbirds concludes in a couple months. Have you given any thought to what you want to do next?"

 

Sheppard watched their departure from his respectful position near the 302's wingtip. Rodney could see the instant the charade dropped, John reacquiring his chronic slouch and a tiny, satisfied smirk.

 

Rodney jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the hangar door. "So... wait. This whole thing was a set-up? Like good-cop, bad-cop?"

 

"More like bad-scientist, good-colonel, but yes."

 

"Yes sir," Rodney reminded.

 

He was ready to sidestep when John took a half-hearted swat at him. "Bad scientist, bad Rodney. No cookie."

 

When Rodney decided to keep moving, John was there, falling in at his three o'clock if by magnetism rather than an overt signal. Rodney was so accustomed to it by now that he thought of it as their formation; it had barely freaked him out to realize that John always stuck to his right side so that John's right side would be clear if he ever needed to reach for the concealed weapon Rodney knew he carried. "I'm just saying, it seems like an awful lot of trouble to coax someone into the program when the Air Force can just make it an order and be done with it."

 

"Mitchell's not coaxing, he's poaching," John clarified. He never strolled with his hands in his pockets these days, probably for the same reason, rather than a new-found concern about appearing unprofessional while in uniform. "The SGC plans to roll out another dozen 302s this year, and it's going to be Mitchell's job to fill those seats. He needs senior, seasoned pilots, and the only way he's going to get them is by stealing them from other fighter wings. The 1st SFW is brand new, with no reputation to draw officers who are basically valuable enough to choose their own postings. Then, on top of that, candidates need to be thoroughly vetted from a security standpoint before he can even approach them."

 

Rodney shielded his eyes briefly as they cleared the doors. The sunlight was thin, but still brighter than the hangar's cavernous interior. "Ah, the ritual courtship between employer and potential employee. At the telecom, when I needed to replace a researcher, most often the person I wanted was already entrenched with the competition. And let me tell you, I had to resort to some pretty drastic measures just to get their attention."

 

"Did you pull their pigtails, or sit behind them at an industry convention and kick the backs of their chairs?"

 

"More like high-class wining and dining on the company dollar. That is... I didn't do it myself. God knows I'd be terrible at it. I always had some hot young assistant–"

 

John recoiled, mock-scandalized. "Rodney! You pimped out your minions?"

 

"What? No! I never authorized anything like– The point is, I get what Mitchell's trying to do. I just don't understand how he got saddled with the job in the first place."

 

"There are always young, ambitious officers willing to take risks to forward their careers. Some of them even have more brains than ego. Mitchell just happened to be the right man in the right place at the right time, and the SGC is lucky to have him." He said it without a trace of envy, which was perhaps ironic in itself. Before he'd been recruited into the SGC the hard way, John probably would have killed for a shot at Mitchell's position.

 

"So Price joins under similar circumstances. I mean, it was a complete accident that you two ever met. And maybe he knows some more guys who would be a good fit for the program. Then maybe those guys know some guys, etcetera, and before you know it Mitchell's filled his seats through the grapevine without having to lift a finger, and oh my god, do you know what that makes you?"

 

"What?" John asked, wary.

 

"You're totally the hot bait in this scenario!" Rodney cackled. "Do you proposition them before or after you let them touch your shiny spaceship?"

 

Snorting, John lengthened his stride, forcing Rodney to hurry to keep up. But Rodney recognized the way he was clamping his elbows to his sides as an attempt to stifle laughter.

 

~~

 

Of course, the problem with baiting Sheppard was that he always gave back in kind, and what might have amounted to a little inappropriate innuendo between friends took on an entirely new significance now that Rodney had hard, physical evidence—oh god, that shouldn't have been as borderline hysterical as it was—that they were both playing the same game.

 

This time, his mistake was losing track of John. It happened in the five seconds he spent cursing the lock on the jumper shed door, which was dust-choked and finicky as usual.

 

Then he was pushing inside, groping for the light switch that never seemed to be in the same place twice, when John's voice startled him with its proximity to his left ear. "Here, let me get that for you."

 

"Er, okay. Thanks."

 

But the lights didn't come up right away, even though he knew Sheppard's hand had to be on the damned switch, he was leaning in so close. Rodney turned, realizing too late that it was a tactical error which allowed John to shift too, catching him up against the corrugated metal wall. There wasn't even physical contact; it was all posture and the mischievous glint in John's eyes, but Rodney was trapped just the same.

 

His mouth went dry.

 

"I've thought of a way you can repay me," John said.

 

Rodney wanted to say, Okay, sure. Or maybe even, Yes please, just to see how John would react if he blew their choreography to hell. But he'd watched John slam on the brakes often enough to know his ego didn't handle it gracefully, so instead he countered, "Repay you for what?"

 

"You had fun teasing the poor major, didn't you?" Both majors, actually, but John knew that. He'd left the question open on purpose.

 

"I admit, as recreational activities go, you've had worse ideas." Paintball rifles and obstacle courses came to mind. So did rushed, haphazard sex up against a tetanus hazard, but Rodney hadn't been able to say no to the first two, either. Besides, he was up to date on his shots. His pants would drop so fast if the idle torment flashed into a legitimate offer.

 

John closed in for the kill. "I figure that's worth a little... favor in return," he nearly purred.

 

"I c-can't agree to anything until I've read the fine print." Rodney squirmed his shoulders, aware that the ridges had to be pressing rust stripes into the back of his jacket.

 

"Please let me take her up, Rodney."

 

Shit. He walked right into that one. "I told you, the tests–"

 

"Just a hover, just a couple feet off the ground. You can test the drive pods under baseline energy drain. We'll keep the hangar doors closed... it's not like it's possible to crash inside a building."

 

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure you could manage it."

 

"Maybe," John conceded. "With effort. But I won't. Come on, I know putting the jumper in the air is some sort of hangup for you, but you're going to have to get over it sooner rather than later."

 

"Yes, but the tests–" Rodney protested, knowing it sounded every bit as pathetic as he felt. John was right, the jumper had to fly again; they'd poured months of sweat and effort into the project, and it was finally curtain time. But did John have to be so eager to see it finished? The SGC wouldn't let the jumper sit around gathering dust. They intended to use it, and as the pilot with the genetic ignition key, John went where it did. The jumper could be sent to another base, or hell, another planet; the Alpha Site could desperately use a good recon ship. Even if it remained at Area 51, John would have duties apart from Rodney, and Rodney would be assigned to new projects. They wouldn't work together anymore.

 

They might not see each other except in passing, let alone eke out opportunities to see see each other. Whatever was between them was too new and tender to survive a major disruption, and that was all Rodney could see on the horizon, in every direction he turned.

 

"Rodney," John began, and Rodney didn't think he flinched at the earnest tone. But he must have given something away, because he could sense the instant John reassessed, chose to let the excuse slide. "Okay," he said, flipping on the lights and easing back a step, his arms dropping passive at his sides. "It's your deal, your decision. I can be patient." To a point, lingered unspoken.

 

Released from the wall, Rodney straightened his jacket with a huff. And boy, there was nothing like a reminder of the precarious near-future to send his libido cowering. "Yes, yes of course it is. My project, my call. Don't forget it, Sheppard. Now, if you're done wasting time screwing around, perhaps we can get to work?”

 

The reply was faint, mumbled as John was turning away, but Rodney caught it regardless.

 

"Yes, sir."

 

~~

 

In the end, Rodney gave in anyway.

 

His rationale was simple: the real flight trials would be attended by additional technicians and a curious audience, whereas an impromptu first flight of the newly-repaired jumper let him keep John's delighted laughter all for himself.

 

~~

 

That evening, Rodney hung back as they approached the building housing their quarters, until John finally turned on him at the entrance, sparing Rodney the effort of finding a tactful way to open negotiations. "Let me guess, you're not coming up."

 

"No I–" Rodney motioned. "There's another storeroom I'd like to get inventoried."

 

John checked his watch, quirking an eyebrow. "Tomorrow?" he suggested, without much hope.

 

"Tonight."

 

Rodney could almost recite word for word what was coming next. "You know McKay, these sixteen hour days aren't good for you. I thought things were gonna change with Ingram gone and Carter in charge."

 

He studied the building's unremarkable beige exterior, just beyond John's right ear. "They have changed. I get to decide where and how I spend my sixteen hours, and right now I've decided to spend some of them in a musty old storeroom, because it has to be done."

 

"Then delegate," John said, not annoyed, just... concerned. That was the worst part; if he'd been peevish it would have been easier to brush him off. "You're Carter's acting second, you have the manpower at your disposal. Nobody's going to tell you no. Believe it or not, most of them even want to help."

 

The smile felt flimsy on his lips, and wouldn't have fooled John on a good day, but he tried anyway. "They have their own responsibilities to see to, just like I have mine." And it was possible—not likely, but possible—that Ingram wouldn't have been able to weasel away if Rodney had taken his suspicions to the SGC when he should have, rather than pursuing them on his own. If the mess Ingram had left behind belonged to anyone, it was Rodney's to mop up.

 

Not... that he'd located a mess. Yet. Ingram had left his affairs too clean, too neat, as if he'd simply gotten up from behind his desk one afternoon and walked away. Rodney couldn't believe a man of his disposition wouldn't have left a parting gift, a nasty surprise lying dormant for some poor fool to stumble across, and the longer the labs functioned without incident, the stronger his paranoia grew.

 

That resigned expression wasn't a good look on John, and Rodney was too accustomed to seeing him wear it of late. "All right. Want company?"

 

Yes. Desperately. And no, because he'd spent more than enough time already that day alone with John, exhausting his entire repertoire of meaningless conversation. Add to that relaxed defenses when he was preoccupied and tired, and the last thing he wanted to do was give John the opportunity to spring one of those terminal questions on him. Like: Just what in the hell do we think we're doing, anyway?

 

"You've put in at least twelve yourself today, and I'll need you rested for the flight trials. I'll grab Kusanagi or Petrov."

 

"Dinner first." An invitation, not a question, engineered to be irresistible, right down to the thumb John hooked in his belt loop, exaggerating the cant of his hip.

 

As empty promises went, Rodney had been won over by less. He shoved away the temptation this time. "I'll hit the cafeteria along the way. See you in a few, if you haven't turned in by then."

 

John caught him by the shoulder and waited for the acknowledgment of Rodney's gaze. "I won't, not until I know you're home safe. Stay out too late and I'll–"

 

"–track me down and glare at me, forcing me to abandon whatever I'm working on through a diabolical combination of guilt and divided concentration—yes, I'm familiar with the drill."

 

"I was gonna say: tell Security I want you confined to quarters until you put in a good six hours of sleep."

 

"Ouch," Rodney hissed. "You wouldn't really... would you?"

 

"Don't stay out too late and you won't need to find out," John shrugged, releasing him to head inside.

 

~~

 

Rodney commandeered Petrov for his excursion to the basement. Kusanagi would have been more soothing on the nerves, but if the job wasn't quite punishment, it was definitely penance, and Petrov was far more deserving. Rodney had no professional opinion of the man; his dislike stemmed from the fact that Petrov had been one of Ingram's more eager messenger boys.

 

It had nothing to do with the mustache.

 

Okay, maybe it did, a little, and the way Petrov habitually stroked the ink-thin line as if verifying that it was still attached to his face. It was probably a ruse; he probably drew the thing on every morning with a sharpie.

 

Zelenka had done that once. Not to Rodney, but a mutual acquaintance, after drinking her under the table in a post-finals bender. And it hadn't been a mustache, but a full-out beard and sideburns combo, which might have been a touch excessive if she hadn't been flaunting her superior marks in the class.

 

Come to think, whatever happened to–

 

"Earth to McKay..."

 

Rodney refocused on the pallet in front of him, pretending he hadn't been caught zoning out. "Yes?" he said, jabbing at his data pad for added subterfuge.

 

Petrov was dusting his hands off on his khakis; his skinny thighs were shrouded in hazy cloud. "Finished with the headcount."

 

"Good, good. Start on the other side of the room, and I'll take this corner." We'll meet in the middle, he almost said, knowing that Petrov would probably drag his heels to ensure Rodney did more of the work. It was what Rodney would have done if some asshole had pulled him from the comfort of a nice, cozy lab to inventory a pile of junk.

 

Grumbling, Petrov nevertheless drifted in the specified direction. "We could say good enough and call it a night. I mean, this isn't a vault, just an old storeroom. I bet most of this equipment is broken, and the rest is so outdated that it wouldn't be worth the backache you'd get from carrying it out the door."

 

He was right; the pallet Rodney was leaning over contained a freaking 9-track tape drive.

 

Ahh, it brought back memories: rows of winking lights, the whir of the reels and the rattle of the recording heads... "We could, but I have been tasked with accounting for every single item on this excruciatingly extensive list, and 'good enough' isn't, considering that I'll be the one signing off when we're done."

 

Petrov quieted after that; it figured that he'd be sympathetic to the impulse to cover one's ass. Even better, he dug out headphones and a portable music player, preempting the urge to make small talk with his soft, disjointed humming.

 

Rodney circled pallet after pallet, some holding a single large object, others stacked two and three deep with rough wooden crates. None of it was bar-coded. He had to manually input the string of digits as he checked off each item, and if the old inventory numbers were far more succinct than the format used by the modern system, it only served to highlight just how long the crap had been sitting around wasting space.

 

A snatch of song strayed over; he tried to pick out the melody but it was too faint, Petrov too tone deaf.

 

Carter owed him for this, big-time. Or maybe it was her long-overdue revenge for the instance—fine, instances, to be fair—when he'd sort of accidentally sexually harassed her.

 

A graveyard, that's what the storeroom was, filled to the brim and then abandoned. To guess by the dates, interments had halted at least a decade ago.

 

Or... maybe not. One of the last crates he checked, against the near wall, was made from fresh yellow wood and boasted a recent inventory number hand-written on an old tag. He was certain of it—sequentially the number was no more than a year old, if that. It would have been a bitch to clear space for a late arrival. That alone should have clued-in the moron who'd probably dumped it here by mistake.

 

"Finished," Petrov announced, thrusting his data pad at Rodney before making a break for the exit.

 

"Wait."

 

It was with blatant reluctance that the man turned back, shoulders drooping.

 

Ah, what the hell. Petrov had covered his fair share of the room, and hadn't been a dick about it. Rodney changed his mind. "Forget it. Go ahead. I've only got a few left, and I can lock up by myself."

 

"Thanks McKay," Petrov said, as if surprised that Rodney was capable of acts that induced gratitude.

 

Rodney waved him away, checking the time. Two hours. Not as bad as he'd expected, even with the data entry. Returning to the point of interruption, he crouched to read the handwriting off the inventory label—was that an eight or a three?—and flagged it for follow-up the next day. Then he had the pallet to the right and the large one near the door, and he could get the hell out of here before John made good on his threat.

 

The tablet chirped its verification, and he was hunting for the next label before he actually bothered to read the screen.

 

7022-01-269-5693. Description: IBM 704. Location: D4.8892.

 

Oh, there was no fucking way.

 

The 704 was an early mainframe, designed specifically for scientific applications. If any research facility would have had the necessity and the budget to acquire such a monstrosity, it would have been Area 51. Hell, Rodney wouldn't be surprised to learn they'd owned several, back in the dark ages. But there was no fucking way a 704 would fit into a crate that size.

 

Unless it was parts.

 

Possible, yes. Probable? Not when combined with the brand-new inventory number.

 

Screw it. Even if it turned out to be "only" parts, it would be well worth breaking open the crate just for a glimpse of a computing legend from before his time. The 704 was LISP and FORTRAN; it was native floating-point processing; it was HAL's swan song. Rodney set his data pad on top of Petrov's and went in search of tools.

 

The crate was fresh; the nails hadn't oxidized, and the wood released a tang when his crowbar slipped, splintering a slat. The crack sounded inordinately loud to his ears, and guilty, he peered around for the security camera.

 

There was always a security camera.

 

He located it above the door, high and to his left. That was the cue for his paranoia to kick in, screaming that it wasn't circumstance this particular crate appeared to be sitting in the one, glaring blind-spot.

 

I could call for John.

 

Shifting the crowbar a few inches, he pressed his weight down. Another section of lid raised, the nails protruding like thin, lusterless teeth. Shift, press. A lever is one of the six simple machines, an object that multiplies the mechanical force applied to a load through the use of a pivot.

 

There was no reason to drag John out of bed. Rodney could handle anything he discovered on his own... short of a corpse.

 

An equipment graveyard would be the perfect dumping ground for the bodies of insufferable co-workers. He almost filed the idea away for future reference, but was stopped by the part where the Air Force had meticulous records detailing everyone who'd ever held clearance to access to the storeroom. If the crate did contain a corpse, the list of suspects would begin there.

 

Maybe it was Ingram in the crate. He sort of hoped it was, despite the morbid angle.

 

One final application of elbow grease popped the lid loose enough to shove it back and peer inside. Rodney blinked, the crowbar slipping from his lax grip, just missing his foot.

 

"God damn it."

 

A corpse would have been easier to deal with, less headache and paperwork. The... device resembled a muffler, a huge, sleek muffler with fins radiating along its back and sides, and opaque glassy panels capping the end. There was no doubt in his mind that it was alien in origin, which meant that its presence in an unsecured storeroom violated at least a dozen protocols. If that was an honest mistake, it would earn the idiot responsible a sharp reprimand. If not... well, Rodney's vote was for not.

 

At least he didn't need to worry about the device being dangerous, in the things-that-go-boom sense. The SGC wouldn't permit live alien ordnance on base, and nothing so large could have been smuggled in. No, whatever it was, it was here with the Air Force's blessing. He was more concerned that someone had stashed it in an obscure storeroom to conceal its function, its purpose, intending it to remain hidden in plain sight.

 

When Rodney gave Carter the news, she was going to want answers. He should probably have them ready before he picked up the radio.

 

Retrieving his data pad, he wrote up a thorough description: visual features, approximate dimensions, identifying marks on the outside of the crate. The last thing he did was re-attach the lid as cleanly as he could, stacking smaller crates on top of it to mask the splintered panel. If the disguise had succeeded this long, there was no reason to believe it wouldn't hold another day or two, until he'd done his research and gotten a handle on the situation.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was toeing the door to his quarters when he realized that he'd never completed the inventory.

 

~~

 

Rodney cut it close that night, just shy of the three hours John had—generously, he felt—allotted before he would have gone in search of him. He'd only threatened Security to get Rodney's attention.

 

When Rodney didn't call his usual greeting, John realized that he was trying to be stealthy, like a kid sneaking in after curfew. He cut off his small reading light and reclined more fully on his bed, wondering if Rodney would peek in to check on him. It wouldn't fool McKay for more than a second, even in the dark—John was more or less dressed and outside the covers—but that didn't stop him from shutting his eyes to slits.

 

Rodney's silhouette filled the doorway between the shared common area and John's minuscule bedroom. He hesitated, antsy, but failed to make a sound.

 

What he did do was twitch in a rather gratifying fashion when John said, "You were you going to let me know you'd made it home, right?"

 

Hands moved, sketching an excuse in the air. "I thought you were asleep. I didn't want to bother you."

 

"Lights."

 

As requested, Rodney hit the switch.

 

John rolled up on an elbow to assess him: two arms, two legs, one head, all present and properly situated. He was still coming to terms with the urge he had to verify these things whenever Rodney spent any appreciable time out of his sight. After, the uncoiling of tension tended to leave him a little light-headed, as he felt now. He termed it relief, even though he knew damned well it was something far more difficult and complex.

 

"Try again," John said more gently. "You know I can't sleep until I know that you–"

 

"–that I haven't been electrocuted or vaporized or flattened by a runaway plane or abducted by the Asgard or seized by the Russians..." Rodney ticked off by rote. He circled in place, presumably to assure John that his backside was whole as well. "Which, as you can see, I haven't been. I'm fine. Tired, but fine."

 

There were smears of dust on his t-shirt. Patches of his hair were matted down, suggesting he'd been exerting himself, further evidenced by the lingering flush at the tips of his ears.

 

The jitter of nervous energy in his hands was the opposite of weariness, making John long to pin him down until he confessed the cause. It would be easy to do. It wouldn't require words, just a shift to free up space on the bed. Rodney would creep over, radiating suspicion... laughing, John would drag him down and fight to climb on top of him while he squirmed-

 

Oh, who was he fooling? John wanted to lick the salt-taste off the back of his neck as an

 

appetizer, which was why he couldn't-

 

Not without at least the semblance of safety. Not with the obscenely thin walls, no more than five inches separating them from their closest neighbors. Not with god only knew how many security cameras and scanners and listening devices scattered throughout the building. John hadn't spent his entire career suffering deprivation at the hands of caution just to throw it all away in a momentary lapse of judgment. His present post meant more to him than flying choppers ever had.

 

Still, it didn't prevent him from wondering—in times of temptation like this—if maybe, just maybe, the benefits would outweigh the consequences.

 

"Okay, I believe you," he said at last.

 

"You should."

 

"I do."

 

"Okay."

 

Damn it, from the way Rodney was staring, he must have slipped up, allowed part of the internal dilemma to reach his face. Experience warned him that discomfort was imminent; nothing he could say would defuse it, so he clamped his lips shut and stared right back, silently begging Rodney to take the hint.

 

"So anyway, I'll just..." The accompanying gesture was so abstract that John couldn't begin to follow it. Rodney wavered on the threshold, waiting for John to relent, to mitigate the sting of rejection, to explain.

 

Go to your own bed. I can't invite you in, no matter how much you want me to—no matter how much I want to.

 

Finally, Rodney began to back away, groping along the wall behind him for balance. "Sorry. It's late. I won't bother you any longer."

 

"Hey," John called, recognizing his mistake when Rodney rebounded on fresh hope.

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Er, sleep well."

 

~~

 

John had to admit, he liked seeing Rodney back in uniform, even though it made it difficult to tell at a glance if he'd gotten up early, or if he was still up and wearing yesterday's clothes.

 

The living arrangements were far from ideal; neither of the adjoining bedrooms was large enough to accommodate more than a small bed and a storage locker. The common area wasn't much larger, with stark walls and scuffed furniture. And if John thought the view of the runway compensated for the commuter jets rattling the window every four hours on the hour, Rodney was very vocal about not sharing the sentiment.

 

Granted, there were favorable points, too. John would have insisted on base housing for the draconian security measures alone. He enjoyed commuting to the office on foot. And Rodney never let their supply of hot coffee dry up. But, "You know what the best thing is about sharing quarters?" he asked, shuffling barefoot toward the mugs.

 

The staccato of Rodney's typing didn't falter. "No, what?" He'd overrun the dinette set again: two laptops, his own mug, pastry wrappers, the ubiquitous radio, a stack of folders... and one crowbar. (Sometimes it was best not to ask.)

 

"Being greeted in the morning by your cheerful face." Sitting would demand he relocate some of that crap to the floor, so John chose to stand, propping himself against the tiny length of counter top.

 

Now Rodney's fingers stuttered, but his scowl still didn't stray from the computer screen. "What in the hell are you talking about? Most mornings you're gone before I– Oh." He added under his breath, "Asshole."

 

"There's my ray of sunshine."

 

"Bite me, Sheppard."

 

"In your dreams," John murmured into his coffee. He considered inquiring about the quality of Rodney's sleep, but he still wasn't sure there'd been any. The hair said yes, the smudges beneath his eyes said no. Besides, John was more curious about what had sparked the early start, so he said, "You busy?" knowing full well that it drove Rodney insane when people interrupted him to ask that question.

 

Like clockwork, Rodney sucked in a hissing breath and exploded, "No, of course I'm not busy. I thought I'd get up before the sun to spend a few hours cracking an encrypted file for my own amusement, and not because it's in any way relevant to the problem I uncovered during last night's inventory."

 

Problem? Encrypted file? John wondered if Rodney was aware of how easy it was to goad intel out of him. He approached, squinting at the screen over Rodney's shoulder. "You know I'm here to help. Anything I can do?"

 

Rodney stabbed the enter key and leaned back, dragging his hands through his hair. (Maybe the muss wasn't bedhead after all.) "No. I mean– You did that on purpose." On the monitor, strings of digits began churning in a fresh window.

 

John shrugged. "Faster than waiting for you to volunteer the information on your own." More reliable too, and after the mess with Ingram, John wasn't about to let Rodney sit on any more dangerous secrets. "How can I help?"

 

"Can't," Rodney said, agitation slipping away now that his computer had taken over the work. "I found something in the storeroom that didn't belong."

 

"Didn't belong as in, Gee, how did this get here?"

 

Rodney snorted, craning around to look at John for the first time. "No, more like, Holy shit this shouldn't be here, and I'm glad I'd already sent Petrov away so that nobody knows about it but me. And now you. Is that–" He pointed at John's coffee.

 

Yup, pitch black the way Rodney liked. John leaned over, pouring the rest of it into Rodney's empty mug.

 

"You could have brought me the pot," Rodney said, but seized the refill with unabashed gratitude. It was gone in a few zealous slurps.

 

"So this thing...?"

 

"Will you sit down? I'm going to put a crick in my neck trying to talk to you."

 

John did, gingerly consolidating debris to clear himself a little space. He'd spent enough time working at Daniel's desk to grow proficient at the stacking game. "A crowbar, Rodney? Really?"

 

"I'll get to that. I was gonna nose around today, do a little research on the sly. But the more I thought about it, the weirder it felt, what with the camera and all."

 

Camera?

 

"I was having trouble sleeping anyway, so I figured I'd get a head start on it, maybe have a resolution before I have to dump it on Sam. She's got her own shit to worry about."

 

"How noble of you. But that still doesn't tell me what, exactly, you found."

 

Rodney shook his finger at John. "Aha. See, if I knew that, I wouldn't have to crack this file—which, by the way, is supposed to be a public reference file, and has been encrypted without authorization, meaning I don't have the key. That is, of course I don't have the key. If I had the key, I wouldn't be– The point is, the whole thing is suspicious. The crate was mislabeled; alien artifacts aren't permitted in non-secure storage. And whoever put it there was careful to avoid placing it in sight of the security camera."

 

Hid it there, he meant. Rodney was right, the whole story was bad news. But it was the details he was probably leaving out that had the hairs on the back of John's neck prickling. "Do you think the artifact is dangerous? Why didn't you say something last night?"

 

"It didn't start to freak me out until I'd had a few hours to mull it over," Rodney admitted.

 

"As for dangerous, probably not. It seemed inert, but to be certain I'd have to scan it for an energy source, and I didn't have the equipment with me to do that when I cracked open the crate."

 

Jesus. "You touched it?"

 

Rodney paused. "I suppose it could be Ancient. I don't think it's ostentatious enough to be Goa'uld. Either way, it wouldn't matter. I'm not the one who has to keep my magic fingers on a tight leash around the cool alien gizmos."

 

John didn't mention that Rodney's run-in with the symbiote had probably left enough trace naquadah in his body to allow him to operate devices that only responded to the Goa'uld. They both needed to exercise more than the usual caution around unknown alien artifacts.

 

The laptop bleeped, yanking back Rodney's attention. "Huh, that was fast. Even remotely hijacking the servers for extra horsepower, I didn't expect a hit so soon. Only amateurs use weak commercial encryption." He sat up, cracking his knuckles. "Ladies and gentlemen, the mystery of crate delta four dot eight eight nine two is about to be revealed. If I could have a drum roll, please."

 

When Rodney waited expectantly, John said, "I'm not gonna do a drum roll for you."

 

"Spoilsport. Fine, I'll do without. Let's see what we've... got." He hit another key with a flourish.

 

John knew they'd walked into a disaster before Rodney did. It was there on Rodney's face to read, his expression going slack and then aghast while his brain was still processing, struggling to understand just what in the fuck he was watching unfold.

 

"What the–"

 

"Rodney?"

 

"Oh no, no no no. You can't– Son of a bitch!" John had never seen his fingers fly with such desperation over a keyboard.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

Instead of answering, Rodney jammed his radio in his ear, the other hand still pounding keys. "This is Dr. McKay, transfer me to the server room immediately, this is an emergency!"

 

John was half out of his seat, tensing for action with no target in sight. "Rodney," he hissed.

 

"Shut it down, shut it all down!" Rodney was shouting. "Shut everything down cold, we have an internal security breach! I'm authorizing you to– Are you some kind of fucking moron? Cut the power, the breaker is the red switch on the wall under protective glass. We need to stop this thing before it reaches the back-up drives. Come on, come on... the system is still up. Why is it still up?" Then, "What do you mean, you can't access the secondary generators from your location?"

 

He could tell it was over when Rodney ripped out the radio and hurled it against the wall. Only a lunge for the laptop prevented it from following. Rodney never treated his equipment badly. Whatever had just happened...

 

"That goddamned son of a bitch. Fucking goddammed–" John stayed out of his way as he knocked over his chair to pace, a stream of profanity pouring from his mouth. The same handful of words were strung together at random, creativity lost in the raw furor.

 

John angled the laptop to read the display.

 

>block 199141728 write 48 65 6C 6C 6F 20 77 6F 72 6C 64 21 00 00 00 00

>block 199141729 write 48 65 6C 6C 6F 20 77 6F 72 6C 64 21 00 00 00 00

>block 199141730 write 48 65 6C 6C 6F 20 77 6F 72 6C 64 21 00 00 00 00

>block 199141731 write 48 65 6C 6C 6F 20 77 6F 72 6C 64 21 00 00 00 00

 

Over and over and over, hundreds of lines, thousands maybe, continuing to wash down the screen.

 

"What is this? Talk to me, Rodney."

 

Rodney shook out his wrists in time with his strides, pausing once to aim a kick at the fallen chair. After a minute or two, he was composed enough to rejoin John at the table. "That," he pointed, "is a hexadecimal representation of the raw data in a single disk sector. The encrypted file was bait. When I cracked it, I triggered a fucking trojan that is now systematically destroying data on our servers, and I can't do a thing to stop it. I should have known, nothing's that easy."

 

"Hey, relax, relax..." Rodney threw off his touch the first time, so John tried again, letting Rodney's vibrating anger flow into him. His own heart was pounding, he realized. "It's not your fault, anyone could have sprung the trap."

 

"Spare me, Sheppard. Save your platitudes for someone stupid enough to believe them."

 

"That's what this is, right? A trap?"

 

"More like an ambush, but yeah." He released a breath, the accompanying shudder running through his entire frame. "I forget that not everyone can convert from hex to ascii in their head. Here, I'll show you the message." He was gentle when he reached for the laptop once more, doubtless contrite for his earlier murderous designs. A few keystrokes had the translation in a new window for John to read.

 

>Hello world!

 

"I think it's safe to say that I've discovered Ingram's insurance policy."

 

~~

 

John had expected Rodney to storm down to the server room to assess the damage at ground zero, maybe rip some poor tech a new one. So it came as a surprise when he spent the rest of the day sequestered in their quarters, his attention divided between the radio and the phone—sometimes both at once.

 

The more he thought about it though, the more he understood what Rodney hoped to avoid by laying low. It would have been embarrassing as hell if he'd been denied access to the server room for security reasons, and worse if he'd been sent back to his quarters in disgrace.

 

It didn't take overhearing half of the exchange with Carter to grasp that Rodney still wasn't the most popular guy on base.

 

"Of course I tried that. But in case you hadn't noticed, I don't exactly enjoy the same level of authority around here that you do. My account didn't have sufficient privileges." He said it like the words left a bitter aftertaste. "Besides, I'm not sure it would have mattered. I think it re-launched itself as a new process every iteration. Manually killing a moving target like that would have been impossible." The phone chirped again. "Wait, hold on. I think that's the server guys again. Yeah, I've got Major Carter on the other line, she'll hear it at the same time I do."

 

That was at least one day of drive pod trials down the drain, perhaps more. And Rodney looked dead on his feet, even though he was sitting down.

 

"Yes, how wonderful to know, our hardware redundancy is too good. Will you just get to the– No, I didn't expect anything to be missing, but something has to be corrupted, considering the thousands of disk blocks that were overwritten. Find them. Sure Sam, go ahead, and–" He hesitated, not long enough that anyone besides John would have noticed. "–let me know what Hammond decides. I will if there's any news. Okay."

 

Rodney pulled off the radio, but instead of relegating it to the table he passed it over to John. "Sam wants to talk to you."

 

John hoped the battery would hold out. Rodney had recharged it twice already that day. He tucked it in his ear. "Major Carter?"

 

[Major Sheppard] she said, failing to keep the frazzled quality from her tone. [Could you step outside a moment? I'd like some privacy.]

 

Great, just what he needs. He'll know we're talking about him. John didn't answer while Rodney was still within hearing range, didn't offer an explanation at all, just nodded and edged for the door. With luck, Rodney would succumb to the absence of stimuli while he was gone and settle down some.

 

"Okay," John said when he was far enough down the hall to prevent eavesdropping.

 

She abandoned a tactful opening and went straight for the throat. [McKay's really beating himself up over this.]

 

"He's taking it like a kick in the nuts, hard and personal."

 

It worked; he surprised a laugh out of her, even if it was short-lived. [There will be an official inquiry, but I can already tell you that he won't be found at fault. I would have done the same thing in his place.]

 

"But you didn't. He did."

 

[Yeah.] She sighed, as if she regretted agreeing with him.

 

Another resident exited the stairwell and started down the hall. John remained silent until they were safely behind their own door. "So you really think it was Ingram?"

 

[It's a good bet. We already know the purpose of the attack wasn't to delete files. The servers employ a real-time backup system that records block-level changes. Say... say you have a file that's a hundred lines of code, and you alter one of those lines. The entire file isn't committed to backup, only the physical disk block that contains the altered line. We're talking tiny pieces of data.]

 

"Thousands of them," John said, sensing the connection she was leading toward, but not quite able to make the intuitive leap.

 

[Hundreds of thousands. We believe Dr. Ingram was tampering with data, and created the program to erase his tracks behind him in the event that he was forced to leave Area 51 in a hurry.]

 

What had Rodney called it? An insurance policy? More like Ingram had taken a page from the Rodney McKay handbook of paranoid countermeasures.

 

[The pieces that were targeted... they were like a change log. We can revert to an earlier version of an affected file, but without the missing history we won't be able to determine the extent to which it was altered during the last couple months, or if the alterations made it into any of our live projects. Some of Prometheus' code was hit.]

 

"Wow."

 

[Sorry, technical overload? Colonel O'Neill always stops me before I get that far. I forget with you, because McKay always talks like you understand all this stuff.]

 

John couldn't decide if he should be flattered or not. "No, I was just thinking that I don't envy whoever has to go over Prometheus with a fine-tooth comb. It's a big ship." He was afraid that it would end up being Rodney, not because he would be assigned the task, but because he would inherit it through a sense of responsibility.

 

Carter might have been musing along the same lines. [I know I don't have to ask, but keep an eye on him for me? He sounds awful. Make him get some rest.]

 

"Already on it."

 

[If it helps, you can tell him the forensic technicians are on their way. The problem is officially out of his hands the minute they touch down on base.]

 

"I will. Oh, and one more thing."

 

[Yeah?]

 

He came close, so close to mentioning the crate that had touched off the whole incident. But recounting earlier conversations, he realized that Rodney had left it out of the story entirely, either by oversight or a conscious decision to prioritize their problems. If Rodney thought it could wait, John wasn't about to go tattling behind his back. "Thanks," he said instead. "Your support in this... I know he'll never say it, but it means a lot to him."

 

[Considering that I roped him into the position in the first place, it's the least I could do] was what she said, but it sounded to John's mind a lot more like: Hey, we're SGC, we stick together.

 

~~

 

When John returned, Rodney was still awake, but he seemed to be fighting for every inch of consciousness. He closed the lid of his laptop almost guiltily and said, "Whatever it is, I've already heard it from Sam, so don't feel you need to repeat it."

 

"What makes you think I was going to say anything?" John asked.

 

Rodney flashed him an oh please, I know I fucked up but that doesn't make me a moron

 

look, which would have been more reassuring if there'd been any fire behind it.

 

"She wants you to rest, says when the forensics team lands it becomes their problem."

 

"That's easy for her to say. She's not the one who let fucking Benjamin Ingram get the upper hand over her one last time."

 

The mini-fridge hadn't been well stocked to begin with, and Rodney had cleaned out pretty much every edible thing in it, despite John's offers to go hunting for real food. There were still a couple of dubious plastic bottles. He took one with him when he made a brief detour to the medicine cabinet, then uncapped it and handed it to Rodney along with a few pills. "Drink. Carter also says to lay off the coffee."

 

"Did she? I bet that one's all you, and you're attributing it to her because you think it'll make me more tractable." He drank anyway, tossing back the pills by reflex. "Ugh, remind me again why you bought this crap? It's nasty. Also, thanks. I have no idea why it took me this long to realize I have a splitting headache."

 

"Preoccupation will do that." When it looked like Rodney was finished with the sports drink, John removed the bottle from his grip and tugged him to his feet. "C'mon, let's get you to bed."

 

Rodney's arm followed John a step in the desired direction, but the rest of him refused to budge. "John, I can't. It's barely dark outside, and I'm completely wound."

 

He tugged again. "Humor me."

 

"I can tell you right now, it's no use." But with all the fight left in him focused on protesting, his feet were freed to move; he let John lead him over and drop him on the edge of his bed. Once there, he bounced lightly a couple times. "Nope, not gonna work. This is a waste of time." He tried to stand again, but John prevented him from rising more than a few inches.

 

"Close your eyes and fake it for my benefit." Geeze, Rodney hadn't been kidding when he said he was wound. His shoulders were like lead. It would be a bad idea any other day, but hey—extenuating circumstances. John crawled around behind him, up on his knees for leverage, and went to work on the knots.

 

The first digs had Rodney wincing in pain; within a minute his head was lolling, and he was leaning back, hard, into John's hands. "Oh my god, you have no idea how good this feels. You're a prince among men, Sheppard. Don't ever let anyone try to convince you otherwise."

 

John went for the spine next, starting between the shoulder blades and kneading his way up. "Not even you?"

 

"Espec'lly not me."

 

Sweep, press. He lost track of himself for a while in Rodney's quiet huffs and groans, until it was an absence of sound that drew him from his reverie. He noticed with unease that his fingers had stalled out on Rodney's neck, stroking the sensitive spot right behind his ear.

 

That was all the warning he had before Rodney twisted on him, hauling him down and slamming their mouths together.

 

Rodney pawed at his fly, babbling through the kiss, "John, please, please let me. I need to. I need–"

 

"Rodney, no..." Every time John thought he had them cornered, Rodney's hands slipped away.

 

"Please, it'll help me relax."

 

Set a dangerous precedent is what it will do. And not only for Rodney.

 

"I can be quiet. Silent. No one will hear."

 

John caught Rodney's hands again, trapping them against his stomach. "Well I can't, okay? I'm sorry."

 

"Oh, sorry makes it all better," Rodney snapped, defensive in a way John hated seeing him. "Oh great, now I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like– Jesus fuck John, what are we doing?" he asked, and immediately looked horrified.

 

The only comparison in John's experience was, Flying blind through a narrow canyon at two hundred miles per hour, trying not to end up a smear on the wall. But a literal translation was safest, so he replied, "Putting you to bed as ordered." He gave Rodney a last, apologetic kiss, as honest as he dared let it be.

 

It seemed to be enough to earn him a temporary reprieve. Rodney withdrew, but didn't fold in on himself. "I already told you, it's no good," he argued.

 

John slid off the bed gracelessly, hampered by the fact that his dick had been on board with Rodney's idea. He hoped it wasn't too obvious when he squirmed in place, trying to make the situation in his pants more comfortable. "Yeah, I heard you. Now it's my turn to tell you something."

 

"What?"

 

He coaxed Rodney to stretch out and lie down. "Only one of those pills was aspirin."

 

It was a fair indication that Rodney wasn't angry, or even surprised, when he grumbled, "You slipped me a roofie? I knew you were a devious son of a bitch, but damn."

 

"Carter's orders?" John tried. "To help you rest. Over the counter, not strong, but you'd probably be feeling it by now if it wasn't having to combat all the caffeine in your system."

 

"Hmph."

 

John could hear the jet's approach long before it touched down, but it was the roar of the engines being put into hard breaking reverse that crashed into the building, making the walls shudder. "There's JANET, right on schedule. Means the forensic team is here to relieve you; you can nap without guilt."

 

"Oh yeah, I'm so relieved they're here to take over from me because I screwed up." He had his fingers interlocked over his stomach, the grip fierce and his knuckles white.

 

"Rodney..."

 

"Things aren't automatically better because you say they are. You need to back off and let me deal with failure the way I always have."

 

"How's that?" John knew the answer; the real question was whether or not Rodney was man enough to acknowledge it.

 

"Poorly."

 

That would be yes. "Well, this is me not backing off." He sat on the end of the bed, shoving Rodney's feet aside for space. "You might as well shut your eyes, try to sleep, because neither of us is leaving the room for a couple hours, and staring at the ceiling is gonna get boring pretty damned fast."

 

"I'll cope," Rodney snorted, but closed his eyes anyway.

 

~~

 

Carter lightened Rodney's workload considerably over the next few days. He didn't know if it was a temporary change or not. Hell, someone at the SGC could have decided that she needed to rethink her choice of assistant in light of Rodney's little mishap; losing your important responsibilities was a pretty good sign that your ass was headed out the door.

 

The sad part was, Rodney was too busy hurling his bounty of free time at the puddle jumper to care. So what if he lost a shitty, thankless administrative job that he was expected to perform on top of his other duties, and that he hadn't wanted in the first place? Not Meredith Rodney You Can All Go Fuck Yourselves, Find Someone Else To Be Your Bitch McKay!

 

All right, maybe he cared. A little. But he vowed not to let it get to him. Much.

 

Despite threats to the contrary, John gave him space, which was welcome because jumper time meant Sheppard time. It would have been nerve-racking to spend long days confined with someone making pathetic attempts to cheer him up at every turn.

 

Even better news, the drive pod simulations went from being behind schedule to well ahead of schedule. They required only a fraction of his attention to babysit, leaving the rest of his focus for untangling the jumper project files. Ingram's nastygram had hit them hard; Rodney had local versions saved across half a dozen machines, but they all needed to be compared for inconsistencies, and verified against the Swiss cheese that was left of the project history on the main servers.

 

Every discrepancy he pinned down and eradicated was a step closer to victory. Ingram had done his worst, and it had been good—they didn't let morons be Head of Research at Area 51—but it hadn't been good enough. Now it was Rodney's turn, and he was going to win, damn it, even if he crawled across the finish line on sheer persistence.

 

"Hey, you know these little bars you asked me to watch?"

 

Okay, so in truth, Rodney had John babysitting the sims. There was no reason not to use him. His presence was necessary, and the man became some kind of multitasking demon when you put him behind a set of flight controls. It made Rodney vaguely jealous to realize John could have maintained the drive output and monitored a dozen different readouts while holding his own in a verbal sparring match, and still have mental capacity to spare.

 

"What about them?"

 

"Number two's dropping again."

 

Rodney disengaged himself from his laptops and shuffled to the front of the cockpit to verify that it was the same behavior they'd encountered before. "Yeah, looks like the sensor pad is shaking loose again. Shut it down and I'll go see what I can do to fix it. But short of tack welding the damned thing in place..."

 

John swiveled his seat around. "You know, if you could make a hand-held device that duplicates the vibrations put out by these engines, you would revolutionize the sex toy industry and make a fortune overnight."

 

"Or set myself up for a rash of lawsuits when people start hurting themselves by–"

 

John's expression halted him cold. "Aha, you're admitting you could do it."

 

"I– Yes, well, technically I suppose I could. But all those ironclad contracts I had to sign when I joined the SGC state that any derivative designs I produce during my employment become the property of the Air Force. And you know they'd paint it drab olive green and name it some unpronounceable acronym. It would be a commercial flop." That didn't stop him from imagining the things he could do with a prototype unit, and–

 

–and John had to know it, by the way he crossed his arms and sprawled in his chair, thighs opening in invitation.

 

Rodney wasn't going to look. He wasn't going to look... god, he was staring. "Argh!"

 

"My work here is done."

 

Rodney shook his fist, forming threats and then abandoning them as too lenient. "Asshole. I hate you."

 

"Aw, thanks McKay. I know you only say that because you care. However, what I meant was that the engines are offline. You're clear to trot on out there and do whatever it is you need to do."

 

"Yeah, I'm sure you meant it that way," Rodney grumbled. He threw one last fist shake—to Sheppard's obvious amusement—before stomping for the hatch.

 

What he needed to do was get laid. But that only seemed to happen when the omens were favorable and the stars aligned—conditions Rodney was increasingly doubtful he would witness again in his lifetime. And for that matter, how had he managed to become involved with a sadistic bastard who refused to acknowledge the causal relationship between foreplay and sex? John wasn't satisfied with some light teasing, a little heightened anticipation. He treated it like a damned marathon, almost three weeks running now with no end in sight.

 

Better men than Rodney had cracked under less. The accumulating pressure was probably damaging his brain.

 

Something was definitely interfering with his faculties. He was fumbling with a fresh adhesive patch for the sensor pad when he realized that there was a far easier and more elegant solution, and god, why hadn't he thought of it days ago?

 

Oh, that's right, I did, but I was trying to minimize variables that might influence the accuracy of the sensors. However, that was then and this was now, and it was just structural stress analysis data; the important readings were feeding right off the jumper's internal systems.

 

The tool carts were against the hangar's far wall. Rodney thought he heard John say something as he wove his way around the ramp, but it was too indistinct to pick out. Probably another salacious comment; if it was any good, John would sit on it to repeat when he was certain Rodney was listening.

 

Rodney found the desired item in the second drawer. The military had their own ridiculous name for it, but as far as Rodney was concerned, duct tape was duct tape, even if this roll was tan desert camouflage instead of the customary dull silver. He ripped off several long sections with his teeth, and proceeded to plaster the sensor pad with overlapping layers until he was certain the sucker wouldn't slip again.

 

John was speaking when he climbed back inside, but not to Rodney. An external com link was open on the heads-up display. "Don't worry, I'll handle him."

 

[Okay then, good luck.]

 

"You too. Sheppard out."

 

"That sounded like Sam," Rodney said, rolling sticky threads off his fingers. Stupid cheap-quality tape. Stupid military, always tossing supply contracts to the lowest bidder.

 

"It was," John said.

 

"She didn't want to talk to me?"

 

John squeezed past him in the aisle to hop out of the jumper. "She was in a hurry, and so are we. Secure all this junk. I don't want loose stuff flying around the cockpit."

 

"See now, that would only be a problem if we intended to take the jumper up without inertial dampeners. Which we don't. Ever. Because with the acceleration this baby can produce, we'd be more worried about our insides going splat."

 

"Do it anyway, Rodney," John called. He disappeared around the side of the ship. "It's standard safety protocol. It'll make me feel better."

 

"What did Sam want? What did you mean, I'll handle him?" He followed John back into the hangar, just in time to see him ripping the sensors off the drive pods. "Hey! I just fixed that! You want to tell me what's going on?"

 

John flung the sensor leads clear and marched for the hangar doors, kicking aside the smaller objects in his path. "I'm flying the jumper to Stargate Command."

 

Rodney caught up with him, grabbing his arm to haul him around. "The hell you are! The jumper's not flying anywhere until I declare it flight worthy. I have days of test data to analyze–"

 

"This can't wait," John stated, with the calm, unwavering acceptance that manifested when he was under orders. "SG-3 discovered a second Ancient database thing  off-world." His eyes flicked down to where Rodney's fingers were digging into his sleeve.

 

An Ancient repository, he had to mean. O'Neill had trashed the first one by letting the whole mess upload into his head, nearly killing himself in the process. If the SGC could get their hands on a working copy, figure out how to safely extract the wealth of information... it would be like handing Leonardo da Vinci a complete modern set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. The sum of human knowledge would increase a hundredfold, literally overnight. "Would it kill you to include a few details, like—oh, I don't know—where? When?"

 

"I don't know, and it's not important. SG-1 is stepping through the gate as we speak to retrieve the device, but there's evidence of Goa'uld activity on the planet. The mission could turn into a race against the snakes, winner takes all."

 

Okay, that made sense, because as much as the repository would benefit humanity, it would do equal harm in the hands of the enemy. "That still doesn't explain about the jumper."

 

Rather than answer right away, John shrugged free and turned his back on Rodney to work the latches securing the large hangar doors. "Like the first Ancient database they found, this one was built into the foundation of a structure, a stone wall from what I understand. If the snakes show up, SG-1 might not have time to extract just the device. They might have to cut out the whole section, and then worry about reaching the Stargate with a two-ton block in tow, possibly while taking fire. So you either tell me now if the jumper isn't up to the task, or help me get these damned doors open. I think they've rusted to the tracks."

 

Rodney racked his brain, but he couldn't think of any other vehicles in the SGC's inventory that could handle the weight while out-maneuvering an agile enemy, and then nip through the Stargate as an encore. More than able, it was what the Gateship had been designed to do.

 

John was right, and Sam; the idea felt like one of hers, but the order would have come from higher up. "I–" There had been nothing alarming in the test data, nothing to suggest that the jumper wasn't fit for service. "I hesitate to use the word ready, but she won't let you down." Rodney was about to bet both their lives on it. "We won't let you down—there's no way in hell I'm letting you fly this one solo."

 

"I was counting on it," John said, throwing a grunt into his exertion at the hand crank. The gears had caught but the doors shuddered, refusing to budge until Rodney put his shoulder against the frame and heaved. Together they widened a crack inch by laborious inch, allowing sunlight to stream through. It cut a slanted line across the hangar floor, the farthest tendrils barely grazing the jumper's hull. "Need someone to bitch at me when I push the engines too hard. I'm in the mood to set a new air speed record."

 

"Oh, great. So if something does go wrong, at least I can look forward to expiring in a blaze of government cover-up glory."

 

"Wouldn't want anyone else along for the ride," John grinned. And damn if it wasn't true.

 

~~

 

Dreamland tower insisted that they follow procedure and taxi down the main runway prior to departure—even though the jumper was capable of vertical take-off, and without wheels it was technically hovering, not taxiing, but whatever. Just obtaining flight clearance had required delicate negotiation in a language so laden with acronyms that it bore only a passing resemblance to English, and they still might have been stuck in the hangar arguing if Mitchell hadn't caught wind of the commotion and thrown his authority behind John's urgency.

 

In comparison, the actual flight between Nevada and Colorado seemed brief, almost effortless. Fifteen minutes, twenty tops—far less precious flight data than Rodney would have liked to collect on the jumper's first outing, and nowhere near long enough for Sheppard to relax and enjoy the ride. It was useless even talking to the man when his attention was laser-targeted on an objective, as Rodney discovered upon receiving monosyllable replies to actual relevant questions like: Since we can't fly through a mountain, how in the hell do you expect to get the jumper into the gateroom?

 

It didn't help matters that the SGC was demanding continual updates on their position. Rodney knew it was an impromptu field test, knew the SGC had to be throwing everything they had at the jumper—radar and satellites and even alien tech—in an attempt to penetrate the cloak. All in vain. John was piloting a ghost, a freaking invisible phantom. For a guy who'd always relied on speed and stealth to accomplish his missions, it had to be a wet dream come true.

 

"Mountain, this is Gateship. ETA two minutes. Better have those doors open for us." The fierce-edged note of triumph in his voice caught Rodney by surprise; the previous radio exchanges had all been cool and professional.

 

No, on second thought, John wasn't enjoying the ride. He was doing his damnedest to mask just how much he was reveling in it.

 

[Gateship, this is Mountain, copy. The porch light's on and the door's open. Come on in.] "Acknowledged."

 

[And sir, let me say that we thought you were kidding when you gave your first ETA. Never imagined you'd make good on it.]

 

John just grinned. And oh, smug was a good look on him, despite the lack of aviator sunglasses.

 

A minute later, Rodney understood the reference to doors. He pointed at the zoom terrain display on the head-up. "What is that, an elevator shaft?"

 

"Not an elevator, just a shaft. The gateroom opens clear to the surface."

 

"It does?" The closer they got, the less Rodney relished the idea of squeezing down that tiny hole. "I never thought about it, but I suppose they did have to get the Stargate in somehow. Doesn't seem very safe, though."

 

John continued to slow their speed, but arced them into a steeper descent. "Reinforced blast doors at every level. Gotta be stronger than concrete."

 

"Maybe," Rodney sniffed. "Neither would be guaranteed to survive, say, a Goa'uld mothership blasting the shit out of it from space, but if that was the case we'd all be extremely screwed anyway, and are you sure we're going to fit down there? It's pretty narrow."

 

The jumper pulled up directly over the opening, level with the treeline. John was flashing through camera angles on the head-up, trying to find the combination that would give him the perspective he wanted. "Yeah, we'll fit," he said, not sounding sure at all.

 

[Gateship, hold your position. I repeat, hold your position! We have an incoming wormhole...] An alarm was shrieking in the background, drowning out control room's ordinary hum of activity.

 

"Affirmative, Mountain. Waiting on your go." John released the joysticks one at a time, wiping his palms on his thighs. It probably wouldn't have mattered if he'd dropped both at once; the jumper remained steady, obedient to the more abstract instructions it had to be reading through the neural interface.

 

"That can't be good," Rodney said, after the SGC cut the radio link in favor of more pressing matters.

 

"It hasn't even been an hour," John protested, arguing with nobody in particular. "We got here as fast as we could."

 

"Faster than should have been humanly possible," Rodney agreed. "Maybe it's just a check-in. Maybe O'Neill got antsy waiting on us. In case you hadn't noticed, the man has an extremely warped perception of time."

 

"There is that."

 

"Maybe it's not even SG-1 dialing in."

 

"Mm."

 

Rodney threw in the towel on the optimism bullshit. For one, he wasn't any good at it; and for two, it was supposed to be Sheppard's job.

 

The minutes dragged on in silence with no further word from the gateroom, until John eventually cracked, conveying the sentiment that was on both their minds:

 

"Shit."

 

~~

 

Friday, continued

 

~~

 

Rodney hadn't expected a large welcome, but the gateroom was desolate when the jumper was finally given permission to put down. The only thing there to greet them was the Stargate itself, shuttered and lifeless behind the defensive iris.

 

It reminded Rodney of arriving late to a party, only to discover the revelers had moved on—except no one had left directions to the new venue scrawled on the lid of a pizza box for them to find.

 

He almost asked the guard at the door, but she wouldn't know any more than he and John had witnessed on the jumper's monitors: the bird's eye angle making it impossible to identify individuals amid the grainy, chaotic action; the flash of shots being fired back through the wormhole; one figure being supported down the gate ramp by two others. And Rodney didn't need directions to guess that the infirmary was the new center of activity, but it was a bad place to go seeking news without knowing first how grim the mood was.

 

John seemed to have drawn the same conclusion. When they boarded the elevator, his finger hovered over the button for the infirmary's floor before he changed his mind and punched another. "Someone will remember us eventually," he said. "In the meantime, might as well check the housing situation in case we end up staying the night."

 

"So... what do you think are the chances my old room is free?" He'd had a suite on the civilian level, opulent compared to John's institutional little bolt-hole one floor up.

 

"Considering you were officially reassigned to Area 51? I'd go with slim. But before you go making elaborate plans to camp out in the jumper, remember that I have a spare bed."

 

"Like I could forget," Rodney grumbled. John's quarters were technically designated double occupancy, but the real estate in that particular corridor wasn't in high demand—or any demand, for that matter—so John had never had to share. Well, aside from Rodney's first month at the SGC, but he suspected that hadn't been sharing so much as Hammond pulling John aside to say, You vouched for the bastard, you keep him out of trouble until we can decide what to do with him.

 

The electronic lock accepted John's ID card, and the door swung open to reveal uninspiring concrete walls. "Huh," he said, as if there'd been any doubt the room was still assigned to him.

 

"It looks... the same," Rodney said, peering around but not entering.

 

"What'd you expect, a fresh coat of paint, maybe some new curtains for the non-existent window?" John didn't seem inclined to cross the threshold either.

 

"Point." Rodney patted his laptop case. "I think I'll commandeer some lab space, take a crack at the new jumper data. I'll let you know where I end up. Call me if you hear anything?"

 

"Yeah, okay," John agreed. "You do the same."

 

Rodney reversed and headed back down the hall. At the far end, before turning the corner, he glanced over his shoulder to find John exactly where he'd been left, frozen in front of an open door.

 

~~

 

In truth, the jumper data was an excuse to escape to the labs before Rodney could get sucked into whatever disaster may or may not have befallen SG-1's mission. He drifted from room to room, checking the contents of each before moving on, until he spied a familiar head of hair peeping out from behind a bank of monitors.

 

Aha, gotcha.

 

It was so easy that there was almost no satisfaction in sneaking up on his target; and then a simple tap on the back felt inadequate, so Rodney did what any friend would do and liberally spitted up his finger before sticking it in Zelenka's ear.

 

The shriek that followed definitely made up for the ease of the ambush, and Rodney always counted it a victory when he could drive Zelenka to that incoherent, sputtering mishmash of English and Czech. But because he wasn't a total jerk, he was ready to catch Zelenka when he wobbled off his stool, and–

 

Oh hey, flailing arm, coming straight at him, no time to duck.

 

"Ow! Jeez! Is that any way to welcome an old pal?"

 

"McKay!" Zelenka roared, drawing himself up with an imperious dignity that Napoleon would have envied. "I could say the same to you! Why did you– With the–" But then he ruined it by slapping his hand over the abused ear and rubbing vigorously, while sort of scrunching up his shoulder and maybe hopping on one foot a little. "Gah, the sensation is disgusting!"

 

Rodney had taken a glancing blow to the windpipe, but he still considered himself well ahead of the count. "Nice to know I haven't lost my touch."

 

"More like is evidence you are still an asshole!"

 

"Takes one to know one, four-eyes."

 

"Juvenile, shit for brains..."

 

"I'd rather have a cranium full of excrement than a small penis."

 

Radek looked like he was considering taking another swing at Rodney—and aiming this time—and that was probably what made Rodney lose by cracking the fuck up; then Radek cracked the fuck up too, and they were trying to crush each other in the most overenthusiastic hugs possible.

 

When Rodney and Radek split apart at last, it became apparent that the other occupants in the room were trying their damnedest to blend into the woodwork while pretending that they weren't engrossed in the exchange. Radek cleared his throat and informed, "I do not have a small penis."

 

"We can't all be average. Someone has to fall behind the bell curve," Rodney supplied helpfully, and demonstrated by holding up his thumb and forefinger, very close together, as Radek hauled him for the door.

 

In the relative privacy of the corridor, Zelenka lined Rodney up against the wall, then stepped back, assessing. "Rodney McKay. Meredith Rodney McKay."

 

"In the flesh. What's the damage this time, almost two years?"

 

"More than two. The conference was in the fall, remember?"

 

"That was fall? Damn, I'd hate to see Prague in the winter."

 

Radek snorted; he sure as hell hadn't forgotten that Rodney had retired voluntarily to the bitter northern reaches of British Columbia. "So how is my duplicitous, deceitful, turncoat bastard of a friend?"

 

"Good, good. You know, hanging out at Area 51, joyriding in alien spaceships—the usual."

 

"Yes, about that." Radek pushed his glasses back up his nose and glared harder. "I still cannot believe you let me waste away in the middle of nowhere beneath your worthless satellite dish while you were busy hopping in bed with the enemy!"

 

Zelenka was referring to The Government, capital letters and all, conspiracy mastermind and godfather of the dirty cover-up. Still, Rodney couldn't help a brief spike of alarm, thinking, How in hell could he possibly know about John? He stammered, "Yes, well... considering my choice was -or prison, I think I made the right decision. You would have done the same in my place. Oh wait—you did!"

 

Radek swooped in to clutch at Rodney. "The technology," he said, an unholy gleam lighting his eyes. "Of course, it is also pleasant to tell my co-workers that I believe in extraterrestrials without fear of ridicule. And the science is... is..."

 

Yeah, Rodney got that.

 

"But the technology! I would have done it just for the chance to work with the marvelous toys. The SGC has a research budget to make my old university look like a pauper, which is not counting alien devices. Have you seen the one, the little–" He made a vague shape with his hands. "–is accurate to the molecular level, and can be held in the hand, no larger than a hockey puck! Genius," he said, shaking his head in wonder.

 

"You'll always remember your first piece of alien tech," Rodney said, a touch wistful. For him, it had been the Ancient scanner, the one John had pushed at him across the breakfast table one morning, a bribe and an offer that would literally change his life. Then, "Radek, that's brilliant. Why didn't I think of it sooner?"

 

"Think of what? A glowing hockey puck?"

 

"No!" He snapped his fingers, summoning focus. "The thing with Ingram, the trojan. I've been reconstructing the jumper's project archive from the files I'd saved locally, but I could use a solid reference point, and I've just remembered where I can find one."

 

Zelenka threw up his arms. "Ah, here it goes again. Not ten minutes and I have helped you solve a stubborn problem–"

 

Rodney pointed out, "By accident."

 

"–yet will I receive any credit? Of course not!"

 

"Do you want to come with me or not?"

 

"Where?"

 

Well now, a precise answer to that would require research. "The vaults," Rodney guessed. "When I first joined the SGC, Jo– Major Sheppard only let me load so much stuff on his precious helicopter to cart down from Canada. One of the things I did convince him to let me bring was my storage array. With all my data on it." He paused, waiting for a response.

 

Radek could only shrug.

 

"All of my data, including the jumper schematics that got me tangled up with the Air Force to begin with?" Rodney prompted. "You know, the ones I sort of illegally pulled off the SGC's servers long before Ingram even knew who I was, let alone had any idea he was going to lose control of the project? Those schematics?"

 

"I see," Radek said, but he was totally lying, the faker.

 

"It's like... I've been trying to reassemble a text using a translation of a translation of a translation, when I remember I've got a pristine copy of the original sitting in my basement." Better, it was contemporary to the sabotage that had crashed the jumper in the first place, introduced defects and all, before Ingram had had the chance to purge the evidence of his wrongdoing. Rodney just needed to locate one little box... in a few dozen storerooms crammed full of junk, spanning several entire floors.

 

Considering he'd spent the last few weeks doing the same thing at Area 51, how hard could it be?

 

~~

 

John idled in his quarters more than long enough to be certain that Rodney had forgotten to call with an update regarding his location.

 

Figured.

 

No problem though; there was an intercom every fifty feet, and John wasn't above issuing an all-points bulletin if necessary.

 

The last thing he wanted to do was hang around alone, waiting for his own official summons. He knew enough people in the Mountain; surely he could find someone who was free to talk. Even if he didn't score news on SG-1's mission, he could still catch up on gossip.

 

It was a little late for lunch, but he wandered in the direction of the mess anyway, on the lookout for familiar faces.

 

Carter's wasn't one he'd expected to find.

 

"Major Sheppard." She caught him near the elevator, and he wondered where she'd been going, if it was urgent. She'd been moving like someone with a purpose. "Sorry, I realize you got lost in the shuffle. It was..."

 

"Hectic?" John offered.

 

No, more than hectic, something had gone bad wrong. Was still wrong, he could tell by the way she didn't quite meet his eyes. "Do you have a few minutes?"

 

John blinked, pretty sure that question was supposed to have been his. "Sure."

 

He knew he was interrupting when she had to consciously choose the down button rather than just pressing up, her first instinct. "Would you show me the Gateship? It was in rough shape the last time I saw it, and I'm interested in Rodney's progress with the repairs."

 

Yeah, and John had been in just as rough shape, but he didn't know if she remembered that part. He recalled her looking forbidding as she'd picked her way through the underbrush, assessing the damage to the crashed jumper. O'Neill had been the one displaying concern for the condition of the pilot.

 

It was funny—O'Neill had turned out to be a superficially likable mystery, and Carter the one with the hidden warmth.

 

"If you want particulars, you'll have to ask McKay. Half the time I can't keep up with his explanation, and the other half he doesn't bother giving one because it's the words that can't keep up," John exaggerated. He liked to think he had a healthy appreciation for the effort that had gone into fixing the ship, and a reasonable understanding of why the results were so impressive.

 

"Oh, I've been avidly reading his reports, but it's not the same as seeing it in person." They disembarked on the level above the gateroom, Carter leading them down the final staircase and through the guarded door.

 

While John lowered the hatch, Carter paused to examine the jumper's hull. He felt silly for having locked it when the ship was parked in an impenetrable underground bunker. Not only that, but there were maybe four people in the whole country who could fly the damned thing, and– Oh right, O'Neill's one of them.

 

Carter was merely being polite when she nodded, "It looks good." What she really wanted to see was all inside, the guts. She hopped on the ramp while it was still dropping, and had both rear access panels open before John joined her in the cargo area.

 

"Let me know if you want me to fire her up."

 

"That won't be necessary." Brisk, professional, and again that sense of something not right. "Though I'm disappointed I missed seeing you come down the access shaft. Looks like it was a tight squeeze."

 

"It was dicey," John grimaced. Narrow reinforced walls, and the even narrower seal at each level. "McKay made it even more interesting by threatening to rip me a new one if I so much as scratched the paint job."

 

"You made decent time," Carter said, fingering control crystals disinterestedly.

 

Ahh, now they were getting somewhere. John threw her an opening she couldn't ignore. "I guess this is the part where I admit that I might have been able to shave five minutes off the trip if I'd really thrashed the engines, and then you tell me whether or not those five minutes would have made a difference... right?"

 

She didn't answer at first, just froze with her hands reaching up into the access panel. Then, as if she was giving the question honest thought, doubtless working out the math and everything, "Fifteen might have. Might. We came under attack shortly after reaching the ruins. Gliders, an Al'kesh. We didn't have time to remove the device, couldn't leave it behind for the Goa'uld to recover, so Colonel O'Neill let the repository download into his mind, and we blew what was left with C-4."

 

Crap. "I'm sorry. If I could've been there..."

 

Abandoning all pretense of curiosity for the jumper, Carter stepped away from the panels, letting her hands fall to her sides. She insisted, "No, the plan was to prevent anyone from having to absorb the repository. You, the colonel, it's the same either way."

 

John understood both the thanks and the assurance. She didn't doubt that John had been willing to take O'Neill's place under the neural knife. Worst case scenario, that was why he was supposed to have been there, the upstart major with the gene that was just as good as the colonel's—the more strategically expendable option. Just as Carter was letting him know that she would have fought just as hard to save John if he'd been the one waiting for an alien database to uncompress in his brain, rapidly overwriting his memories, his personality, his consciousness.

 

"You didn't really want to see the jumper, did you?"

 

Even her smile was directionless. "Yes, I do. But maybe not today."

 

"How long?"

 

He could see her gathering herself, sorting through a wealth of uncertainty to form a succinct prognosis. "Last time, it was a few days before we noticed anything. Then, it was an odd word here and there, an increased susceptibility to distraction, and finally loss of control over his actions. A week, maybe less. But he– We're hoping that before he... succumbs, he'll be able to provide us with the location of the Lost City. Colonel O'Neill is certain the gate address is buried in his mind, but he won't be able to access it until the boundary between the knowledge and his ego begins to erode."

 

God, he hated the old wait and see. "If there's anything we can do..."

 

Carter shook her head. "We'll continue trying to contact the Asgard, but in the meantime, Colonel O'Neill has requested the weekend off. Daniel and Teal'c and I–" She made an abortive gesture, the first real slip of her composure.

 

John caught her hand, pressing it briefly in one of his. "Go," he told her.

 

And maybe that was what she'd needed, a whisper of assurance from a source she trusted to be more objective than her own instincts were at present. She swallowed and nodded again, slipping out of the jumper without another word.

 

~~

 

Zelenka slumped against a stack of crates with a theatrical sigh. "When I said that I could use a break, this is not what I had in mind."

 

"A break from what?" Rodney was confident they were in the right place at last. Or if not, the next storeroom over. Maybe—like, extreme outside possibility—the next one after that. "Keep looking. It's gotta be here."

 

"Work, Rodney. Real actual work, the kind I am being paid to do. Well, not yet," he amended. "Before I am to be useful, there is so much studying to do, so much to assimilate, so far to catch up. But of course you know this, because it is the same for you."

 

Rodney rolled his eyes. Zelenka was delusional if he thought playing the sympathy card would do him any good. "Please, when I found you, you were staring into space. And it's not the same for me, because I'm more than caught up. You only wish you had my ability to grasp the finer implications of earth-shattering scientific breakthroughs."

 

This was going to be one of those subjects they argued into the ground, and then held frequent picnics over the corpse—Rodney could just tell.

 

"How does it count as scientific breakthrough if the answer is handed to us by extraterrestrials?" Radek demanded. "We primitive humans would like to make functioning hyperdrive. Here, let us show you! What about artificial gravity? We can give you that too!"

 

"Look, just because we have a point A and we're given a point B doesn't mean that it's an intuitive hop skip and jump to bridge the two. And that's the information our allies have deigned to bestow on us. It's not like we can pop into the closest galactic library and check out a copy of the Chilton Guide to Goa'uld Deathgliders, 1995-2001. The crap we're having to reverse engineer... "

 

"Exactly!" Radek began an interpretive dance that was probably supposed to represent– Well hell, Rodney was drawing a blank, though it did sort of remind him of a move out of Saturday Night Fever. "Breakthrough is forward. Reverse is reverse. Is not the same!"

 

"Semantics," Rodney singsonged. "The box we're looking for is inventory number–"

 

Radek waved him off, impatient. "Yes yes, I know already. You repeated it so many times I will never be able to forget."

 

Bullshit. And Rodney was totally going to wait six months, then spring a pop-quiz on him to prove it.

 

"When I agreed to help you, it was without sufficient appreciation for the enormity of the task. Also, the numbers on these packages seem to be headed in the wrong direction. Are you certain we are in the right place?"

 

"Positive," Rodney lied. The bastard might have been right about the numbers.

 

"Do you know what this reminds me of?" Zelenka disappeared behind a barricade of crates. "In that movie, Indiana Jones–"

 

"Oh my god," Rodney groaned. "Do you have a single, original thought in your brain? That's what everyone says the first time they see the SGC's vaults." Himself included, but not even torture would drag that confession out of him.

 

Radek said, "Perhaps not, because right now I am thinking of punching you in your

 

too-smart mouth, a notion which I am certain hundreds of other people have entertained before me."

 

"Thousands," Rodney said. "Don't sell me short."

 

"I would never dream of such a thing." There was a pause, while Radek tripped over something and cursed softly in Czech. It wasn't an expletive Rodney recognized, which either meant he was out of practice, or Radek had expanded his already comprehensive arsenal of profanities. Then, "It has been too long, and you are a lousy correspondent. We should catch up, perhaps take a motor pool car and drive to Colorado Springs, yes?"

 

Catching up with Zelenka typically involved waking in a strange bed without any sheets—the hot-blooded Czech bastard always kicked them off—still half-drunk from the previous night's revelry, and fucked-out to the point of soreness. It would have been an excellent idea, save for one tiny complication. "I can't. Er... leave the Mountain tonight."

 

"Why?" Radek asked, curious, peering through a gap. "It is permitted. Unless... they still do not trust you to behave without supervision," he cackled.

 

"I'm permitted," Rodney retorted, just as inspiration hit. "But I've been wanting to test the jumper's DHD, and I sort of need a Stargate for that, and god knows they won't let me play with it when there are teams scheduled to dial in. It'll have to be in the middle of the night."

 

Radek squinted, the marched around the end of the crates and right up into Rodney's personal space. "I think I see how it is."

 

Rodney leaned away; Zelenka leaned right in after him. "What? That's a perfectly legitimate"—excuse—"reason."

 

"You say that I cannot lie to rescue my ass, but look at your face, screaming guilty. What is the real reason?"

 

Backpedaling, Rodney found himself caught up against a support beam. "No, that's– It's not–" His voice was too high, but he couldn't seem to drag it back under control.

 

"You are seeing someone," Zelenka stated. "Just say so. You know this is something I understand."

 

It was true. Their friendship had, in fact, worked both ways in the past. Sometimes it had been Radek with the relationship that precluded "catching up", and it had never occurred to Rodney to be jealous or feel slighted. Quite the contrary—it was far too enjoyable to prod Radek like an overstuffed pinata until all the sordid details came pouring out.

 

Unfortunately, that part was a two-way street as well.

 

Eyes narrowed, Radek said, "Someone from Area 51. Of course, it has to be. You are never anywhere else, and if your job is like mine, there is no time outside work."

 

If his lies were too obvious, maybe he could save himself on a technicality. "I'm not... seeing anyone," Rodney said. He wasn't dating John. They liked to hang out together, and occasionally sex happened in a spontaneous sort of fashion.

 

Okay, except for "occasionally", substitute "twice". The first time in DC, almost a month ago, when John had stumbled back to their hotel half-coherent and emotionally reeling from a confrontation with his father. (And Rodney would have felt like an utter bastard for taking advantage of him in that condition if John hadn't kind of insisted.) Then again a few days later, when John had slipped away with him to Vegas to deal with Rodney's ransacked apartment.

 

So, totally not dating. There was no premeditation whatsoever. It was– They just-

 

"Someone... you do not wish me to know about," Radek decided. "Or you would be gloating. Kavanagh?"

 

"What? God, no, never!" Rodney edged away again, charting the most efficient escape route to the door.

 

"But there is someone."

 

"No, you're absolutely right, if I was getting laid on a regular basis I'd be rubbing it in your face."

 

It was as if Zelenka could see into his mind, and slid to cut him off. "Is it a woman? You mention one often, what is her name... Kusanagi?"

 

Shit, Radek wasn't stupid. If he kept working his way through the list of suspects, eventually he was going to stumble into the right name. Maybe... maybe Rodney could say it was Petrov. Radek might buy that, at least long enough to remove Rodney's ass from immediate peril. I'll deny everything later, fabricate an ironclad alibi. Rodney was opening his mouth to damn Petrov to the SGC rumor mill for eternity when his eyes fell on the crate next to him and–

 

–and the heavens opened up, delivering salvation. Seriously, Rodney could swear the beginning bars of the Hallelujah chorus wafted from the ceiling.

 

"Five five five, three two zero one one," he compared the number on the inventory tag to the one in his memory. "Five five five, three two zero one one. Holy shit, I found it."

 

"Oh, this is too convenient. Why do I not believe you?"

 

Rodney folded his arms over his chest in his best imperious manner. "Then see for yourself, Doubting Thomas."

 

Zelenka did, his face scrunching in a frown.

 

"Satisfied? Wait, scrap that. I don't give a shit either way. Shut up and help me drag this thing out of here. I can't wait to crack it open back in the lab."

 

~~

 

John lingered closing up the jumper, knowing that when he was finished he was going to be at a loss as to what to do with himself. Again. Now that he had the lowdown on SG-1's mission, right from the source, he didn't feel like discussing it with anyone else, providing fuel for the gossip that had to be raging around the base. The whole mess was unfortunate and personal; and John fucking hated the ugly relief that came from watching disaster skim past him to strike the next guy in line.

 

He was leaving the gateroom when a sound caught his attention, General Hammond in the control room rapping his knuckles on the glass. When John looked up, Hammond beckoned and disappeared from view, confident John would follow.

 

The official summons at last.

 

The general wasn't in the conference room. John found him in his office, already seated behind the desk. "Sir, you wanted to see me?"

 

"Major Sheppard, come in."

 

Hammond's posture was both formal and informal at once, leaving John no idea what to expect. He was tempted to employ the tactic of pulling the door closed—a serious subject would demand privacy—to see if Hammond would stop him. But that might signal that John had a serious matter he wanted to get off his chest, which wasn't the case.

 

"I haven't spoken to you in a while, major. How are you?" No request for John to sit. Not a long talk then, or a casual one.

 

"I'm fine, sir." John thought about it and amended, "Good, actually."

 

"Good. I've sent for Dr. McKay. He should be here shortly."

 

A two-for-one with Rodney meant nothing more alarming than business. John felt the tension slide out of his shoulders. "May I ask how Dr. McKay's friend is working out?" Last John had heard, Radek Zelenka was on base pending training and assignment. It was a good guess that Rodney had disappeared to find him, now that John thought about it.

 

Hammond had that borderline exasperated smile that John had learned was actually a positive sign. "Major Carter is still sanding down his rough edges, but given time I expect he'll learn to fit in."

 

"I'm glad to hear that, sir." For Rodney's sake if nothing else, though the short amount of time John had spent with Zelenka, he hadn't found the man too objectionable.

 

"Yes major, your record is safe. And while we're on the topic of your unconventional recruitment techniques, do you think you could put us down for a nice biochemist?"

 

John usually didn't have trouble keeping a straight face in front of the brass. "Colonel O'Neill suggested that I should curb my tendency to collect stray scientists, sir. Besides, I only seem to attract slightly irregular physicists."

 

"Who's irregular?" Rodney asked from the door. He was clearly unprepared to be caught in a crossfire of assessing looks, and glanced around, nervous. "What?"

 

"Good of you to join us, Dr. McKay."

 

Rodney took that for the strong invitation it was and hurried over to his place next to John—on the left, John noted, even though Rodney had to squeeze behind him to do it. Six months ago, Rodney hadn't been aware of things like risks posed by open doors, and the need to stay clear of John's potential line of fire. He might have regretted the change, except those were the instincts that kept people alive in hostile environments, and there was indication Rodney's off-world excursions would resume in the future.

 

"Major Carter has been keeping me apprised of your progress with the Gateship," Hammond said. "I want your final determination on the readiness of the project within a week."

 

Rodney's intake of breath was soft enough that only John would have heard it. "Yes sir."

 

"For the moment, I would like the Gateship's initial deployment to be Area 51, but that could change at any time. Given what we're up against, we may have to rely upon its significant strategic advantage in the field."

 

Ah, so it was a warning: There is no room for complacency in a volatile situation.

 

"Understood, sir," John said, so that Rodney didn't have to.

 

But Rodney took a half step forward anyway and surprised him. "General Hammond, while we're here, I would like permission to test the Gateship's dial-home-device. I've been unable to do so without a Stargate at my disposal."

 

Hammond considered. "Very well—provided you follow procedure. Schedule an appropriate time with the gate technicians, and hold active wormholes to a short duration."

 

"Yes, of course."

 

"That will be all, gentlemen."

 

Rodney wasn't though. "Sir, one more thing. Have you made a decision concerning..."

 

Hammond wasn't known for his patience with ambiguity. But rather than prompt for clarification, he said firmly, "No, Dr. McKay. I have not made a decision concerning your position at Area 51 because I feel there is no decision which needs to be made."

 

"Oh," Rodney said. And, belatedly, "Thank you."

 

"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to wrap up and go home. It's been a long week."

 

John didn't need to be told a third time to find the door.

 

~~

 

Rodney hadn't lied to Zelenka, as it turned out. The jumper's DHD tests didn't take place until shortly before midnight.

 

Prior to that, he'd spent a few hours extracting his back-up array from the ridiculously excessive packing material in the crate, and then his data from the drives. (There was so much of it. Why had he bothered to save all that crap?)

 

It was quiet in the gateroom, quiet everywhere, the kind of third-shift tranquility that Rodney had always savored. He'd barely exchanged two words with Carter, hadn't seen the rest of SG-1 at all, so while he fiddled with his notes and tapped out gate addresses, John relayed what he'd learned about the Ancient repository and Colonel O'Neill's fate.

 

Or rather, some of what he'd learned. John spoke haltingly, and Rodney made mental bookmarks to inquire later about the edits and omissions, sometime when he wasn't distracted by an honest to god alien jukebox that ordered up portals to other planets instead of the Billboard hits. It made the SGC's dialing computer look so unwieldy and laborious that he was almost afraid they would commandeer the jumper to do nothing but sit in the corner and lock chevrons all day long.

 

John inquired after Zelenka, and Rodney told him about recovering the old jumper schematics; and it struck Rodney that they were engaging in one of those Hi honey, how was your day? exchanges, comfortable with only polite interest, serving to unwind more than anything else.

 

Strangely, he didn't have a problem with that.

 

When he was finished playing galactic DJ, and the jumper was locked up tight—he'd wanted to leave it cloaked, then tap into the security cameras to watch poor unsuspecting schmucks walk right into it, but spoilsport Sheppard had issued an executive veto—they retired to John's quarters by unspoken agreement, as if staying the night in the Mountain was a foregone conclusion.

 

It was all so routine, so clockwork, that he didn't understand at first what was happening when John made a grab for him the instant the door was latched behind them, hauling Rodney in by the front of his shirt. He lost his balance, squawking, "Whoa, hey!" in protest.

 

 Then John's mouth was on his, hot and restless and utterly lacking deliberation.

 

And "what the hell" might be the least appropriate response ever to being ninja tongue-fucked by the likes of John Sheppard, but seriously... what the hell?

 

By the time it occurred to him to act as a participant rather than a stunned bystander, John was executing a hand-to-hand move that would have landed Rodney flat out on the ground if he'd finished it properly by hooking his leg around and unlocking Rodney's knee. Instead, John sort of spun and heaved, the momentum propelling them for the closest bed.

 

It happened to be John's bed, not that it mattered.

 

"I've been waiting to say this all day," John murmured, somehow pushing Rodney backwards by the waistband of his pants while managing not to get anyone's toes stepped on in the process. "The jumper was amazing."

 

"Yes, well, I admit it was fairly–" Hold on, what now?

 

"It flew like a dream. I can't even begin to– Thank you, Rodney." John kissed him again, searing but brief, and–

 

Oh. Ohhhh... "So that– I mean, you really are–" Turned on by that kind of thing.

 

"Yeah, oh yeah," John swore, the roughened quality in his voice matching the rasp of his way-beyond five o'clock shadow against Rodney's chin, his cheek. The kisses had moved on, pressing beneath his jaw, just shy of the intensity that would have left a persistent mark.

 

Rodney didn't know what to do with his hands, so it surprised him when they alighted on John's hips, as natural as anything. "Wow, good to know. Not... to imply that I intend to take advantage of your–" Shuddering, he bared his throat more, and nearly choked on a hitch of breath when John's fingers threaded inside his waistband. The first button put up a struggle, but after it fell the rest were quick to surrender. "–of your proclivities, in the future. It must be inconvenient, considering what you do for a living, and I don't... wouldn't want to put unnecessary strain on you... your, me, our professional, um..."

 

"Geeze Rodney, credit me with a little restraint." The words were unleashed right against Rodney's ear, low and sultry, punctuated by a swipe of tongue. "I made it to Captain without incident. What makes you think I'm going to give in to my uncontrollable urges every time you do something sexy to a hot little piece of hardware?"

 

"I don't know, the first clue was probably the hand down my pants." The fact that he'd gone from zero to hard in three seconds flat couldn't be entirely attributed to the weeks of torturous build-up.

 

John laughed; he totally thought it was funny, the asshole.

 

"But what about–" Rodney flailed, indicating the bunker-like accommodations, and narrowly missing smacking John in the head. He had assumed there was a moratorium on sex in quarters—or on base, for that matter. Every time he'd tried, John had cut him off cold with a new and even more flimsy excuse. But this... this was sex about to happen. It was inevitable; the rule was, if you touched a guy's dick, you had to let him come.

 

Another step, and John dropped him on the edge of the bed. "Concrete walls," he shrugged, nudging Rodney's legs apart. Then he fell to his knees like some kind of pious bastard and proceeded to give Rodney the most mercilessly efficient blow job he'd ever been subjected to in his life.

 

And yeah, touching a match to dynamite produced one helluva bang, but Rodney would have preferred something subdued, less flashy. And fine, to be honest, less demeaning to his stamina. He collapsed back on his elbows, panting, and was still riding out the aftershocks when John climbed up beside him in a grumble of cheap bed springs.

 

"Okay, do me now," John demanded, having somehow accomplished getting his own pants undone. He shoved them down, freeing his dick; if it hadn't been hard and tight up against his stomach, he would have been more successful at nudging it enticingly in Rodney's direction.

 

With an invitation like that... how could Rodney possibly resist?

 

~~

 

Saturday

 

~~

 

John had never been that guy, the one with the smooth moves and the bad rep, the slacker with no prospects, every mother's nightmare. He'd never been read the riot act prior to taking someone's precious daughter on a date. Quite the opposite—it had been all manly-bonding shoulder slaps, offers of beer, the keys to the sports car. Curfews weren't for Patrick Sheppard's son: handsome and athletic, intelligent and well-spoken, and oh so very rich.

 

He hadn't understood until an ex-girlfriend—Nancy, fabulous no-nonsense Nancy, the perfect future politician's wife he was supposed to regret having let escape—had laid it out for him. Her parents wouldn't have batted an eye if she'd gotten knocked-up, trusting that John would have married her out of a sense of obligation (or at least set her up comfortably for life).

 

The realization that it already could have been too late for him (at the tender age of seventeen!) if he'd had a predilection for bimbos instead of brains had freaked him out enough to make him swear off women for more than a year. By then, he'd decided that guys were far more than just an acceptable alternative to paternity tests and child support payments; and as a fourth-class cadet, it hadn't mattered anyway, because oh my god, who had the time or energy to even think about getting laid?

 

But because John had never been that guy, he'd never had the porch light flip on and bust him while sneaking a girl home late under the cover of darkness. He'd never taken flak for returning a date with her clothes in guilty disarray. And he had no idea how to react to Radek Zelenka's suspicious and weirdly hostile glare across the mess table during breakfast.

 

"You're not still pissy that I skipped out on you last night, are you?" Rodney asked around a mouthful of obnoxiously-colored cereal. There was plenty of room at the table, but he was sitting close enough to occasionally jab John with an elbow.

 

Zelenka's eyes didn't leave John for a second. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, which wasn't the same thing as a denial.

 

"Good, good. Because we– That is, the DHD tests went really well. Didn't they, John?"

 

"I guess."

 

Uh oh, wrong answer. Zelenka skewered a piece of sausage like he was envisioning doing the same with his fork to John's eyeball. "Congratulations," he muttered.

 

Rodney was in high spirits, animated and beaming, and while that could have been attributed to a successful round of scientific tinkering, John knew him well enough to recognize it as an afterglow of a different sort.

 

Problem was, it seemed Zelenka did too.

 

"Don't be such a spoilsport. Just because you don't have a sexy Air Force pilot of your own to play with–" Okay, Rodney actually said sexy alien spaceship, but by the leer in his tone, it might as well have been that other thing. "–doesn't mean you have to rain on my parade."

 

"There is no parade raining here. On the contrary, I am pleased for you, Rodney."

 

John interrupted rather desperately, "Are we still good to get an early start back to Nevada? I'd like to take it easy this time, maybe give you a chance to collect some more of that data you're always hounding me for."

 

Zelenka's scowl intensified, causing John to realize too late that that could have been interpreted as an offer to park somewhere over the Rockies, bend Rodney over the center console, and screw his brains out. And okay, Radek Zelenka had a filthy mind, nothing new there. The surprise was that John found the idea of bending Rodney over the jumper's center console and screwing his brains out kind of hot. And disturbing. And extremely detrimental to the concentration he needed to reserve for flying. And then disturbing again given that hot was winning out.

 

"Sounds like a plan," Rodney agreed, elbowing John again in his enthusiasm to chase down the last pieces of cereal in his bowl.

 

Of course. Because the one time John could use some back-up, Rodney was ignoring the bat signal. Either sex impaired his higher brain functions, or he was doing it on purpose as payback of an unspecified nature—John gave him even fifty-fifty odds.

 

"Is it safe to make the trip on so little sleep?" Zelenka asked, as if daring John to deny that he'd had Rodney holed up in his quarters, performing physically demanding carnal acts until dawn.

 

Rodney waved him off. "Please. It's not like we were up all night. The DHD tests only took a few hours. We were in bed no later than oh-two hundred. Right John?"

 

John really, really needed Rodney to stop doing that to him. "In bed asleep," he stressed, and barely prevented his stupid mouth from adding, Separate beds.

 

"John's a pro. We'll be fine. But thanks for asking," Rodney said, lifting his mug to guzzle the rest of his coffee.

 

Zelenka was answering Rodney but staring straight at John when he said, "I am your friend. It is natural I am concerned."

 

John figured that translated roughly to: Hurt Rodney and I will end you. It was doubtless supposed to strike fear into his heart, but for some reason he found it bizarrely reassuring.

 

He pushed out of his chair, throwing Zelenka acknowledgment with a quick little two-fingered salute. "Concern noted. Are we ready to get this show on the road?"

 

~~

 

Retracting the gateroom ceiling was a slow, laborious process. John was glad he'd missed it the first go round.

 

Rodney was fidgeting beside him in the second pilot seat, still brimming with excitement and an uncharacteristic goodwill that wasn't dampened by the delay. "So, when you said take it easy...?"

 

"I just thought that since there's no hurry to return to Area 51, we could do some sightseeing along the way." It would probably be his last chance to take the jumper out without a strict flight plan to follow, and John wanted to take full advantage of it.

 

"Oh. I'm kind of anxious to get the original jumper schematics back to my lab, start to nail down the discrepancies, but I suppose that can wait. What did you have in mind?"

 

But John refused to let Rodney badger it out of him, just registered their departure and intended flight path with the control room, then waited for the go-ahead to lift the jumper up, up and out into the sky. His spirits rose with it, relieved to escape the weight of so much concrete and rock.

 

Even Rodney spared a moment to enjoy the fresh vista, sucking in a breath as if the scent of the closest pines could reach him through the jumper's hull. "Okay, I can see why everyone who works at the SGC wants to live topside. I'm not exactly the poster child for outdoor living, but even I was starting to get twitchy being so far underground. Or, you know, it might have been my claustrophobia kicking in."

 

John doubted Rodney was much more claustrophobic than the next guy. He just liked to take his natural human aversions and attach grandiose technical names to them. "I'll show you something that'll fix you right up," he said, but didn't elaborate, nosing the jumper into a vertical climb that would have stalled out a conventional aircraft. Even the F-302s, with their powerful thrusters and forgiving angle of attack, couldn't touch the performance afforded by engines that negated gravity.

 

He didn't know if that was such a huge turn-on despite his understanding of aeronautics, or because of it.

 

Even though John kept their speed just shy of supersonic, they exceeded the rich ultramarine of the upper atmosphere within minutes. And hey, space. Been there, done that... or so he'd thought. He wasn't prepared for the profound quietude, undampened by radio chatter and the 302's constant mechanical thrum. His senses reeled without the insulating stress of not-fucking-up exacting mission parameters.

 

Rodney had done space before, too—more leisurely excursions aboard far more impressive ships. John half expected the objections to begin any second: Was John stupid? Suicidal? Make that homicidal, given that he insisted on taking Rodney with him. Had he considered that the hatch's environmental seal might not be fully tested? Ditto the cabin pressure controls, the air scrubbers, the internal temperature stabilizers, the hull repairs?

 

But far from blasé, Rodney was rapt beside John, leaning for the viewing port as if swayed by the vacuum inches beyond. His fingertips connected with the transparent surface; a lover's touch, imbued with wonder and promise. "That is... really something," he said.

 

"Yeah," John agreed, his voice gone strangely tight in his throat. The view was magnificent, astonishing, a thousand other frivolous words. He made the mistake of glancing over, and felt more than observed Rodney's gaze skim him before returning to the vastness.

 

Space was utterly unmoved by Rodney's reverence, where John found it disconcerting just to be caught in the periphery.

 

He tried not to imagine being the focus, what he might experience in those few seconds before he inevitably came apart under the strain.

 

~~

 

Sunday

 

~~

 

Rodney had spent the morning and a large part of the afternoon trying to sneak away to the labs, with exactly zero success.

 

All right, it wasn't as if anyone could have stopped him. But the interruptions—dear god, the interruptions! During the time he'd been away at the SGC, it seemed that every puerile, security blanket clutching, so-called scientist at Area 51 had done nothing but sit around generating "issues" that required Rodney's immediate attention. And of course none of it was serious enough to warrant foisting off on Sam.

 

Oh, Rodney saw what Hammond had done. "I haven't made a decision because I don't feel a decision needs to be made my ass," he mimicked, pounding his stapler closed on the thick stack of requisitions he'd just finished initialing. "More like you didn't want to remove me from this position because you couldn't think of a more fitting punishment for releasing Ingram's trojan—unintentionally I might add!" It was like the time he'd spent managing a commercial R&D lab, only worse: all of the tedium and none of the megalomaniac perks.

 

There was a timid knock on his open office door.

 

"Oh my god, what is it with you people? The shift is about to change. Shouldn't you be watching the clock and thinking up excuses to cut out early?"

 

Kusanagi flinched, lowering the hand she'd used to knock and twisting it to hide it behind her back. "My apologies, Dr. McKay. If this is not a convenient time..."

 

Rodney pointed at her. "Not you. You're an exception."

 

Somehow, she failed to look reassured by that statement.

 

"Well don't just stand there! In, sit!"

 

Rodney was pretty sure she couldn't have slid into the seat any faster if it had been the lightning round of musical chairs, with a year's subscription to The Journal of Adorable Knitted Things hanging in the balance. "I did as you asked," she began, then remembered that her "mission" was supposed to be hush-hush and all that jazz. Scooting forward, she continued in a whisper, "I thought that you would not want the results to go through the official e-mail system, so I decided to bring them here in person."

 

"You're sure you weren't detected?"

 

She shook her head, violently denying the possibility. "You were correct. My former involvement with the cataloging project allowed me to access–"

 

"Spare me the gory details and hand it over."

 

"I... I cannot," she protested, a flush rising on her face.

 

Of course something would go wrong just as Rodney had hit a lucky break. "I thought you said you have it?" Oh, wait, right there, back up. "Had it?" he guessed, realizing that she hadn't been carrying anything when she'd entered the room. "Did you forget to bring it?"

 

Another shake.

 

"Did you drop it? Lose it? Was it stolen?" No, that was ridiculous. Nobody would bother.

 

"Do not worry, I have it. It is safe," she assured, shyly touching the third button of her blouse, over her sternum.

 

Christ, she didn't... she hid it in her bra. There was overkill and then there was overkill, and Rodney made a note to remember in the future that Kusanagi was inclined to the latter. "Look, I won't peek when you pull it out. I'll turn around, okay?"

 

"May I close the door?"

 

Rodney had already spun his chair around; he waved his arm above his head. "Yes, do whatever modesty demands, just hurry it up." He heard the door latch, hoped she'd locked it. The last thing he needed was for someone to barge in and get the wrong idea, assume it was some weird sexual harassment thing. His reputation had already suffered enough from the Carter fiasco.

 

"You may turn back," she said a minute later, resting a flash drive on the corner of his desk.

 

He snatched it up, flipping it in his palm a few times before leaning to shove it in his pocket. The plastic shell was unpleasantly warm to the touch. "Thanks. Thank you."

 

There was that small hesitation where he could tell she almost wanted to bow. "It was nothing."

 

One of these days, Rodney was going to beat into her the notion that it was acceptable to seek credit where credit was due. This deflection bullshit wasn't good for her career. "No, I mean it. This should help a lot. Nice job."

 

"Oh."

 

He watched her abandon a couple words half-formed on her lips before he gave in and asked, "Was there something else?"

 

"No, no, that was all."

 

Yeah, right. "By the way, John wanted me to say hi for him the next time I saw you. So... hi."

 

"He did?" she said faintly, turning pink with pleasure.

 

Not in those exact words. It had been more along the lines of, Hey, think Kusanagi still has a thing for me? But close enough.

 

"Mmhm."

 

"Please give him my regards also."

 

Rodney promised, "I will. Now scram. Go home, you lucky person. Some of us have to stay late to appease the paperwork gods." Hiding a grin, he pretended to shuffle folders in a deeply absorbed fashion until she took the hint and left.

 

Then, when he couldn't stand it any longer, he muttered, "Good work, Miko. Go home. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning," and proceeded to crack the fuck up.

 

Because yeah: no one would fear the Dread Pirate Meredith.

 

~~

 

"Down to only one laptop?" John said, dropping next to Rodney on their wretched little couch. "That has to be a new precedent."

 

Speaking of precedents, Rodney noted John's proximity with curiosity. He wasn't pressed up against Rodney's side or anything, but he was closer than he normally allowed within the confines of their quarters. "I ran out of space. My lap can only hold so much. Unless you'd care to volunteer yours?"

 

"I don't think so." John settled in, stretching his arm out along the couch's back, near enough that a casual shift would drop it on Rodney's shoulder. And huh, that was new, too. "Whatcha up to?"

 

"Five foot eleven," Rodney replied at once, not taking his eyes off his screen.

 

Wait for it, wait for it...

 

The reward was a gentle, one might even say affectionate, smack upside the head. "That's not what I meant," John grumbled.

 

"Oh, I know." Just testing a theory. "Since I didn't have a moment of peace today to work on the jumper schematics, I thought I'd take another shot at the mystery crate. I got to thinking: it was my digging for more information on the damned thing that triggered Ingram's trojan. Which leads to two interesting points. One, Ingram knew about the device, and might have even been the one to stash it in the storeroom. And two, electronic records are going to be useless in my hunt. He would have altered or erased pertinent data to ensure the device stayed hidden."

 

"I would point out that laptops equal electronic records," John motioned, "except I know you well enough to know there's a giant But... on the way."

 

It took them both precisely two seconds for the mental replay to register. Giant butt? Then it was just like those old movies, where drivers at a red light would nod at each other and rev their engines before peeling out in a cloud of tire smoke. Except the contest was to see who could keep a straight face the longest, so maybe it was more like the part in those same movies where the racing drivers played chicken with an oncoming truck.

 

John lost, with an explosive snort that quickly degraded to near-hiccups.

 

"Oh thank god," Rodney cackled. "I couldn't hold it in any longer!"

 

Wiping at his eyes, John complained at last, "Ow, I think I hurt something."

 

"Serves you right for slandering my ass."

 

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" he fired back, setting them off all over again.

 

And somewhere between gasping for air and trying to protect his laptop from harm, Rodney figured it out. John was unguarded, that was the difference—like he was sometimes when they were fooling with the jumper, or eating in the cafeteria, or hanging out in Rodney's office. Safe places, public places. But in the privacy of their quarters, John tended to exhibit a prey-like vigilance, almost as if he expected Rodney to jump his bones at any moment, and had to be prepared to fend him off.

 

Then the second half of the realization clicked, eliciting an internal groan. It's because he put out. I'm supposed to be fed and content, lethargic until I get hungry again. It was batshit insane logic, even by Sheppard standards. Rodney almost wanted to start something, see if he was right, if John would retreat again. But he didn't want to make things awkward just to build evidence for his hypothesis.

 

"Okay, I give. What's the but?" John asked.

 

Rodney tapped his temple. "I had to think low-tech, which is of course utterly foreign for me. But I remembered that alien tech is manually logged when it reaches the base, and physical records are much more difficult to edit. The only problem was getting copies for myself without arousing suspicion, in case any of Ingram's moles are still lurking around. It turned out that Kusanagi still has access to the records room—she was on the cataloging team at one point—so I sent her on a mission with a camera, and this," he patted his laptop, "is the result." If the device had been processed following procedure, there should be some mention of it in the images he was browsing. And if he had an arrival date, he had a good chance of back-tracing it to the SGC, figuring out where it had been recovered and what the hell it was.

 

"Miko did that?"

 

"You should have seen her. It was like something out of James Bond. Sean Connery, eat your heart out."

 

John crossed his arms. "You didn't ask her to do anything against the rules, did you?"

 

"Technically...? Well, it's sort of a gray area, but I'll relay your concern, tell her you stood up for her against my blatant exploitation. I think she still has a thing for you."

 

"Please don't," John winced. "I was hoping that had faded by now."

 

"No such luck," Rodney said. "And it's your fault for turning your charm on an unsuspecting geek in the first place."

 

John nudged him slyly. "Why McKay, do I detect a note of jealousy?"

 

"In your dreams," Rodney huffed. Jealousy was for people in actual relationships, with ground rules and mutual expectations and all that crap.

 

John feigned disappointment with a pretty little pout that Rodney totally wasn't buying, yet couldn't help find the slightest bit attractive. It made him want to put his laptop aside and do something crazy, like, say, throw himself on John, see if he could hold him down long enough to push past the ridiculous objections. He actually got as far as shutting the laptop's screen when there was a crisp knock at their door.

 

He glanced at John; John shrugged back. So, not expecting company. And the scientists knew better than to come hunting Rodney in his lair when a phone call or an e-mail would suffice.

 

"I'll get it," John said, but they rose together, united in curiosity, and it was Rodney who reached for the doorknob first.

 

Rodney had to jostle John for space before yanking the door open. (Stupid cramped quarters, double-occupancy like hell.) "Yes?" he snapped–

 

–at the same time John said, "Can we help– Colonel Mitchell?"

 

And sure enough, it Cameron freaking Mitchell hovering in the hallway, his fist raised to knock a second time. Rodney almost didn't recognize him without the ubiquitous flight suit or the impudent grin.

 

"Sheppard," he nodded, shedding formality, "McKay. This a good time?"

 

John threw it in reverse, taking Rodney with him to clear the entranceway. "Yeah, sure, c'mon in." Merely being within five feet of Mitchell seemed to make his accent take on that extra little drawl.

 

"Thanks." Mitchell stepped in, caught the door with his foot, and kicked it closed behind him.

 

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Rodney asked, leaning against the wall in a way that precluded Mitchell from roaming too much further into the room. It made it crowded as hell with the three of them milling there, but Mitchell had another thing coming if he thought he could waltz in and convene a meeting of the Hotshot Air Force Pilots Mutual Appreciation Society in Rodney's quarters, with Rodney's roommate, leaving Rodney nowhere to go but out if he wanted to escape their stupid jocularity.

 

Rodney had just gotten home and settled, damn it. He didn't want to go out. Mitchell shook his head. "Business, not pleasure, I'm afraid."

 

John invited him further back with a wave. "Sit down anywhere you can find space. Want a drink? It's about time for Rodney to make his evening pot of joe."

 

"Don't intend to stay long." Releasing a sigh, Mitchell dragged his hand over his hair. "Seems I've got a lot left to do this evening."

 

"What is it with this crazy base?" Rodney said. "It's like seven day weeks are the norm. Doesn't anyone ever take time off?"

 

John didn't bother to hide his smile. "You're hardly one to talk."

 

"Yes, well..." That was different. Somehow. Rodney lived on base. Besides, he was a highly driven professional with an endless supply of work and no close family or social life to get in the way. And oh crap, he'd just described three-quarters of his fellow researchers.

 

Mitchell was digging around in his pocket. "No rest for the wicked, I guess." He pulled out a piece of plain paper that was folded twice over, passing it to John. "This came across my desk a little while ago. It beats the hell outta me, but I've never been good with politics. Figured you might have some insight I could use."

 

"Gee, thanks," John said, as if it was an insult rather than a compliment to be told he had an aptitude for politics. He unfolded the page and read, a shadow of confusion and displeasure on his face growing with every line.

 

"What?" Rodney asked. "What's it say?"

 

"I know a shakeup when I see one," John said at last, cautious. "It's bad–"

 

Mitchell snorted.

 

"–but in my whole career, I've never run across anything like it before, so I can't tell you how bad." His eyes hopped to the top of the page, taking it in a second time.

 

"So now that's two of us. You're not making me feel any better about this, Shep."

 

John relinquished the page to Rodney before Rodney could get close enough to read it over his shoulder. He gave an unapologetic shrug. "You wanted my opinion, not some sugarcoated bullshit. Besides, I have a feeling you'll be getting plenty of that in the coming week."

 

"If I still have a job in a week," Mitchell said darkly.

 

Rodney started to skip the first paragraph, then remembered this was the military he was dealing with. They tended to forgo the platitudes and go straight for the point—or the throat, in this case. SCG personnel, administrative leave effective immediately, the following ranking officers excluded. Do not report for duty Monday, do not pass go, do not collect $200, etc. What the fuck?

 

That last part might have been out loud, to guess by the way John edged closer, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. "I take it you haven't received similar orders on the civilian side of things?"

 

"No, but..." Rodney thrust the paper back at Mitchell. Seriously, what the fuck. "It does say SGC personnel. That would be... what? Mostly the 1st SFW squadron and support crews? The civilian and military researchers ultimately answer to the SGC, but technically belong to Area 51, as far as budgets and administrative matters are concerned."

 

"Colorado's only an hour ahead of us," John said. "It's not too late to put in a call." Mitchell raised his hands. "Oh no, not me. I'm not painting a big old target on my chest." "Rodney?"

 

Tempting as it was... "Sam Carter's out for the weekend, along with O'Neill and Jackson and Teal'c." Probably getting hammered with O'Neill for old time's sake, before he spaced out and started speaking in tongues. "There's no one left there I'd feel safe talking to. Anyway, if Sam had important news, she would have already called me."

 

"So, sit on it until tomorrow," Mitchell decided. "That was my hunch, but it's nice to have it confirmed. Hell, at this rate I'll be making notifications all night anyway."

 

"Want some help with–" John began.

 

Mitchell cut him off, heading for the door. "You stay low and keep your nose clean, hear? That's an order, 'least until we see how things play out. I don't know if being outside the regular chain of command is gonna make things better or worse for you when the shit hits the fan."

 

~~

 

Monday

 

~~

 

Carter did one better than call Rodney in the morning. She showed up in his office,

 

oh-eight hundred hours on the dot, wearing such a horrible expression that Rodney's first thought was that someone had died.

 

Christ, not O'Neill. It's far too soon... isn't it?

 

Then he noticed she was livid as well. She was doing an admirable job of hiding it, but if he looked closely, he could see it in the set of her mouth, the controlled precision of her movements.

 

"Good morning, Dr. McKay," she said, as if her presence was unremarkable.

 

"Major Carter," Rodney said, equally formal. "I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon."

 

"Likewise." Stepping forward, she retrieved a pen and a scrap of paper from his desk. "The official announcement will be made later today, but I'll be overseeing operations at Area 51 personally from now on."

 

All Rodney could think to say was, "Oh." Then Carter flashed him the note she'd written: We need to talk somewhere safe. He continued, "I suppose that means this office is yours now. I was just checking in before heading to the jumper shed. I'm almost finished, then I'll be out of your way. Unless... you'd like to come with me? I know you've been wanting to see the progress we've made."

 

Carter crumpled the note, her fist clenching on it for a moment before she shoved it in a pocket. Taking the evidence with her. "Why not?" she said, mock-casual. "I need you to bring me up to speed on administrivia too. Might as well do it all at once."

 

Rodney didn't finish reading his e-mails, just snagged his laptop, stuffing it in its case as they walked. "You must've had an early flight. Catch breakfast yet?"

 

"It was," she said, "but I'm not... particularly hungry."

 

"Gotcha."

 

Even though Carter knew her way around base, Rodney took the lead, choosing an indirect path that wasn't likely to cross much traffic. Silence was easier than maintaining the pretense of small talk, although Carter broke it once to ask if Sheppard would be there. Rodney's reply was a single word to the affirmative.

 

Rodney wasn't expected for another hour, but Sheppard was already there, puttering around. After the flight to Colorado, he'd mentioned some nonsense about washing the jumper, as if it was a car they'd taken on a road trip. He hadn't been discouraged even after Rodney had pointed out that re-entry into the atmosphere would have burned the dead bugs off the windshield for sure.

 

"Hey Rodney, you're early," John called, then did a weird sort of double-take when he noticed Carter, and tried to pretend that he wasn't holding a soapy bucket and a scrub brush, with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. (Of course he'd left the watch on, because he always left the watch on. Rodney knew he slept in it, suspected he showered with it, and was convinced that if he ever did take it off, the band of protected skin beneath would be such a pasty, luminous white that it could literally blind someone.)

 

"Sheppard," Carter said.

 

John ditched the bucket in a hurry.

 

"Inside," Rodney directed, herding them both for the jumper. Waiting on news was killing him. "Everyone, go. And raise the cloak."

 

John didn't sit in the pilot seat, just leaned over and touched the controls. There was a faint shimmer, more felt than seen, and he straightened, saying, "Done."

 

"That's it?" Carter asked? "You don't have to close the hatch?"

 

"Nope. You can walk right through it; it's perfectly safe. Well, we think," Rodney amended.

 

She tried it, stepping outside the field, then waving her hand gingerly through the air until she contacted the jumper's hull. "All right, this..." Her laugh was shaky but genuine as she climbed back up the ramp. "This would be useful to have. How far do you think we are from being able to reverse engineer it?"

 

"Oh, let's see, the power requirements are off the scale. And then there's the cloak generator itself, which–" John cleared his throat in a meaningful sort of way. "Right, right. Later."

 

"I gather your presence and the memo Mitchell showed us last night are related." John said to Carter, dropping onto one of the rear benches. It was rather neatly done, Rodney thought, letting Sam know that they already knew something ugly was on the horizon.

 

Sam surprised Rodney by sitting also. If he'd been in her place, he would have been pacing furiously. "You could say that. Are you sure the cloak's secure?"

 

"Nothing goes in, nothing comes out. It's like visual camouflage that extends across the entire radio spectrum." And yeah, when Rodney put it like that, it did sound stupidly useful. If he didn't have the materials to recreate the cloak generator, maybe he could work on duplicating the function, to a lesser extent, with archaic Earth technology.

 

Sam blurted, "Kinsey finally succeeded in shutting down the SGC."

 

Fuck. I thought we'd seen the last of that bastard, after his kidnapping plot backfired. Then, Wait... what?

 

John was faster on the rebound. "How? He's been Vice President for all of a week." He'd dropped into crisis mode, Rodney noticed, cool and direct.

 

"The man moves fast," Sam agreed, "but we have to assume he'd been planning this for a long time. He's been after the Stargate Program for years, first to shut it down, then to control it when he was made Chair of the Intelligence Oversight Committee. It wasn't easy, but General Hammond and SG-1 managed to stay one step ahead of him, until now."

 

Rodney was invigorated by a burst of belligerence. "He can't just shut down the program. What in the fuck does he think is going to happen to the planet without the SGC quietly dealing with alien threats?"

 

"Can and has," John said quietly. "Are we headed for declassification?"

 

Shit, Rodney hadn't considered that yet.

 

"Doubtful. In Kinsey's mind, the SGC is responsible for stirring up the alien threats this planet has faced. He feels we should have stayed at home–"

 

"–ignorantly minding our own business, until the Goa'uld show up to enslave us all anyway. Oh, and meanwhile, we would have no allies and nothing to use to defend ourselves. That's bullshit!"

 

John shot him a strange look, like he'd never expected to hear Rodney defending the methods of the American military. And yeah, it was a little weird to hear it in his own voice, but Rodney was a realist. Hanging a Do Not Disturb sign on the planet wasn't going to stop the Goa'uld from coming, and since they were coming, he'd prefer to have more than the equivalent of rocks and pointed sticks in Earth's arsenal.

 

"What exactly has he done?" John said.

 

Now Sam let her anger show on her face. "Effectively immediately, all SGC operations have been halted, pending stringent government review. No gate travel, no nothing."

 

But what about O'Neill's condition? Rodney didn't quite have the nerve to ask.

 

That wasn't the worst of it, though. "General Hammond has been removed as head of the SGC. President Hayes has appointed a civilian in his place, a Dr. Elizabeth Weir. According to Daniel, she's an international mediator with experience brokering high-level treaties."

 

John digested the information. "Sounds like she doesn't fit the profile. Figurehead?"

 

"It's too soon to say, but I wouldn't be surprised, especially if Kinsey had input into her selection."

 

Rodney was so, so relieved when John was tactless enough to ask, "How does this affect us?"

 

Sam took it in stride, as if she'd anticipated the question. "You're off the hook for the moment. Kinsey's too interested in what Area 51 has to offer to shut it down. We'll be under review too, but we'll be allowed to continue operations. John, one of the last things General Hammond did was officially transfer you and the Gateship Project to Area 51, under my authority."

 

Thank god. Hammond could be a real stickler, but Rodney would say this for him: he always looked out for his own.

 

Beside him, John blinked, just as stunned as he was grateful for the unexpected reprieve.

 

"Rodney, the Gateship Project hasn't reached a state of viability yet, at least not on paper. For now, I'd like to keep it that way."

 

A nasty thought occurred. "Kinsey hasn't singled out the Gateship Project in particular, has he?"

 

Sam frowned. "No. But now that you mention it..."

 

"Yeah." Rodney might have felt better if he had. It was easier to take a punch in the stomach if you saw it coming, and dear god, what had happened to his peaceful existence that he could say that with complete authority? "Let me tell you, he sure as hell hasn't forgotten about it. And if you guys are right, and he was involved with the rogue NID plot to hijack it in the first place, he must have wanted it bad." For reasons Rodney wished he understood. Well, aside from the whole super-fast, super-maneuverable, invisible alien spaceship thing. "Probably still wants it bad. If he hasn't made a move for it yet, we have to assume he's waiting for the right opportunity."

 

John pulled his hand over his face, rubbed at his jaw. "Thanks, Rodney. You sure have a way of making a guy feel secure."

 

"No, he's right. The jumper's next to useless without a pilot, and there aren't many gene-carriers lying around." None that could match John's aptitude for all things Ancient, with O'Neill out of commission. "You have to be careful, now more than ever."

 

Rodney was already off, fitting old data into this weirdly altered landscape. "The project reports will be a problem. Progress is stated at nearly complete. But the flight to Colorado... I can manufacture a fault that will set us back however long you need."

 

"Good, do it," Sam said. "I might need you, both of you, to help me with... other things." There, right there, Rodney caught a glimpse of the weight that was on her—the order of her world in shambles, worry for her friends, anxiety for her own future. But just as quickly, she mastered it and pulled it all back inside.

 

John had seen, too. He rose and edged over, but then sort of stalled out, as if instinct had taken him as far as it could, and he didn't know what came next.

 

Sam looked up at him, questioning. This was the part where someone was supposed to say, Don't worry, we'll fix it. But that was always SG-1's line, and Sam didn't look like she had it in her to fake it this time.

 

Instead, John said, "Guess I won't be wearing this for a while," and peeled the SGC patch off his sleeve. "Keep it safe for me until I need it again?"

 

Nodding without a sound, Sam accepted it. She held it in her lap a moment, her thumb tracing Earth's point of origin symbol on the embroidered face.

 

Not to be left out, Rodney reached and awkwardly patted her shoulder.

 

"I will," she said to John. And, firming her composure, "Right. I should be getting back."

 

"Dinner at twenty hundred hours," John said, shifting back to clear the aisle. "Our place. Be there, no excuses. Maybe I'll grab Mitchell and a couple six-packs, make a real pity party out of it."

 

~~

 

"So, is this what they call fraternization?" Rodney asked, motioning around with his fork.

 

Depends on if you count what's going on beneath the table. Not for the first time, John wished he'd considered logistics before issuing the dinner invitation. The little table was cramped enough with two; four was pushing the boundaries of familiarity, especially considering that they'd had to shove it up against the couch to supplement their meager seating surfaces. So they'd spent the evening dodging each other's elbows, and someone's knee—John was inclined to think the culprit was Cam—kept jostling him in a place that wasn't polite, but might be considered exceedingly friendly.

 

"No, it isn't," Carter said, and for a second John was afraid she was going to quote from the UCMJ. She had the type of unforgiving memory that probably could dredge up stuff she'd read in the second grade.

 

Cam cut her off before she had the chance. "We're all officers, so it doesn't count," he smirked around a mouthful of pie. A big meal and a few beers had loosened him up substantially; he'd arrived that evening wearing a shell-shocked expression that John had attributed to the changes around base. The military end of the compound was a ghost town, shuttered and eerily silent. The few remaining residents tended to scurry from building to building, avoiding the exposure of open spaces as much as possible.

 

But no, it had turned out that Mitchell was a hardcore SG-1 groupie—something John wished he'd known before Mitchell had nearly wet himself upon being greeted by Carter at their door. Seriously, the guy had read all of SG-1's mission reports, knew them forward and backward and inside out, remembered details that Carter had forgotten. The conversation had been... weird, until Carter had pulled him onto neutral ground discussing the F-302s, and Cam had stopped looking like he was building up the nerve to ask for her autograph.

 

"I'm not an officer," Rodney pointed out.

 

John said, "Still doesn't count unless you've recently gone and done something stupid behind my back."

 

"Uh, like...?" The darting eyes and fake guilt were all for John's sake.

 

Just for that, John stole a bite of his pie. Lemon meringue wasn't his favorite, but Rodney had insisted, determined as he was to make up for a lifetime's deprivation of all things citrus. "Like enlist."

 

"Oh, god no, I haven't done that. I'm not crazy. I was thinking maybe you meant that other– Never mind."

 

"McKay," Carter chided, but she was smiling too. Her hand was resting on her second bottle of the evening. Sweat beads covered maybe the bottom two inches of glass; she'd drunk most of it and was nursing what remained.

 

"Okay, I'll bite," Cam said. "That other thing what?"

 

Rodney shielded his plate with his arm to protect the remnants of his dessert from John. "No, you're missing the point. There is no other thing."

 

"Tattoo?" Carter guessed.

 

"Ohh, good one. I was gonna go with join an online dating service."

 

Rodney tried again. "It was a joke."

 

"Maybe he already has. Maybe he's met his match and they're getting married."

 

"Guys–"

 

Amusing as it was to watch Rodney flounder, John decided to wade in and bring it to a quick

 

-– albeit vicious—end. "Four words: Mail-order Russian bride."

 

"That has a hyphen!" Rodney protested, while Cam freaking lost it, pounding the table hard enough to rattle the dishes. Even Carter was trying not to laugh.

 

Oh well. Rodney would get over it, or John would make it up to him. That was how it worked, when you and your crew were sitting around ticking down the anxious hours until the next sortie. You picked a target you knew would give the desired response, got your digs in, lightened the mood, and then quietly apologized after the fact to make sure there was no lingering ill will.

 

Speaking of crossing the fraternization line...

 

Still, he'd never regretted his choice to be the guy everyone liked, with the smoothly running team and little chance of promotion, instead of that uptight asshole bastard everyone hoped would earn a rank just so they would get a fucking reassignment.

 

"I don't even–" Rodney caught himself, presumably before he could say something to the effect of: like women. He amended to, "–speak Russian."

 

"Somehow, I think a language barrier would be the least of your worries," Cam snickered.

 

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

 

"Nothing, nothing," Cam retreated, throwing a glance at John.

 

And whoa, that had to be nipped in the bud. John was pretty sure Mitchell suspected that he had the hots for McKay, but it had never been verified, nor had the, er, awareness of the target in question. Cam might think he was being helpful by trying to gently enlighten Rodney. "I'd say," he announced loudly, drawing all attention to himself, "that I'm about stuffed. How 'bout you guys? Ready for more pie? Another beer?"

 

It had the desired effect. Carter nudged away her plate. "Oh no, I couldn't. But thank you. This was... really nice."

 

"Thank the cafeteria for the bounty," John said. They seemed to have missed the memo that their clientele had been halved overnight. He and Rodney had made out like bandits.

 

"Still want to know where you found the beer," Cam hinted.

 

John grinned at him, smug and unrepentant. "I'm sure you do."

 

Carter asked, "Can we stay and help you clean up?" Once she was out of her seat, Cam had to follow so that John and Rodney could push back the table and escape.

 

"Absolutely not," John told her as the group drifted for the door. "It was your welcome party, after all." Plus, it had been an excuse to present her with a new ally. Cam was good people; John hoped that after tonight, Cater would be comfortable relying on him if she needed to.

 

There was a round of awkward not-quite-waves as the guests departed, where the instinct was to shake hands, except it was too strange with unequal ranks in the mix. Cam was so laid-back that it was easy to forget he was the silver oak leaf to John and Carter's gold.

 

Then it was just him and Rodney, in a room that felt a lot less crowded, but a bit less warm, too.

 

It didn't take long to put their quarters to rights. Stowing the leftover beer in the fridge, John tried to think of a casual way to approach that apology. But in the end he just said, "You know I was teasing, right?"

 

"Hm?" Rodney was rotating the table around so that the legs lined up exactly with the previous indents in the carpet. And wow, fastidious much?

 

"Earlier. The mail-order thing."

 

"Oh. That. Duh. But I will totally hold you responsible if Mitchell starts calling me Svetlana or something."

 

~~

 

Later, while preparing for bed, Rodney wandered out of the bathroom with his toothbrush in hand. He said, like it had only just occurred to him, "You could quit the Stargate Program. We both could, or do something outrageous to get kicked out. See, I still have this little house in the middle of nowhere, Canada. The place needs some work, but there's plenty of room, and the huge satellite dish on the roof picks up every porn channel in this hemisphere." He chuckled to himself, then launched in anew, as if afraid of losing his momentum. "Oh, and there's a little airport nearby. I know the guy who runs it. We could get you hooked up with a set of wings. Nothing as nice as the jumper, mind, but give me five years—maybe seven, tops—and I'll have the inertial dampeners and the anti-gravity engines figured out. The rest'll be cake. And, um... so what do you say?"

 

John gaped at him.

 

Rodney blinked back, growing more fidgety every second a response was delayed.

 

Finally, John ventured, "It's a nice thought, Rodney." Except for the bit where Rodney just assumed he would still be around in five years time. He wasn't sure how he felt about that part, didn't even want to get close enough to accidentally form an opinion. Five years was an eternity, a chasm that ordinary people bridged with their plans and dreams and aspirations; whereas John tended to ignore his future until he couldn't any longer, and had no choice but to hurl himself blind over the edge.

 

The fall was often frightening, and always exhilarating, and sure as hell beat following the lifelong road map his father had charted out for him, which had started with the traditional Harvard education and ended in politics, the finest congressional seat or governorship that old family money could buy.

 

Rodney, on the other hand, was a plotter and a forward thinker. John couldn't fault him for wanting to factor every possible variable into his forecast. And John hadn't intended his answer to sound like a flat-out refusal, but Rodney appeared to be taking it that way. His expression suggested he'd just swallowed a live spider, and was now rather regretting the impulse. "A nice thought," he repeated, mouth twisting even further. "You mean a pipe dream."

 

"No," John amended, careful. "It's just that I know you, and I know you won't walk away from a fight." At least not one he thought he could win, and the Stargate Program wasn't a lost cause yet.

 

"True," Rodney agreed, scrunching his bare toes into the carpet and looking guilty with relief.

 

~~

 

Tuesday

 

~~

 

 

 

The thing was, Rodney had always assumed that the world would end on a Monday. He could probably fabricate statistics to support his abhorrence for the beginning of the week, and all the fuckuppery that tended to accompany it.

 

Carter's arrival had liberated his schedule. He'd spent a blissful morning poring over the jumper schematics, sorting discrepancies into the categories of: sabotage, stupidity, and other. (Seriously, the morons on the previous Gateship Project team had labeled the little piece that stuck out from the drive displacement coupling as an exhaust coil, when it was clearly a pressure stabilizer.) He was already familiar with the sabotage that had brought the jumper down during one of its early test flights, because he'd painstakingly repaired each and every flaw.

 

It was the "other" category that had him nervous—notations so vague they might as well have been written in code, references that led to non-existent systems, working equations that were just wrong wrong wrong. Facing such blatant contradictions made him wish anew that the jumper had been under his care from moment it had been discovered.

 

Rodney hated cleaning up someone else's mess.

 

And speaking of other people's mess, he'd come no closer to figuring out the mystery crate in the storeroom. Technically it was Sam's problem now, but he wasn't quite ready to give in and admit Ingram had stumped him. Besides, he'd asked her, in a casual, roundabout way, if she recalled the SGC retrieving an artifact that matched its description, and she's said no. Strangely enough, that confirmed what he'd discovered in Kusanagi's espionage photos, which was a big, fat nothing. The artifact hadn't been logged upon arrival, almost as if it had been smuggled onto the base.

 

Or, has John had pointed out, it could have arrived piecemeal and been assembled at a later date.

 

He was back to living in his radio again. Sam had set them up a private channel, so that Rodney was never more than a click away to answer her mundane administrative questions. She always asked him what he was doing first, not to check up on him, but he suspected because she was bored out of her skull and using him to experience a little vicarious science.

 

He made sure to use large words to make her happy.

 

This time, she didn't ask. The radio chirped, and she said, "Rodney," and that was all. It was her tone of voice that made him drop his data pad, thinking, God, not O'Neill. Followed by, It's still too soon, and, I'm going to spend the next couple weeks living in dread of that call.

 

"Sam?" he asked, tapping his earpiece.

 

There was a long silence, but he could tell she was there. He could hear her breathing, deep and unsteady. "I... I just got word from Daniel. We're out of time. Anubis is on his way to Earth."

 

"What, now?" Rodney squealed. "The SGC's been reduced to a skeleton crew! Hammond's gone–"

 

"General Hammond is in Washington, actually, which isn't a bad thing. He has a history with President Hayes, and his opinion might carry more clout–"

 

"–we have an inexperienced civilian calling the shots, and oh my god, Anubis couldn't have timed it any worse if he'd tried." He paused, an icy thread of fear worming toward his heart. "Oh my god, what if it is intentional? I mean, it wouldn't be the first time a Goa'uld has made it to the planet without using the Stargate. The gate teams are always scanned for symbiotes, but the spy could be someone else, someone who isn't exposed to risks off-world and doesn't undergo the same scrutiny. It could be someone here."

 

"McKay, calm down. We don't think there's a spy."

 

He bolted for the door. "Don't move. Stay in your office. I'm on my way there."

 

"I'm not in my office. I'm en route to Prometheus's hangar. There are preparations to oversee..."

 

Skidding to a halt, Rodney reversed back over the threshold, swinging the door closed and throwing the lock. The last thing he wanted to do was incite mass panic by being overheard. "What do you need me to do?"

 

"I'm not sure yet. The problem is–" She made a low, frustrated sound. "Okay. Here's what do I know. Master Bra'tac made the trip from Chulak to deliver the warning himself. The Jaffa spy network observed the Goa'uld armada amassing for battle. Anubis has consolidated the System Lords and is close exterminating threats within his own ranks. We knew that once he secured his power base, his next goal would be the subjugation of Earth. But it's possible that we may have... precipitated his plans."

 

"How? I mean, it's not like we're stupid enough to throw a brick through his window, or waltz up and slap him in the face with a glove." Did Anubis even have a face beneath the hood? No reliable witnesses had ever reported seeing it, if he did.

 

Sam said, "In a way, we did. We beat his troops to the Ancient Repository on P3X-439. All we left for the Goa'uld to recover was rubble, but Anubis doesn't know the knowledge that was originally in the device is now locked inside Colonel O'Neill's head."

 

Christ... "If his guys had gotten there first, we would have assumed the worst, that Anubis had gained the location of the Lost City. But he doesn't know that we don't know, so he's doing the same and assuming that we do." She was absolutely right. Anubis would step up his invasion in the hope of preventing the SGC from reaching the Lost City and whatever advanced weaponry it might offer. "I don't suppose there's any chance that we do in fact know where the Lost City is?"

 

"Daniel thinks soon. The barrier between Colonel O'Neill's consciousness and the Ancient database is deteriorating. He came up with a name: Praclarush Taonas. Daniel says it translates to "lost in fire". It could very well be the planet where the Lost City is, or was, but without a gate address..."

 

We're still screwed. And even better, they were relying on the ramblings of a man in the early stages of alien-induced schizophrenia as their primary source of strategic information. No, on second thought, screwed doesn't begin to cover what we are.

 

"Rodney, my transport's almost reached the hangar, so I need to make this fast. Teal'c returned with Bra'tac to raise whatever Jaffa support they can, but we're not expecting much. The Asgard are unresponsive. Prometheus is still going to be Earth's first line of defense, and it needs to be ready to launch at a moment's notice. So does the Gateship. It could provide a significant tactical advantage, so I'm declaring the project complete and placing it on active duty effective immediately. If for some reason I'm not able to finish overseeing the final outfitting of either ship–"

 

"You're going back to Colorado," Rodney said, and immediately regretted that it sounded like an accusation.

 

There was a pause, almost too brief to notice. "If– When Colonel O'Neill and Daniel provide a gate address, SG-1 needs to move on it without delay. We may have as little as two or three days before Anubis arrives. I'm sorry I won't be able to stay and help with preparations here."

 

Yeah, yeah, SG-1's last-ditch effort to procure defenses for Earth took priority. Rodney would be bitter, except SG-1 had that track record for pulling miracle saves out of their asses.

 

"Understood. I'll do whatever you need me to do, just please, keep me informed. The SGC isn't good at sharing information, especially in a crisis–" Probably because they didn't feel anyone else was on a need-to-know basis. "–and I hate floundering around without a comprehensive picture of what I'm up against." Although he wasn't sure it would make a difference knowing that the Goa'uld armada was composed of, say, twenty ships instead of fifty. Prometheus couldn't stand long against even five.

 

"I'll do my best," Sam promised. "But if SG-1 goes off-world–"

 

"Then I'll be expecting a call from you the minute before you step through the gate."

 

~~

 

Rodney had lost all concentration for whatever he'd been working on, so he'd scurried to find John and impart the bad news.

 

Screw need-to-know basis.

 

It hadn't been difficult. If it wasn't early morning jog time, John's location could, with some degree of dependability, be narrowed down to one of two locations. Rodney hadn't tried their quarters, just made a beeline for the jumper shed.

 

"John," he called, throwing himself up the ramp, even before he caught sight of Sheppard, sprawled in the pilots seat. "Cloak. Up. Now."

 

"Huh?" John jerked, startled. He'd been tinkering with the interface again; he never seemed satisfied with it, but then, it did seem a lot more complicated than getting in a car and adjusting the seat and mirrors. Nevertheless, there came the shimmery sound Rodney was beginning to associate with the cloak, and the air in the cabin felt a little bit thicker, even though he knew that was probably his imagination. "Okay, it's up. What's the–" That was as far as John got before he turned to look at Rodney.

 

"I... I just got off the radio with Sam," Rodney blurted. But further words refused to come, so he stood there like an idiot, wringing his hands.

 

John's eyes didn't leave Rodney's face while he eased out of his seat, somehow twisting himself the right way around in the process. "Colonel O'Neill...?" he said, somber and oddly remorseful.

 

It was just the jolt Rodney needed to unstick the rush of words. "No, no no no. O'Neill's fine. Well, not fine." One of Rodney's fingers circled the crown of his skull to demonstrate. "He's still got the Ancient junk in his head, and it's seeping into his consciousness, so he's not fine, but he's no worse off than the rest of us, because we just received word from the Jaffa that Anubis is on his way here, to Earth. Like, with his entire armada. We're so boned, oh god..."

 

To say that John took the news well was an understatement. "Ah," he said, his gaze going slack and distant.

 

That's it? Rodney wanted to yell, to shake him, clutch at him, something. At the same time, he was insanely jealous of the knack John had for switching off external emotional responses. Logically, he knew it had to be the result of a lifetime of military conditioning, but still.

 

"How long?"

 

"However long it takes them to get here though hyperspace? A few days, maybe." Rodney realized he was making a reaching gesture and aborted it. "Sam's returning to Colorado in case O'Neill can come up with gate coordinates for the Lost City. Prometheus needs to be prepared to launch, and the 302s I'd imagine." He wondered if Mitchell had been informed yet. "The jumper, too. Sam thinks it'll be useful as a scout ship or something, I don't know..."

 

John nodded. "Makes sense." As if the notion of flying into swarm of warships with nothing to protect his fragile craft but an untested magic trick didn't scare him shitless. God, maybe it didn't. Rodney had never seen John's full service record, but he was aware that John had flown extremely high-risk missions before he'd been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the SGC. What kind of personality did a person have to have to make a career out of habitually endangering their own life?

 

Rodney entertained the brief fantasy of sabotaging the jumper again, keeping John grounded and safe. Or at least safer than he would be in a sky filled with missiles and pulse cannon blasts, and oh, who was he kidding? John would find a way to get up there, even if it meant hitching a ride on Prometheus as a back-up pilot for the 302 squadron. "So, um, I guess what it boils down to is that we're pretty much on our own getting the jumper combat-ready. I don't know what all that entails, so give me a list, everything you need. I'll–"

 

"–work yourself into exhaustion getting it all ready for me, I know. This is going to be difficult for you to hear, but..." John touched his shoulder, squaring them up to look at each other dead-on. "This fight is going to be far bigger than you, or me, or any one person. There's a good chance it will be the first fight of many, not the last. So don't... make the mistake of throwing everything you have at it. Keep some of yourself in reserve. This conflict is going to be an endurance contest, in the end."

 

"Jesus," Rodney whispered. Standing there with John's resolution boring into him, he understood what Carter already knew, what John intuited from bitter experience. The Goa'uld as a species were tyrants, parasites who subsisted on the lifeblood of the worlds they enslaved.

 

If Anubis took Earth, the people who died in the initial onslaught might be the lucky ones.

 

~~

 

John's list of items to finish outfitting the jumper for combat started out horrifically mundane, and only got worse from there: fire extinguisher, field medic kit, emergency rations, small arms and ammunition. When he thought a moment and scribbled, flares, life preservers, at the bottom, Rodney couldn't stand it any longer. He had to get away, find something productive in which to lose what was left of his mind before anxiety consumed it entirely.

 

He tried to order a base vehicle, except—oh, right—there were no peons left on base to act as chauffeurs. So he ended up hiking to the lot and taking one of the stripped-down SUVs to drive himself out to Prometheus' hangar.

 

The entrance to the sprawling underground complex was located several miles away from Area 51 proper, but still well within the base grounds. A dirt track served as a guide, barely distinguishable from the surrounding muted desert landscape. The lack of distinct boundaries between path and wilds, sky and surrounding hills, led Rodney to imagine that he could just... choose a direction and keep driving forever.

 

Well, either that or until he tripped an underground security sensor and had the border guards descend on his ass like vultures on fresh roadkill—whichever came first.

 

There was a herd of similar vehicles clustered around the hangar checkpoint when Rodney arrived. One of them was probably Sam's. He considered radioing her to inform of his impending arrival, but decided against it again. There was a chance she would want him to turn around and go wrangle something for her back on base, and he was already here, dammit. Besides, he wanted to quietly gauge the mood of the BC-303 personnel, who tended to be quirky and self-absorbed in their isolation.

 

Really, it was a good thing that Sam had come out here first to shake things up. Otherwise Rodney might have done something petty and rash to gain everyone's attention, like trip the hull breach emergency alarm.

 

Then again, there was no guarantee Sam hadn't done exactly that.

 

He took the elevator down, entered the ship through the docking ramp, and made his way to engineering. It was a good guess; Sam was there instead of on the bridge, the calm eye amid a welter of bustling technicians.

 

She seemed surprised to see him, but not displeased or inconvenienced. Holding up a hand to stall his approach, she continued to speak into the radio, "Yes, okay, bring the second one back online. I want an hour of full diagnostics, and notify... Dr. McKay at once if the harmonic dissonance rises above point two percent again. Carter out."

 

"Drive troubles?" Rodney asked.

 

"Not exactly." Someone handed her a clipboard, and she scanned the attached pages, nodding to herself. "We had to recompile and patch some of the code base, basically all of the subsystems that might have been hit by Ingram's trojan. But in bringing everything offline–"

 

"Gotcha." The entire ship would need its systems re-initialized, and in some cases re-calibrated. "What can I do?"

 

"Walk with me." She signed the clipboard before handing it back, and pointed at one of the techs to take her place behind the console. "I'm catching a flight out of Nellis back to Peterson in forty, and I'll need to leave straight from here in order to make it in time."

 

Once they cleared the engineering room and were safely down the tight corridor, Rodney asked, "How much did you tell them?"

 

Sam hesitated, which was an especially bad sign given that she liked to be precise with her words, conveying no less—or more—than she intended. "The potential for Goa'uld ships in close proximity to Earth. That's the official story."

 

So no mention of Anubis, or that it would be an armada of warships hell-bent on conquering the planet. Didn't matter anyway. Area 51 didn't employ idiots; every person on base was capable of reading between the lines. "Great," he sighed.

 

She led them back along the route Rodney had just traversed, toward the docking ramp. "There's a checklist in the data banks. You'll need to hand out assignments. Contact me this evening with an update and I can help you shuffle things around if anyone has fallen behind."

 

That might be tricky. Rodney didn't know the BC-303 personnel well enough to say which tasks were best suited for whom.

 

"Oh, and you'll need to coordinate with Colonel Mitchell. We don't want to bring Prometheus into the open to load the 302s without significant evidence that we're going to launch. And once we have that confirmation, the schedule will be tight."

 

Rodney somehow thought they were past worrying about the PR nightmare that would result if an orbiting satellite snapped images of the United States Air Force loading their top-secret, alien-based fighters into their top-secret, built-behind-the-public's-back space-battlecruiser. But Rodney didn't say that. Instead, he promised, "I will."

 

"I'm sure I'll think of more during the flight. I'll try to contact you when I reach the SGC, but it might have to wait if I get pulled into a briefing." She paused at the hatch to the ramp, turned and extended her hand for Rodney to shake. "Good luck."

 

Her grip was sweaty and a touch too tight. Rodney doubted his was any better. "Break a leg," he said, and watched her cross the scaffolding, skirt around the hangar's wall, until she was no more than a dot when the elevator swallowed her up.

 

Then he marched up to the bridge to make himself comfortable with Sam's checklist, maybe light some fires under the particular asses he knew could benefit from special encouragement.

 

~~

 

"It's impossible," Mitchell said.

 

Rodney adjusted his radio. "Excuse me? I don't think I–"

 

"You heard me. As of right now, it would be impossible to get the squadron loaded on Prometheus."

 

Why in the hell had Rodney expected cooperation out of Cameron Mitchell? Oh, that was right, because John was always going on about how great he was—a good officer, a real nose to the grindstone kind of guy. And maybe to his Air Force buddies, he was. But when the geeks needed something... "Oh, I'm sorry," he snapped. "I'd assumed you understood the meaning of the word 'crisis'. But since you obviously don't, let me–"

 

Mitchell cut him off. "No, let me explain something to you. I have been trying all fucking day to secure permission to recall my pilots and my crews, and I've been stonewalled every goddamn step of the way. I've got no one, McKay. No one to prep and load the goddamned fighters, let alone fly them. It is seriously pissing me off, and I want to know what the fuck is going on."

 

Okay... wow. "Um. Shit. I, I didn't– Sam made it sound like it wouldn't be a problem." Was it possible that she hadn't known? "It has to be an oversight. I mean, it's pretty obvious that we need your people if we're going to be prepared to launch. And we are. Er, we're expected to be. Last I checked, she was in a briefing back at the SGC, but I'll ask her about it as soon as I can."

 

"Yeah, you do that," Mitchell growled. "I won't be holding my breath. Don't know what they were thinking, putting a goddamned civilian in command. This clusterfuck wouldn't be in my lap if Hammond was still around."

 

"Uh," Rodney said, "your mic's still open."

 

"I know," Mitchell said, and cut the connection.

 

Rodney's radio bleeped at him again not five seconds later. He tapped it and said, "What?" only half paying attention. Because damn, that was just– Bizarre was what it was. Civilian or no, this Dr. Weir had to understand that pilots were sort of necessary if you wanted your specialized fighters to engage the Goa'uld in close-quarters combat and do that whole saving the planet thing. But Mitchell... it sounded like he hadn't gotten close to speaking with the one person who currently held the authority to rectify his problem. It was no wonder he was pissed.

 

It was also possible that he was right about Hammond. The general had always been accessible to those under his command.

 

"Rodney!" John said, in that exasperated way that meant he'd been trying for a while.

 

"John. Uh, Major Sheppard."

 

"Got a minute?"

 

Rodney's back twinged, and he realized he'd been sitting in the same damned seat on the bridge for far too long. He shifted to rub at the complaining muscles. "Not really. So if you're just calling to remind me that I missed lunch..."

 

"McKay, it's twenty-hundred hours and you haven't eaten lunch?"

 

"Er, dinner, I meant" Rodney said lamely, aware that he was busted.

 

John reasoned, "You're due a break regardless. And I need to talk to you."

 

"I can't, really. The engine synchronization is taking a lot longer than Carter expected, and now I find out there's something I need to... research for Colonel Mitchell. At this rate, I'll probably end up crashing in one of the cabins, so don't expect me ho– to return to quarters tonight."

 

"Let me rephrase. I found something important I think you should see," he stressed, with a peculiar caution that rang warning alarms in Rodney's head.

 

"Okay, I suppose I can spare half an hour," Rodney said, updating his status in the shipboard roster before leaving the bridge. "I'll have to drive back to base. Mind grabbing me some food while you wait?"

 

"I'll do you one better. I'll deliver."

 

Oh, so that was why John's radio quality was so clean and vibrant compared to the tinny crap he'd had in his ear all afternoon. "You don't have permission to hop around base in the jumper!" he hissed. "It's an advanced alien spaceship, not a courtesy vehicle!"

 

"Yeah, it was a real bitch to get flight clearance last time, so I decided to skip that part and go cloaked. Besides, the thing I want you to see is the jumper, sort of. So get your ass moving, I'll meet you topside in five."

 

~~

 

Rodney had never witnessed the jumper flying cloaked from the ground before, and, well, maybe "witnessed" was the wrong word, because he didn't. There was nothing. No warning, not so much as a thrum from the engines, or a shimmer in the crisp night sky. Just the sudden and eerie as fuck appearance of half of John Sheppard, waving to him from about thirty feet away.

 

Before hurrying over, Rodney glanced around to make sure there wasn't an audience. There was no doubt John was skirting regulations, and while there wasn't likely to be much of a reprimand even if he was caught, that didn't prevent a flicker of irrational, almost juvenile guilt.

 

John snatched his reaching hand and pulled him up and inside, and shit the lights were bright. "Ow," he said, shielding his eyes with his other hand while John continued to haul him up the ramp.

 

John didn't even say, I'll give you something to complain about. It was kind of inherent in the cheerful way he let Rodney go just long enough to produce a powerbar from some pocket and chuck it at Rodney's head.

 

It hit dead-on, because hello—lights bright, shielding eyes, can't see! "Thanks, asshole," Rodney said, somehow managing to juggle the damned thing when he flailed in self defense, eventually catching it up against his chest.

 

"So how was it?" John asked.

 

John couldn't mean anything else. "Okay, seriously? I wouldn't trade the cloak on this sucker for a working lightsaber. It's that fucking cool." He tore apart the wrapper and gnawed off a quarter of the sticky, carbohydrate-laden rectangle. "I figur'd at the very leaft I'd feel a vibration when you touch'd down, but there waf nofing." A thought occurred while he spared a second to finish chewing and swallow. "There wasn't even a disruption in the air current. You approached downwind on purpose!"

 

"Maybe," John said. He rose in estimation from sneaky jerkface to Rodney's best friend forever and all eternity when he handed over a thermos of still-warm coffee.

 

It wasn't until Rodney had his head tipped back, chugging from the thermos, that he noticed the changes out of the corner of his eye. The overhead rack in the rear cargo area was stuffed full of new containers, all of them liberally tied down to prevent shifting in flight. Larger, heavier looking cases were crammed in behind seats and next to benches, likewise held in place by an ingenious system of netting and straps. "Holy shit," he gasped, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, "you redecorated without me."

 

"You disappeared for most of the day," John shrugged.

 

"Yeah, but–" And that's where Rodney got stuck, unable to explain how badly he'd wanted to help without sounding petulant at having been rendered inconsequential. It reminded Rodney of all the times he'd rushed ahead to finish a group project on his own because he hadn't trusted his idiot teammates to uphold their end of the bargain. Except that John wouldn't do that to him; John knew by now that Rodney always delivered the results he promised.

 

"But nothing. It was exactly the same as outfitting my old chopper for an extended op, and god knows I could do that in my sleep." Raising his hand, John forestalled further protest. "Just– Get up here, will you? I have a feeling you're going to be extremely excited by what I'm about to show you."

 

Fat chance, unless it involved John dropping his pants. And wow, he avoided saying that out loud only by merit of having his face in the thermos again. It was bad enough when he choked on a gulp of coffee, and John looked at him strangely, because John was serious.

 

There had never been a better time for serious, with the imminent alien invasion signaling the end of humanity's reign as dominant species on the planet. Rodney knew exactly how dire the situation was, which might have been the problem, given that his brain dealt with extreme stress in ways that might be considered inappropriate or even flippant to the casual observer.

 

Like right now, he couldn't help imagining John shoving down his pants and whipping out his dick, waving it around, or maybe doing a little dance number. And god, the only part that wasn't funny was how close he was to cracking up.

 

"Sit," John ordered, catching Rodney's sleeve and swinging him into the pilot's seat. He didn't sit himself, just leaned over Rodney's shoulder, pointing at the head-up display. "Here." It flickered and rearranged itself without John even touching the controls.

 

The screen wasn't one Rodney was familiar with, and he though he'd seen them all, or at least read descriptions of them. The Gateship Project notes were detailed. "Where did this come from?" he asked, his focus snapping into place with a vengeance.

 

"Do you remember asking me how much Ancient I knew back when I was working with the first Gateship Team?"

 

"Of course, because I was horrified that you didn't know any, and were just manipulating the interface according to instructions without having the slightest clue what you were actually doing." Worse, at least one previous member of the Gateship Project had belonged to Ingram's rogue faction; if they'd wanted to destroy the jumper rather than hijack it, they could have directed John to activate a self destruct, and John would have obligingly blown himself to kingdom come.

 

"My Ancient's still not strong, but it's getting better. I've been spending a lot of time translating the more obscure portions of the interface. So I can't be certain–" His hand tightened on Rodney's shoulder, transmitting an almost palpable burst of excitement. "–but I think the top section represents offensive capabilities."

 

Rodney peered at the screen, which seemed to display a cross-section of unrelated systems. "But the jumper doesn't have–"

 

"Doesn't have any weapons?" John finished for him. "Yeah, that's what I've always been told. But as you pointed out, this project has been riddled with deception from the start."

 

Shit, Sheppard could be right. Rodney was supposed to know the jumper inside and out; he thought he'd been over every inch of the damned thing, but the represented systems were completely unfamiliar, and, he was willing to bet, undocumented. "So... what? You think Ingram discovered the guns, or cannons, or whatever–" Missiles, maybe. Those tubes could be a launch system of some kind. An energy weapon would be designed to draw more power. "–and concealed the evidence, and lied about it to the SGC?"

 

"Could explain why the rogue NID went to so much trouble trying to steal the jumper."

 

Maybe, but probably not. The rogue NID had preferred technology that could be reverse-engineered for commercial gain. The jumper was far beyond their abilities and

 

resources, unless they'd intended to use it in their operations. That, Rodney could believe. "So how in the hell did you uncover this?"

 

John's hand slipped off Rodney's shoulder, and he drifted over to the second seat. "Um, I asked."

 

"You asked."

 

"Yes, Rodney, I asked," he repeated, exasperation bleeding through. "Call me crazy, but I'm a little uncomfortable with the idea of taking the jumper into combat—being shot at—without any means to shoot back. I was gonna try to talk you into mounting a minigun on the roof, or something. That's when it occurred to me that I'd never actually queried the jumper itself regarding armament. I'd always taken for granted that it lacked offensive abilities."

 

Rodney motioned to the screen. "And this just popped up."

 

"It wasn't that easy," John huffed. "It was like there was a... a block, like the information was intentionally hidden. I had to ask for it in exactly the right way, and it took me a while to figure out how to... phrase my question."

 

John's explanation was reasonable, especially given what Rodney knew of Ingram and the first Gateship Team. But there was still something... off. "Okay, what I don't understand is these other systems." He traced the nearest one. "They can't all be weapons. This one doesn't even appear to be complete." Maybe that's what this display was, a wish list, planned or potential upgrades that had never been implemented. Or hell, maybe the jumper they had was a stripped-down version, and John had accidentally hacked the firmware, straying into functionality that had been locked at the factory, so to speak. A lot of Earth-based technology worked that way, with the same control program installed across an entire product line, but only the advanced models could make use of the advanced options.

 

"See now, that's another funny thing. I wondered what you would–" The screen shifted, a familiar display rising to the forefront.

 

"Communications," Rodney said. "What about it?"

 

"No, I didn't do that." John shifted around the right way, reaching for the controls. "I think we're being hailed."

 

Oh, the cloak! "I made Carter promise to call me if SG-1 was headed off-world." He pointed alternately at the radio in his ear and the communications display. "The cloak– She wouldn't have been able to reach me on the normal channel, so she must have resorted to– Bring it up, bring it up!"

 

John raised his hand, intimating quiet. No matter what Rodney said, he clearly wasn't about to break radio silence and potentially give away their position without first making sure it was a friend on the other end of the line.

 

[Colonel Sheppard, Dr. McKay, if you can hear me, please respond.]

 

John opened a com window in the cloak and motioned an all-clear.

 

Rodney said, "Not only that, but we can see you, too." The video feed presented Carter from mid-torso up, kitted out in desert mission camo. That had to be good news, right? "Where are you?" he asked, trying to place the backdrop. It wasn't bare concrete, didn't resemble any of the familiar rooms in the SGC.

 

[We're on a cargo ship.]

 

Cargo ship? John mouthed.

 

[I hate to do this to you again, but I need to be brief. We're about to make the jump to hyperspace–] Rodney beat down the dozen or so questions that were clamoring in his head. [–and everything came together so suddenly. I'm sorry I couldn't call sooner.]

 

"Yes, fine, whatever. What's happening?"

 

[Colonel O'Neill and Daniel were able to decipher the gate address for Praclarush Taonas.]

 

Jackson's face appeared behind Carter's shoulder. He was likewise outfitted for some serious off-world action. [Hey McKay, John.]

 

"Daniel," John returned. "How is the colonel holding up?"

 

[He's, well... holding up.]

 

[We couldn't get a dialing lock, we think because the Stargate may have been damaged or buried. But I was able to use the address to calculate the physical location of Praclarush Taonas, and Teal'c secured us a ship, so we're taking the scenic route.]

 

Across the galaxy in plain old hyperspace. "That could take days," Rodney protested.

 

[Approximately twenty-two hours each way.]

 

Plus whatever time it took them to explore; and if Praclarush Taonas was the location of the Lost City, and if it did offer technology to help Earth defend against Anubis, there was no guarantee it would be portable technology they could just toss on a ship and cart home with them. "You're cutting it awfully close."

 

O'Neill didn't appear in the picture, but his shout carried to the microphone loud and clear. [We don't exactly have a choice. Some of us less than others!]

 

[I've determined our course. We are ready to enter hyperspace.] That was Teal'c.

 

Sam hurried, [Time to go. See you in a couple days, hopefully with good news.]

 

"But–"

 

John cut him short. "Drive carefully. We'll do our best to hold the fort until you return. Sheppard out."

 

The com link went dead.

 

Rodney threw up his hands in disgust. "Great. Just great. How nice it must be for SG-1 to be able to drop everything and go gallivanting off across the galaxy on an unsubstantiated rumor, leaving the rest of us poor schmucks to prepare for a planetary invasion, with crap for resources and practically no support from our own organization. But when they return empty-handed to find Anubis installed as humanity's new god and overlord, it'll be Oh well, too bad, you gave it your best shot. Me, on the other hand, my efforts will be picked apart and scrutinized for inadequacy, and I can tell you exactly where the blame will–"

 

"Welcome to my life," John said, wry and not entirely without sympathy. "You follow orders, even the bad ones, and you try not to fuck up, but some days it just seems like there's a big, fat target painted on your back."

 

"I didn't even get a chance to ask Carter about Mitchell's squadron! What am I supposed to tell him? He was, like, severely pissed the last time I spoke to him, and I doubt his mood's improved since then."

 

"What about the 1st SFW?"

 

Rodney gulped down huge breaths, his chest feeling less constricted now that he'd been able to blow off some of his frustration. That made... what? Panic attack number four for the day, narrowly averted?

 

John must have noticed him heaving. "You okay?"

 

"I think. For now. I have to be." Though he wasn't ready to stand up yet and put it to the test. Instead, he leaned his head into his hand, still staring blankly at the jumper's view screen. "Carter dumped all this crap on me before she left. I know next to nothing about Prometheus from an operational standpoint, but I'm supposed to oversee preparations to make it combat-ready. I mean, god forbid the SGC send us a captain or a commander or someone who knows what the fuck they're doing. The only people down there right now are technicians and scientists. Oh, but I'm sure some jackass will waltz in at the last minute to assume command, expecting everything to be spit and polish, by the book. And guess who'll take the flak when it isn't."

 

"Jesus Rodney." The alarm that brushed John's expression settled after a moment and intensified, almost as if he'd given up trying to bury it. "I thought Carter had arranged– I had no idea you've been working without Air Force coordination. You should have said something."

 

Rodney snorted. "Oh, there's more. At least I have some manpower at my disposal. Prometheus is supposed to launch with its full complement of 302s—the 1st SFW—but Mitchell can't even get permission to recall his pilots and crew from administrative leave. It's like someone forgot to stick the in-case-of-alien-invasion clause in the fucking memo when the SGC was shut down for audit and review."

 

Even worse than alarmed, John was now visibly angry, his mouth set in a hard, grim line. "Have you been in contact with anyone at the SGC since the shakeup?"

 

"Actually..." Fuck, he was right. "No. Only Carter. Everything I know came filtered through her. But this is Sam we're talking about. She wouldn't–" Intentionally mislead us, he'd meant to say, only he couldn't find the absolute certainty to back the words.

 

"Oh, I doubt she lied to you, but there's no way she's been telling the whole truth, either. If she even knows it. This situation is officially fucked." John thew himself out of his seat, pacing down the aisle in clipped, furious strides. Halfway to the hatch, he turned back. "Logistics aside, do you have any idea how much planning it takes to launch an op of this scale? No wonder Mitchell's pissed. He should be neck-deep in squadron strategy sessions. He should be in constant communication with Prometheus' captain, along with the crew chiefs and commanders of a dozen support units. He should have the most recent intel and a goddamned battle plan in his hands. If I were him, I'd be on my way to a court-martial, because there's no fucking way I'd send my people into combat knowing that a procedural breakdown prevented them from being adequately prepared. You don't–" His arm sliced through the air. "Risk is unavoidable, but the needless endangerment of life is just fucking wrong. That's the first thing every officer should learn, and the last thing they should ever forget."

 

"I– shit, I didn't realize," Rodney stammered. "I have just enough experience with the military to know that what's happening isn't normal. But don't ask me to gauge the subtle degrees of fuckupedness. I have nothing to use for comparison."

 

John said, "I wouldn't expect a civilian to," with a resentment that made it clear he wasn't referring to Rodney. He closed the hatch and stalked back up the aisle to take the controls, firing up the engines at once. "Here's the new plan. Since Cam and I seem to be the only ones around with experience prepping ships for combat, one of us will finish overseeing Prometheus."

 

"Freeing me to bring the jumper's weapons online. I like this plan already." Under John's direction, the jumper performed a perfect one-eighty pivot and shot off, hugging so close to the terrain that it had to dodge the occasional ambitious, scraggly bush. It was aggressive flying, and probably would have served to burn off some of John's foul mood if the inertial dampeners weren't– "Whoa." Rodney thrust out a hand, bracing against the interior wall at the same time John leaned hard into a turn. Sneaky bastard actually dialed them down.

 

Baring his teeth in satisfaction, John righted the ship just in time to throw it into the next swooping arc.

 

Rodney might have complained if his temper hadn't been in absolute agreement. "Okay, so here's something. There's nothing wrong with the jumper shed—apart from it being small and dingy, in a shitty location—but it occurs to me that there are large, well-appointed hangars currently going to waste, and I see no reason why we shouldn't borrow one of them."

 

"One closer to our quarters?" John suggested, slowing as they reached the outer edge of the hangar block.

 

"I was thinking the one close to the good vending machines. I doubt sleep will be a priority during the next few days."

 

"When you can't have sleep, hot showers are a damned fine substitute."

 

"True."

 

John nodded out the viewing port to the row upon row of identical buildings. Without ordinary human activity to accentuate their enormous bulk, they almost seemed to cower beneath the harsh lights and unnatural stillness. "Take your pick."

 

"That one," Rodney decided. "Pull up to the curb and I'll get the doors."

 

~~

 

The jumper's weapon launchers manifested as a pair of vertical racks that extended from the fuselage, similar to the larger drive pods. Rodney spent a full ten minutes wandering around the ship muttering at the new appendages, both irate and astonished that their seamless integration into the hull had caused them to remain undetected for so long.

 

"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

 

"I could use some good news," John said, wrangling an enormous extension cord at Rodney's behest. He dropped the spool near the hatch, reeling out excess cable to give Rodney plenty of maneuverability.

 

Rodney huffed, "It doesn't work that way."

 

"If you don't like my answer, why did you ask me?"

 

"I thought everyone understood that the bad news is supposed to be a lead-in– Look, never mind. The weapons system is designated inoperative because there's no ammunition. That's the bad news. The good news is, there doesn't seem to be anything else wrong with it. If I can figure out the release mechanism, there's a chance I could retrofit some Earth ordnance for use in the launchers." He knelt down next to the left rack, sliding his hand into one of the cradles. "Of course, size is going to be the primary constraining factor. The original ammunition was maybe two feet in length, six or eight inches in diameter. Not exactly optimal dimensions for an air-to-air missile."

 

"Aha!" John pointed triumphantly. "Admit that you're glad I made you read the Air Force Handbook."

 

Rodney rocked back on his heels to glare up at him. "I'll admit no such thing. The Air Force doesn't even use the projectile I have in mind. The only reason I know the Predator SRAW exists is because I had to listen to Lance Corporal Olson extolling its virtues for, like, three straight hours on P4M-389."

 

John was vaguely familiar with it: shoulder-fired, short-range, no internal guidance system to speak of. Small payload, too. A direct hit wouldn't do shit to a shielded vessel, but even a glancing blow would take down a chopper, and should do the same to the lightly-armored Death Gliders. "Perfect," John said, "except for the part where we'd have to rob a Marine Corps munitions dump to get our hands on some."

 

Rodney just waved him off. "I come up with the brilliant plans, you put them into action. That's the mutually agreed upon division of labor."

 

Great. John would add that to his SGC wish list, along with a captain for Prometheus, Mitchell's squadron returned to active duty, a clear chain of command, and a fucking clue. "You need me for anything else?"

 

Sweeping around the cavernous hangar, Rodney's eyes alighted with particular lust on the bounty of immaculate tool carts. "Leave the jumper online for me and I should be set for a while. Where're you headed?"

 

"To find Mitchell and pay a visit to Prometheus."

 

Rodney pulled off his radio and tossed it over. "Keep in touch, just in case."

 

~~

 

Like John, Cam hadn't been stationed at Area 51 long enough to set down roots off base. His quarters were in the next building over from John and Rodney's—at least that was the working theory. John had never visited before, and envisioned himself wandering from door to door, pounding and shouting Cam's name until he got a response.

 

In practice, all he had to do was follow the music—classic rock blaring from cheap,

 

over-taxed speakers—then pound and shout Cam's name until he got the man's attention.

 

Mitchell yanked the door open, his hostile expression sliding into one of surprise. "Just a sec," he shouted, sprinting over to kill the radio. Then, peeling up the hem of his sweat-damp t-shirt to scrub over his face, he called, "Come in, come in."

 

John stepped inside, trying not to expose his curiosity as he took in the contents of the room. It was standard bachelor fare, lots of toys and gadgets, and little in the way of personal touches. A speed bag, anchored to the ceiling in the corner, still swung gently on its hinge. He raised an eyebrow at Cam's bare, red-knuckled hands. "No gloves?"

 

"They're around here somewhere. Couldn't find 'em," Cam shrugged. "I was just blowing off some steam."

 

John wandered over to knock the bag, lightly at first, then a few good rounds before stalling it between his hands.

 

"One nice thing about being the only bastard left on the block, I can crank my tunes as loud as I want without bothering a soul."

 

"Gonna be up for a while?"

 

"Don't plan to sleep," Cam said, and John caught the exact instant he decided not to twist it into innuendo, an invitation; his grin turned a shade wry. "Least not until I know whether or not the world's coming to an end."

 

"So Carter told you everything." John honestly hadn't been sure.

 

Modesty, it seemed, wasn't one of Cam's strong points. He gave up, stripping off his shirt and wadding it up to throw toward the bathroom, then wandered in the other direction to pour himself a glass of water. "If by 'everything' you mean the bare-ass minimum, which I had to drag out of her after I caught wind of something going down," he grumbled before raising it to his lips.

 

John joined him to lean against the little kitchen counter, turning down the second glass Cam wordlessly pushed toward him. "You do outrank her." That was something Cam was likely to overlook as a subscriber to the mythos of SG-1.

 

"I damned near had to make it an order, and even then, she was real uncomfortable. Not like she didn't want me read in, but like she knew she wasn't the one who should be doing it."

 

"Bingo," John grimaced. He was aware that the opinion he was about to voice was a potential career-killer, but he was beyond giving a fuck, and he suspected Cam was right there with him. "Carter's smart. Damned right she recognizes a world-class fuckup when she sees one. But she's also a firm believer in the system, and she's not going to admit there's been a breakdown until the whole thing falls apart around her ears."

 

"We're going down in flames and we're taking the entire planet with us, Shep. How much more evidence can she need?"

 

"Guess we'll know when SG-1 gets back from their mission." Right, Cam wouldn't know about any of that yet. "Elvis has left the building."

 

Cam sputtered, "You've gotta be shitting me. Now?"

 

"Last-ditch effort to locate the Lost City. The planet's Stargate is out of commission, so it's a minimum forty-hour out and back by Tel'tak."

 

"Fifty bucks says Anubis beats 'em home."

 

Why stop at fifty? Why not a thousand? What good would currency be to a slave of the Goa'uld?

 

Cam upended his empty glass in the sink. "I mean, shiiit. What are we supposed to do in the meantime? Stall him in the parlor? Take his coat, offer him refreshments?"

 

John said, "This Dr. Weir's supposed to be some kind of hotshot mediator. Guess we're gonna find out how good she is at bluffing."

 

"I will tell you this." Suddenly Cam was all up in John's space, tapping him on the chest and cementing their status as co-conspirators. "There's a new hardass in the Mountain. I might have said something to that effect about the eighth time I tried to get through, and was told Weir was in yet another critical meeting and couldn't be disturbed."

 

 

 

"You find out what was going on?"

 

"Hell no. Her assistant hung up on me, and after that I couldn't get past the switchboard. And I'll tell you something else. Orders or no, I've already contacted my squadron, given them the heads-up. I say the word and they'll be here within the hour, suited up and raring to go."

 

John sort of wished Cam would find a shirt, or at least ease off before he changed his mind again about that innuendo—if it wasn't already too late. "That's something. As for Weir, she could be playing power games."

 

"Best explanation I've got. She comes in throwing her weight around, making sure everyone knows who's wearing the pants in this outfit. If we're lucky, she'll settle down to business once she's got us all by the balls."

 

This was the part where John was supposed to comment that his nuts were feeling pretty squeezed, and maybe inquire about the state of Cam's junk. Then Cam would challenge John to see for himself. And, foreplay concluded, they'd have sex: quick and dirty stress relief, free of attachments and expectations.

 

At least, that's how it might have gone down, before. But Rodney screwed everything up, destroyed the tidy compartmentalization of John's preferred M.O. So he edged away instead, muttering, "Maybe," and tried to pretend he hadn't caught Cam's flash of... no, not disappointment. Shit, it was gratification, for a longstanding suspicion confirmed.

 

"McKay," Cam said quietly. Not a question.

 

John was so very, very busted. Not even clinging to silence could save him.

 

In the end, Cam let him off the hook with an altruism that almost smacked of pity. "So what now? We just gonna kick up our feet and pop a few cold ones, wait for Anubis to show?"

 

"Actually... I've got a job for you," John offered, "if you're interested." He thought about it, then tacked on a belated, "Sir." The irony wouldn't be lost on Cam, that a major completely outside the normal chain of command was playing taskmaster to a lieutenant colonel.

 

Cam's laugh was harsh, but he swore without hesitation, "Christ, yes. There's a thousand things need doing that I can't even touch, and it's driving me up the fucking walls."

 

"Then get dressed. We're heading out to whip Prometheus into shape."

 

 

 

~~

 

Wednesday

 

~~

 

On Prometheus' bridge, John stayed on the sidelines and let Cam do his thing, barking orders at the perplexed, then increasingly cowed technicians.

 

Where Rodney tried to hand out tasks based on temperament and aptitude, Cam took a more martial approach. He strolled in front of the forward viewing ports, hands clasped in the small of his back, growling at the assembled personnel. "You people are assigned to the most advanced ship in the Air Force inventory. In order to get here, each and every one of you must have demonstrated exceptional competence and the ability to follow complex instructions. Am I wrong in this assumption?"

 

There was a lot of shuffling and at least one mumbled No sir.

 

"Good! Port side of the bridge," he raised his arm, cutting an imaginary line off-center, "you are now Company A. Starboard side of the bridge, you are now Company B."

 

The border widened as the technicians huddled closer into their new groups. John took a headcount, found that Cam had eyeballed it dead on. It was an even split.

 

Cam pointed at random. "You and you are my company leaders. The new work roster is as follows: Company A will take first shift on Major Carter's fix-it list. Company B will rotate between manning the critical duty stations and rest periods. The shift will change every six hours, beginning... now. Are there any questions?"

 

The guy in the back with the ponytail and glasses was familiar. He was also waving his hand frantically above his head.

 

"I repeat, do my company leaders have any questions?"

 

Both said, "No sir," while... Kavanagh, that was his name, was jostled by his peers and finally convinced that it would be in the interest of self-preservation to lower his arm.

 

"See me if any arise." Cam's menacing grin had to be the result of long practice, and even then, he didn't have the face to make it completely convincing. "Companies dismissed!"

 

By unspoken command, John fell in behind him as Cam strode off the bridge, the perfectly disciplined subordinate.

 

It lasted just long enough for them to make it a short way down the corridor. Then, Cam dropped back beside him. "Too much?" he leaned in to murmur.

 

"Under the circumstances... captain?"

 

Cam flashed him a glare that said plainly, Bite your tongue. "This ship's beyond anything I've had to deal with. Wish I knew what the fuck I was doing."

 

"You looked good to me," John said. He knew, and Cam knew, that confidence was an integral part of command—even when it was just an illusion.

 

~~

 

"What do you mean Dr. Weir is sleeping?" Rodney demanded, checking his watch. "It's not even 0300 in Colorado! Besides, there are certain things that are more important than beauty rest. Like, oh, preparing for the Goa'uld armada that's about to arrive on our doorstep."

 

He wasn't sure if the alien invasion thing was common knowledge around what was left of the SGC yet, but switchboard operators... those bastards heard all the good gossip. He doubted he'd exposed any secrets.

 

"I'm sorry, sir–"

 

"Doctor."

 

"I'm sorry, doctor, but I'm under orders not to disturb her. Your message will be relayed as soon as she is available in the morning."

 

"See that it is," Rodney said. "The very instant she's available, and not a second later. I cannot express strongly enough the critical nature of the subject."

 

"Yes, doctor."

 

Rodney cut the connection before the man's calm, insipid tone could infuriate him further. Seriously, who the fuck did this Weir think she was, ignoring the acting head of Area 51 when he had an honest-to-god emergency on his hands? How high did Rodney have to aim to go over her head and score some answers?

 

Or maybe he was looking at the situation from the wrong perspective. Maybe what he needed to do was undercut her. He reconnected to the SGC switchboard. "Yes, hi, me again. Transfer me to Dr. Radek Zelenka."

 

The call rang and rang and rang, and it hadn't occurred to Rodney that Zelenka might have been caught up in the Great Administrative Purge.

 

Wait, no. That wasn't enough words to make a truly offensive acronym. Maybe–

 

"Hello?" a groggy voice responded.

 

"Hello yourself, pigeon-brain." That was code. Zelenka always argued that pigeons were actually smart, and to call someone a pigeon-brain was the opposite of an insult. Therefore, the term entered their conversations to mark deep or reverse sarcasm, instances where the literal concealed a second meaning. "So you are still at the SGC," Rodney continued, his tone falsely light. "I'm surprised they haven't thrown you out on your ass."

 

There was a predictable pause. It was cruel to make Zelenka process a foreign language on multiple levels when he'd just woken up, but Rodney didn't exactly have a choice. "Oh yes, I am still here," he said at last. "In order to throw me out, I would have to be an official employee of the SGC, but for the moment I am the apprentice. I study, and I study some more, and one day they may deem me good enough to do something useful."

 

Great. So they had him sitting on his ass, completely out of the loop. "Could be worse," Rodney said. "You could be in charge."

 

Zelenka had to think about this response, too. "Heaven forbid. The job seems to entail yelling and unpleasant attachments. I would not want that at all."

 

Unpleasant attachments...? Geeze asshole, could you be any more vague? "I almost wish we had some excitement like that. It's awful lonely around here with all the buzzcuts gone." Come on, damn it, figure it out.

 

"If only I could send some excitement your way," Radek said, careful. And yes, yes! "Alas, I would not know how to begin."

 

"Doesn't matter," Rodney prompted. "That's the sort of thing best witnessed firsthand. It's never as good in the retelling."

 

"How... very true. Now, have you interrupted my sleep for pleasantries, or was there something you actually wanted?"

 

Rodney mouthed, Thank you, and good luck, knowing Radek couldn't see him. But it was a nice gesture. "Unless boredom counts, then I got nada."

 

Radek grumbled, "In that case, kindly fuck off and allow me to return to what I was doing," with beautifully authentic annoyance, proceeded to hang up on him.

 

~~

 

Rodney was pacing out front of the hangar when John pulled up in a base vehicle. The door opened and dumped him out; he left everything, lights on, keys in the ignition. "I came as soon as I could. You wanna tell me–"

 

Shaking his head, Rodney just hauled him for the jumper. Pictures worked best when there was too much to explain. The thought process alone that had led Rodney to make the urgent call... "This," he said, pushing his way to the front of the ship and stabbing at the display. "It all started with this."

 

John blinked, his eyes still adjusting to the light. "These are the inoperative systems, right? The ones that were hidden?"

 

Inoperative, god, maybe not. But hidden, definitely, and he might have noticed sooner if he hadn't been so focused on the damned weapons. "I can't get any further than the top-level view. I need details on this system—here, in particular." He was fairly sure he was right, and not certain at all that it was a good thing, in this instance.

 

Leaning past Rodney for the controls, John brought up the desired zoom. "Good?"

 

"Isolate this portion here, and zoom in once more."

 

John did. The component in question enveloped the screen, rotating in three majestic dimensions: a flattened cylinder perched atop a pedestal, with radiating fins and an opaque, glassy cap at one end.

 

Fuck, why do I always have to be right? "Please please please tell me those words say 'death laser' or 'beam cannon' or something comparable." Unlike the launchers, it was designed to draw a tremendous amount of power. But the system appeared to be strictly internal, without any aperture that would allow it to vent from the ship. That would be pretty fucking stupid, like building an ICBM in an underground silo that had no doors.

 

"I think... it's some sort of timekeeping device," John said, peering at the Ancient text.

 

"Well it has to do something important, or someone wouldn't have bothered to yank it out of the ship and stash it away under false documentation. That unidentified crate in the storeroom I was telling you about? The one that was linked to the trigger for Ingram's trojan? It's that device. God, you almost had it. The thing wasn't smuggled in piecemeal and re-assembled. There's no record of its arrival on base because it was part of the jumper."

 

John neatly summed Rodney's feelings as well when he said, "Holy shit."

 

"But that's, um, that's not why I called you here," Rodney confessed.

 

"Damn it, if Daniel was handy, he'd be able to translate this better. I don't think 'keeping' is correct. Tending? Making? I need a freaking dictionary."

 

"John." It was probably his tone more than anything that did it, returning John's attention to him with the force of a whip crack. "The device isn't our problem. The storeroom is."

 

"We can go right now and retrieve it. Hell, I'll fly us to the closest door."

 

Rodney amended, "Not the storeroom, but the vaults. I can't believe Carter didn't think of this and say something! Okay, look. Anubis' beef with Earth doesn't stem from the fact that the Goa'uld ruled this planet, like, eight thousand years ago. Sure, he'd probably like it back, but even more, he needs to stop the SGC from fucking up his plans and undermining his authority as a god—one that's supposed to be incapable of error. He knows about us, specifically. Hell, the last time he attacked Earth with the weapon that blew up our Stargate, he managed to disrupt electricity in the Mountain, and sent his surrender-or-die ultimatum directly to the gateroom."

 

"Before my time," John said, displaying the first inklings of apprehension. "But I've heard about the incident."

 

"If Anubis is rushing to Earth hoping to blast the shit out of us before we can secure defensive technology from the Lost City, he's not going to start by taking out what we consider our key strategic targets. He's not going to care if we launch our fighter jets, or point rockets at him, because he has the ability to level entire cities without leaving orbit, and he knows our weapons can't touch him up there. Hell, one of his generals took Jackson's old colleague as a host. Anubis had access to everything in her brain, all of her memories, all the information he could want about the conditions on modern Earth."

 

"If that's true, the SGC would be his primary target," John said, "except the base was built reeeally far underground for a reason, and have I told you lately that I hate the way your brain works? I especially hate the direction you're leading."

 

Rodney made a pained sound; it couldn't be helped. "Naquadah, Sheppard. High-grade naquadah is like... the Goa'uld equivalent of enriched uranium, but exponentially more powerful. And the stuff doesn't occur naturally on Earth, so when Anubis scans the planet, the only concentration he's going to find anywhere on the surface is in the Area 51 vaults."

 

John scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Motherfuck. It's gonna look like we're sitting on a weapons cache. Who's fucking brilliant idea was it to store that shit in the same compound that also happens to house the entire inventory of our space-capable fighters? One direct hit and we lose everything."

 

"So you agree that some freaking out is warranted under the circumstances?"

 

John was gaping at him... and okay, stupid question. "I already tried contacting the SGC. It's a dead end, for the moment. I've got Radek working on it, but it's probably safest to say fuck 'em and handle it on our own."

 

"Can't evacuate the base without time or authorization," John reasoned, "so the naquadah has to go. How much are we looking at? Will it all fit in the jumper? We could load it on board, engage the cloak."

 

Rodney's mind shifted through all the vaults he'd inventoried. "There's a case of raw ingots—the stuff is dense and heavy, will be a real bitch to move—but I'm more concerned about the devices that use it as a material component or a power source. I mean, do you have any idea how many naquadah generators there are in the labs alone? Besides, there's no guarantee that the cloak will hold indefinitely, or that Anubis won't be able to penetrate it. We've got to think of something else."

 

"On it," John said. "Is there anyone left in the labs to help you round up all that crap?"

 

"Night shift. Not many, but enough. If worst comes to worst, I can draft the security guards." They were contractor employees, not Air Force personnel, so it might require some hard and fast talking, but...

 

"Go. I'm going to scout a dump site."

 

"I'll need you to gain access to the vaults. The new security protocols require two senior staff, one civilian and one Air Force."

 

"Rodney, I'm not senior staff. Mitchell?"

 

"No, no, it's okay. I sort of made sure your name was added to the list."

 

John looked at him sharply, but didn't request clarification. Instead, he pointed out, "What we're about to do is extremely against regulations."

 

"Could even be counted as large-scale theft. We could be brought up on charges."

 

"Well then." John reached as if to clap him on the shoulder, but the touch fell light, and

 

lingered. "Good thing we have Canada as a back-up plan. Now go on, I need the jumper."

 

Rodney was spun around, nudged toward the hatch. He dug in his heels, "Wait!"

 

"The Nevada Test Site," John supplied, not even needing to hear the question.

 

But Rodney was still one step ahead of him. "You can't. One of the old nuclear test ranges is now a radioactive waste storage facility. And, you know, it would be sort of bad if Anubis blew it up."

 

"The NTTR then, where we held Black Flag."

 

"Are you kidding me? Doesn't the Air Force conduct live fire exercises there? It's got to be littered with unexploded ordnance–"

 

John pushed at him again. "It is. The whole area is off-limits, so there will be no casualties when– if Anubis nukes it from space."

 

Rodney rounded back on him; John's hands, which had been shoving at his shoulder blades, slid and landed on his chest. "And what are we supposed to do if you get yourself killed out there, stumbling around in the dark?"

 

"I'll use the jumper's sensors to cordon off a safe disembarkment zone. I'll be careful, promise." It was so unexpected when John darted in to kiss him, a brief clash of lips and teeth, that it had to be a distraction tactic. Then again, how often did John Sheppard make a physical overture that didn't serve a secondary purpose? "Now go. Meet you back at the vaults."

 

"I am so holding you to that," Rodney threatened, but backed his way down the ramp, and waited for the jumper to shimmer and disappear from sight.

 

He didn't hear the engines either, but he knew John was gone when the gust of turbulence rattled the hangar doors.

 

~~

 

It took two trips to relocate all of the naquadah. Rodney pressganged the night shift into helping consolidate the devices and load the jumper, but only allowed himself and John to fly out to the dump point, some twenty miles distant. Grodin had made some noise about no one else knowing where the devices were being hidden, until Rodney had pointed out that Prometheus' sensors could locate the stash. Unless Grodin wasn't satisfied being a mere accomplice and wanted his full share in the felony charges for removing dangerous alien technology from–

 

Yeah, Rodney hadn't thought so.

 

The glowsticks ("Chemlights." "Whatever.") John had used to mark the safe zone were fading in the wan, pre-dawn light by the time they finished securing everything beneath cargo netting and a camouflage tarp. Rodney watched with interest as John used the edge of his weird, multipurpose tool to drive retention spikes deep into the parched soil. "Is that going to be secure enough? If the Goa'uld thing turns out to be a false alarm, the Air Force is gonna want all their stuff returned in functioning order."

 

"What part of 'waterproof' do you not understand, McKay?"

 

"Yes, but–"

 

John stood from his crouch, dusting off his hands. "I chose a slope for a reason. In the unlikely event of rain, moisture won't puddle. And the cover will hold through anything up to and including a sandstorm."

 

Oh. Right. John had actual, practical experience in these matters.

 

"Let's get the fuck out of here. This is the last place on Earth I'd like to be standing when Anubis arrives, and there's no guarantee the timetable provided by Jaffa intel is accurate."

 

There was no fancy flying on the return trip to base. Not much conversation, either.

 

Rodney wondered if John was as tired as he felt, or if they were both too engrossed trying prioritize what came next.

 

Back in the appropriated hangar, Rodney was dismayed to discover that what was left of a pot of coffee had burned down to a dark stain in the bottom of the carafe. He sniffed at it, and promptly pushed the thing away in disgust. "Crap."

 

"Quarters," John said, trudging for the door. "I need a shower, and we should take turns catching some sleep. Use our pot in the meantime and worry about cleaning that out later."

 

"That is our pot. I brought it over while you were visiting Prometheus," Rodney protested.

 

John held up to give Rodney an expectant look, making it clear that he was conserving the energy that otherwise would have gone into repeating himself or prolonging the discussion.

 

It worked; Rodney gave up and followed.

 

"You want the first shower, or...?" John asked, but he began shedding the outer layers of his dirty uniform while they were still in the hallway outside their room.

 

Rodney wished he had more than fleeting attention to spare the lack of modesty. "Nah, go ahead." Since there wasn't coffee to be had, he went straight to his laptop and fired it up, leaning over the table without bothering to sit. "I missed the shift change. There are updates to review, probably a few squabbles to settle."

 

Hm. And a large, encrypted message in his in-box from Zelenka.

 

"Suit yourself," John said. The water was running not five seconds later.

 

The sound faded into background noise as Rodney tried the standard SGC key, then several of the stronger, less frequently utilized ones.

 

Nothing.

 

He slowly sank into a chair. Okay, so the message was both sensitive and intended for Rodney's eyes only; the encryption had been to prevent eavesdroppers within the SGC's own network. In that case, Rodney knew exactly which key Zelenka would have... yes, that was it.

 

Decrypted, the message was comprised of a video file and a single line of text which inquired: What in the almighty fuck have you dragged me into?

 

He considered waiting on John to view the video, but Zelekna's message was already a couple hours old, and the contents might warrant immediate action of some sort. Plus, he was curious, damn it. He cued it up and hit play.

 

The result was a low-res, monochrome depiction of the SGC's main conference room. Rodney thought at first that the image was frozen or stuck, until he noticed the time stamp in the corner, dutifully ticking away.

 

Surveillance footage. He was looking at footage captured by one of the closed-circuit security cameras... Monday, almost two days ago. Radek must have hacked into the storage server, and dear god but it was brilliant, far better than the diluted rumors Rodney had feared would act as their primary source of information. He skipped ahead until there was movement, then settled in to watch real-time as O'Neill, Jackson, Teal'c, and a man in traditional Jaffa armor—that must be Bra'tac—filed into the room.

 

They were met by a striking blonde woman in a blatantly civilian outfit, including ridiculous heels. Apparently nobody had warned Dr. Elizabeth Weir that the secret underground military base she'd inherited was full of hazards like staircases with open metal grating for treads. It made Rodney wonder what other details had been absent from her orientation, or if she'd even been given one.

 

On screen, introductions went around the conference table. O'Neill didn't look happy. Then again, O'Neill hadn't had cause to be happy, between the alien database eating away at his consciousness, news of a Goa'uld invasion, and the fact that his new commander was an untested civilian.

 

And a woman, Rodney's brain supplied. He was aware that Carter had taken some shit when she'd first joined the SGC, and Carter was one of them. Weir was in for a rough time, which might explain—but not excuse—her silent, strong-arm approach.

 

Hellooo, what have we here?

 

A pair of men in conservative suits joined the table. The younger had the obsequious demeanor of an aide, while the elder, tall with an imposing, almost entitled manner, seated himself next to Weir without invitation. Or, Rodney noticed, introduction.

 

Who the hell was this guy? His arrival sent O'Neill from unhappy to the realm of visible hostility.

 

"So you expect us to believe," the man was saying, indicating himself and Weir, and neatly wresting away control of the discussion, "that the very day the SGC is shut down for review, this Goa'uld Anubis suddenly decides to attack Earth?"

 

Bra'tac leaned forward, earnest. "This is the news I bear, yes. It was reported to me by Jaffa loyal to our cause, from within Anubis' own ranks."

 

"The timing couldn't be any more suspicious," the man sneered, dismissive, as if Bra'tac wasn't twice his age, with the superhuman strength to snap him like a twig.

 

Weir began, "Perhaps it is a coincidence, just as you happen to be here on the same day, Mr. Vice President." The dry twist of her lips made it an accusation despite her even tone.

 

Oh fuck. That's Vice President Kinsey?

 

"Overseeing the smooth transition of authority from the old regime to the new. And it's a damned good thing I am!" Kinsey said, glaring pure malice at O'Neill. "This so-called invasion is typical of the depths to which Colonel O'Neill is willing to sink to maintain the status quo. He'll do anything to see that this organization remains dependent upon him and his little team of miscreants."

 

Jackson must have had his hand on O'Neill—somewhere out of sight, holding him back—because the colonel looked ready to hurl himself down the table and claw out Kinsey's throat. "Mr. Vice President, are you insinuating that we would... manufacture a threat of this magnitude as a scare tactic?"

 

"Gentlemen, focus," Weir warned.

 

Kinsey continued overtop of her, "I'm not insinuating anything. I'm saying it plainly."

 

"Of all the– You've got to be kidding me! What in the hell could we possible hope to gain by it?" O'Neill demanded.

 

"Jack," Jackson warned, low and admirably impassive. Rodney could see it too, what Kinsey was doing, hoping to escalate the argument until O'Neill gave him an excuse to remove the colonel from the premises, or the SGC entirely.

 

Kinsey taunted, "You're the mastermind. Why don't you tell me?"

 

Rodney didn't notice he was being dripped on until a cold, wet splat landed on the back of his neck. He turned to discover John leaning over him, clad only in a towel and his dog tags. But that wasn't the interesting part. John's expression was the most perfectly dispassionate mask Rodney had ever seen him wear.

 

"Play it again," John said. "I need to see it from the start."

 

Shifting the screen so the angle was decent for both of them, Rodney did.

 

~~

 

After the second viewing, John sent Rodney to the shower and got dressed himself. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, about to reach for his boots, when he decided, Fuck it, and reclined instead with his knees bent over the side, one arm thrown up over his face.

 

Rodney found him there twenty, maybe thirty minutes later. It was difficult to say; John had been drifting on the edge of sleep.

 

"Hey. So, um..."

 

"Should catch some shuteye while you can," John suggested, unmoving.

 

He didn't hear Rodney pad over, didn't realize he was close until the mattress compressed under the extra weight. "Nah, you were right about the shower. Woke me up a bit. Cafeteria should be open by now. I'll grab breakfast and about a gallon of coffee, be good to go."

 

"Good to go for what?" John asked, the bite in the words surprising even him.

 

"Preparations," Rodney said vaguely, following an uneasy pause.

 

John curled upright, then kept going, until he was hunched over, just shy of dangling his head between his knees. "Rodney, you saw the tape."

 

"So? What does that have to do with– Oh, don't tell me you're siding with Kinsey. The man's full of shit and you know it. There's no way SG-1 would lie about the Goa'uld armada. If Sam says–"

 

"Carter wasn't truthful with us from the start, not entirely." She'd started issuing orders the moment she breezed in, maintaining the appearance that she had the full backing of the SGC—which hadn't been the case.

 

Rodney's jaw snapped shut. It was one thing for John to be unreasonable, but apparently Samantha Carter's loyalty was sacrosanct. "She probably didn't know," he said. "She was probably at Area 51 when Kinsey showed up at the Mountain. And who was gonna tell her? Jackson? Teal'c?"

 

Rodney had a point. O'Neill wouldn't have advertised an ugly run-in like the one that had occurred in the conference room. If he'd been forced to mention it all, he would have downplayed it like hell. "I don't doubt that SG-1 is right, that Anubis is on his way. But that doesn't change the fact that Kinsey is hell-bent on pursuing his vendetta, even if it means disregarding one of the worst threats this planet has ever faced."

 

"Let him! If that's his official stance, he's gonna be exposed for the idiot he is when Anubis shows up on our doorstep!"

 

John jammed his fist into the mattress and twisted sideways to glower at Rodney. "At which time it will be too late, because he will have succeeded in withholding vital resources at a critical juncture. Anubis or no, there's not going to be a Stargate Command by the time Kinsey's done. When this organization fails to mount any sort of meaningful response to the crisis, Kinsey will be the one pointing fingers and saying 'I told you so', while offering up SG-1 and their supporters as scapegoats."

 

"I think you're discounting one thing," Rodney said cautiously. "Weir's still head of the SGC. She's politically savvy; she has to see what Kinsey's doing. And she did turn SG-1 loose to chase after the Lost City."

 

"There's no way SG-1 left without Kinsey's blessing," John said. "Hell, he probably wanted them out of the way for a few days so he could solidify his chokehold over the SGC. Weir could be a political genius, but that doesn't give her the power to thwart the Vice President of the United States. If Earth lasts long enough for her to try, he'll just have her removed, and a more tractable puppet stuck in her place."

 

Rodney motioned. "So this is you... what? Giving up?"

 

God, if he had that much sense, John would be trying to figure out a way to resign his commission instead of sticking around to witness the fireworks. "This is me admitting that there's no longer a chance everything that should be done will be done. I was stuck on the delusional hope that the SGC would remove their collective head from their collective ass and send us some help. There's a limit to what can be accomplished by twenty geeks and a pair of flyboys, and I'd say we've damned well surpassed it already." The laugh that welled up was acrid. "Unless you know something I don't about loading ordnance onto the 302s."

 

"It can't be that difficult," Rodney scoffed. "Give me ten minutes with an instruction manual."

 

It was too that difficult, but John didn't have the fight in him to explain that there was a reason people made a career of knowing how to seat a missile, how to fasten every cage and clip and pin with an exacting precision that other people staked their lives on in combat. Loosening his fist, he stared at his hand blankly for a few seconds before patting Rodney's thigh—just once, hard, without allowing the touch to linger as he would have liked. "Try to get some sleep," he repeated. "You'll be grateful you did when Anubis arrives and the excitement begins. I'm gonna call Cam, give him the heads-up about Weir and Kinsey, then try to do the same."

 

~~

 

John considered himself an expert at finding sleep in the path of oncoming combat. Disengaging his brain in the midst of mounting tension was a knack he'd acquired through necessity; sluggish flying meant fuck-ups, and fuck-ups tended to be fatal in his line of work. Factor in a functional sleep deficit, and John stretched himself back out on his bed with the reasonable expectation that he and consciousness would soon be parting ways.

 

Wrong.

 

If it had been just the Goa'uld, it wouldn't be a problem. But every time he shut his eyes, he imagined Kinsey, passing him in the hall, or muscling in on a briefing. The way the man's gaze would begin to sweep past him, and then snag on recognition.

 

Aren't you Patrick Sheppard's son?

 

God, just when he'd thought he'd put this shit behind him. And despite Rodney's opinion of the Vice President, Kinsey wasn't stupid. Arrogant and narrow-minded, yes, but he had an absolute gift for ferreting out weaknesses and exploiting them.

 

I attended your funeral, as a family friend. Your father... his grief was devastating. It must have been a weight off his heart to learn that you're still alive. He does know the truth, doesn't he?

 

The smile he would bestow on John would be all bared teeth and scheming. He would request some negligible "favor" to set the hook; the real blackmail would come later, unless John moved first to take away his leverage.

 

He couldn't. Oh god, he couldn't do it. The only time he'd seen his father in the last five years had been to hold a gun on him in the middle of the night, and even that faceless confrontation would have been impossible if his fear over nearly losing Rodney hadn't spilled straight into fury.

 

Rodney. He knew he was approaching desperation when he considered going to Rodney, asking Rodney to fuck him. Just... pound his ass until the unfamiliar burn blotted out everything else. He might even be able to sleep after that.

 

The worst part was knowing that he was freaking the hell out over something that didn't matter, not in the short term. The future beyond Anubis' arrival was anybody's guess. He would have to count himself lucky just to survive long enough to be forced to deal with Kinsey.

 

"Damn it..."

 

He turned back twice before he made it all the way to the door, once when he noticed that his hands were curled so tight that his nails were biting into his palms, and then again to brace himself almost dizzily against the wall.

 

"Rodney? You still awake?"

 

But the common area was empty, and John could see clear through to Rodney's room,

 

where the bed was rumpled but unoccupied.

 

Okay, what the fuck now?

 

He discovered the note resting on the keyboard of Rodney's laptop. Couldn't sleep. Gone to cafeteria, will bring back some of those muffins you like. –R

 

A burble of laughter welled up, unbidden. Rodney was going to be so pissed that he'd unwittingly passed up a shot at panic-induced sex in favor of breakfast. Well, provided John was cruel enough to tell him.

 

Crumpling the note, John settled in at the table to wait.

 

~~

 

"So, couldn't sleep either?" Rodney asked, watching John devour his third muffin.

 

"Something like that," John evaded, reaching for juice to wash it all down.

 

"There's coffee, too." Rodney had walked out of the cafeteria with an entire thermal dispenser, and no one had raised a hand to stop him—probably because he had the manic appearance of the overworked and under-rested.

 

John's throat worked as he tipped back his head, gulp after gulp until the bottle was drained. "Thanks, but I'll pass. Maybe now that I've got something in my stomach I'll have better luck resting." He was doing that thing again where he wasn't quite meeting Rodney's eyes. Lingering chagrin, perhaps, over the fuss with the surveillance video, though it would have made more sense if they'd had an actual argument. The discussion had barely been heated.

 

Gripping his mug—John abstaining just meant more caffeine for him—Rodney wriggled his laptop closer with one handed. "What'd Mitchell have to say?"

 

There, almost a smile. "Nothing I'd care to repeat in polite company."

 

His in-box was full of the usual nonsense. He filed most of it away unread. "I left a message for Weir to contact me as soon as she was available this morning. I don't suppose...?"

 

John shook his head.

 

Yeah, he'd expected as much. "Think it would be worth the trouble of convincing Radek to run her down and hold the phone against her ear?"

 

A shrug. "He'd have to catch her alone."

 

"The restroom," Rodney agreed. Zelenka even had experience staking out the ladies' room.

 

"Nice try, but anywhere Zelenka could go, Kinsey would have no compunctions following." John seemed... not restless, precisely. Adrift. He scanned slowly around the room before deciding on the couch as if by random apathy, wedging himself in against the arm.

 

Unplugging his laptop, Rodney joined him, careful to set his coffee down on the floor where it wasn't likely to be kicked over. "Er, how long–"

 

"Wake me in a couple hours. Unless, you know..."

 

The deep-space tracking station on base should give them some warning when the Goa'uld arrived. Rodney doubted Anubis was reckless enough to plot the terminal point of the jump too close to Earth, not when an unexpected engine fluctuation could cause them to overshoot and drop out of hyperspace inside the planet itself. "Will do."

 

Eyes already closed, John made an affirmative sound and shifted for comfort.

 

There were about a million neglected tasks waiting for Rodney, but in light of the current situation, he couldn't stand the thought of throwing effort at trivialities. He'd downloaded the schematics for the jumper's weapons system, but that was another dead end without ordnance to retrofit; he'd already checked the base inventory and found nothing even close to the required dimensions. And yeah, maybe he could cobble together something from scratch, but not in a useful quantity, not in the time he had. Even with help.

 

That left the mystery device in the crate.

 

He still didn't know what to call it. Time Something-or-Other was too awkward. Besides, he was still clinging to the outside hope that it was a weapon of some kind, and not, say, an Aftermarket Space Muffler, like those vanity exhaust systems favored by the tuner crowd.

 

Maybe the name was one of those compound Ancient phrases Sheppard was always having trouble with. Anyway, it didn't matter, because someone must have discovered what it did without knowing what it was. It wouldn't have been removed from the jumper and hidden, otherwise. And if one of Ingram's flunkies could figure it out, Rodney could do the same—faster, and with superior intuitive leaps of logic.

 

He pulled up the blueprints and began to pick the system apart, starting from the most important interface to the jumper's primary systems: the power conduit.

 

~~

 

John was tugged awake by a jangling sound. He wasn't in his bed—was in fact not laying down at all, but leaning heavily against a hard, warm surface that turned out to be Rodney's shoulder. "Muh... McKay," he mumbled, shoving himself upright.

 

Rodney didn't answer, didn't even appear to notice, just continued to stare at the equations that seemed to have spilled off his computer screen and onto the half dozen sheets of paper that littered his lap, the couch, John's legs. The pages were rough-edged, ripped from a notebook; the characters splayed across them were the result of a frantic hand.

 

"What th'hell is that sound?"

 

Twitching, Rodney slammed his laptop closed as if concealing evidence. The last time John had seen a guy jump like that was when he'd caught half of his crew watching some chick flick. "What?"

 

"The phone, it's your goddamned phone. How long has it been ringing?"

 

"It is?" Rodney cocked his head, eyes widening. "Shit!" Clutching his laptop to his chest, he jumped from the couch... and immediately pitched sideways. "Ow, ow, ow, my leg's asleep!"

 

John was having similar difficulties—the crick in his neck wasn't going to go away anytime soon—but he managed to sprint over and collect Rodney's phone from the counter. He answered it, "Just a sec," before handing it off to the hobbling scientist.

 

"McKay." Rodney had halted a couple steps shy of the table, cupping the phone against his ear. John could see the instant his other hand went slack, the laptop beginning to slip for the floor.

 

"What, already?"

 

SG-1? John mouthed, but Rodney didn't notice. Hell, Rodney hadn't noticed John's heroic dive to save the precious machine from a high-impact rendezvous with a hard surface.

 

"How many ships?"

 

Oh, fuck... John snatched up the radio from where it was charging and crammed it in his ear. He clicked to– No, wait. If the Goa'uld had arrived, heightened readiness protocol would demand all radio communications jump to extra-secure frequencies. He switched channels and hailed Prometheus' bridge, demanding, "This is Major Sheppard. Get me Colonel Mitchell."

 

There was almost no delay; Cam was ready for him. [Major Sheppard.]

 

The nod to formality was astute, considering that official channels meant official record. Or, as it would be referred to during the court-martial: evidence. "Colonel Mitchell."

 

[Yeah, we see 'em. Picked them up on sensors at 1912 zulu. Three Ha'tak class ships, must've dropped out of hyperspace on the far side of the moon, sneaky ba– buggers.]

 

Wait. "Only three?"

 

[Scouting party,] Cam guessed. [Good news is, their posture isn't aggressive.] Unspoken

 

yet. [So far all they've done is assume a high-altitude orbit.]

 

No, a scouting party would have hung back out of sensor range and sent in light craft under cloak. The force's small size and blatant positioning screamed bait. "And the bad news?"

 

[What makes you think there's bad news?] Cam snorted.

 

"As if three motherships within weapons range of Earth isn't bad enough, I know. Sir."

 

[No, you got me, there's worse. They've taken up position over North America. The Western United States, to be exact.]

 

John belatedly checked his watch, the time of detection sinking in at last. Fuck, 1200 hours? Rodney let me sleep too long. "I bet if you dropped a plumb line from the lead ship, it would point directly at the SGC."

 

[Doesn't matter. They could take out the entire West Coast without twitching.]

 

Rodney must have been digesting the same news. The only difference was that he was free to shout and curse all he liked. John drifted away in a futile attempt to escape the worst of the noise. "Get your marching orders yet?"

 

[Negative. Condition is still standby. Don't think we're in any hurry to engage. This feels like a wait and see.]

 

"Understood. I'm returning to the ju– the gateship. Will be in conventional radio contact until then."

 

[Good. I'll keep you updated, major.]

 

"Thank you, sir," John said, understanding the expectation that he reciprocate. Somehow, in the middle of everything going to hell, he'd become the unofficial liaison officer between the clueless and the uninformed.

 

[Mitchell out.]

 

When John pulled the radio off and turned back to the common room, he discovered that Rodney had finished biting the head off his own messenger, and was collecting the strewn papers. He watched as Rodney crouched to snag a piece; something on it caught his attention so strongly that he didn't rise again, just rocked back on his heels, scouring the page.

 

"Hey. You okay?"

 

Rodney's indecipherable expression slid away, replaced by that odd almost-guilt. "Not really, no." He stood, shuffling the page into its place in the messy batch. "John–" he began, then thought better of whatever he'd been about to say and clamped his lips shut.

 

Yeah, they were both going to need some time for it to sink in, maybe compare notes. No matter what John had said about trusting SG-1, he'd still been hoping like hell that they were wrong about the Goa'uld. "I need to suit up," he explained, "head down to the jumper." Sooner or later, the SGC was going to remember that they had a ship with a cloak at their disposal, and when the order came, he had to be ready to fly.

 

"Jumper, yes." Rodney exploded in a flurry of agitated, aimless motion. He took half a step toward his room, then two quick ones in the opposite direction before halting dead to actually look at John for the first time since the call. "I'm coming with you. There's something I need to verify, and– It's just–"

 

John could have been ready in five, but he said, "Ten minutes. And Rodney... remember what I said about holding some of yourself in reserve. This is only the start."

 

~~

 

It took closer to twenty minutes for Rodney to get everything together. Rather than wait impatiently by the door, John lingered, fussing over his own kit. Even needless activity was better than none, and helped him push down the urge to snap, It's on the counter, where you put it down not five minutes ago, when Rodney couldn't find his notebook for the third time.

 

The oddity wasn't in Rodney's attention being pulled a million different directions, but in the way he fumbled the threads, and had difficulty recovering them even after he'd re-traced his steps. John had seen Rodney at work in a crisis, all mouth and no nonsense. This was the opposite, a potential indication that something more than the three Goa'uld ships was troubling him.

 

Then again, three Goa'uld ships, with the promise of more to come, was enough to put anyone off their game. And Rodney didn't appear to have gotten any rest. He was stressed and overtired; anyway, in John's experience, it was the ones that didn't outwardly react to pressure that were more inclined to suffer an unexpected meltdown.

 

The routine was so strong that John almost didn't notice when Rodney struck out toward the jumper shed. "New hangar," he reminded.

 

"What? Oh, yes, yes of course." Rodney pivoted as if trying to find his bearings.

 

If the sun had been lower, they would have still been standing in the shadow of the building that housed their quarters. And maybe it was an unremarkable tan rectangle in a row of unremarkable tan rectangles, but c'mon—they'd been living there for weeks. On an average day, Rodney could probably walk the path between the door and his lab with his eyes shut.

 

Eventually, Rodney started off again, and John fell in on his right, SOP. The weather was balmy for late January, even in Nevada, and John was glad he could get away with a lighter suit, and not the full anti-G rigamarole. Hell, he could probably ditch the helmet, too—not like anyone had ever drafted safety guidelines for the alien space-taxi—but a serious mission would feel weird without it, just like it freaked him out a little every time he sat down in the pilot's seat and fumbled for the non-existent restraint harness.

 

One nice thing about the new hangar was that they didn't have to leave pavement to reach it. Trips to the jumper shed involved a lot of gravel crunching under heavy boot treads; the noise could sometimes drown out conversation. The hushed way Rodney began, "The thing is..." would have been lost for sure.

 

When elaboration failed to arrive, John suspected that maybe he wasn't supposed to have heard. Maybe it was Rodney's way of cheating, convincing himself that he'd tried to broach whatever the topic was; and surely it wasn't his fault if John didn't pursue it. Well, John sure as hell wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. "Spit it out, McKay."

 

Or maybe Rodney's courage had needed the prodding. He spread his arms in a helpless gesture. "I don't know what's worse, the fact that we almost lost the technology, or the fact that we—I—recovered it. And this is purely conjecture at this point, because... I mean... my god! The Ancients took things like anti-gravity drives and hyperspace travel for granted, but this... this must have been bleeding-edge experimental, even for them. It's so far ahead of anything I've ever seen that I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the steps from solution to implementation. That is to say, if it even works. It might not. Okay, probably doesn't, since we're being honest. But the theory—I'm pretty sure the theory is sound, and that scares the everliving fuck–"

 

John's first thought was: Lightning. The dash of light against the sky was as bright as a bolt of lightning in contrast to a moonless night. The afterimage was a wide, almost painful streak across his vision. He flinched and brought up his hand, blinking through the burn.

 

"Holy– What the fuck was that?!"

 

It wasn't done. The second light pillar squeezed around the cupped shelter of his fingers; the next seven or eight that followed in rapid succession bled right through his goddamned eyelids. He groped for where he recalled Rodney standing, snagged fabric. "Down! Get down!"

 

Rodney lurched, yanked off balance, but if he protested being thrown to the ground, his cry was lost.

 

The sound reminded John of the whistle of inbound artillery, only increased and deepened a hundredfold. It actually dropped off the bottom range of his hearing, a suffocating wave of pressure that he felt more than anything, causing his eardrums to ache and the hairs on the back of his neck to raise.

 

One one-thousand, two one-thousand... How long had it been since the first flash? Five seconds? Ten?

 

Half-pinned beneath him, Rodney struggled to lift his face out of the pavement. John got an elbow over him and pushed him back down. "Keep your head covered!" It was eerie to realize he was shouting, yet unable to hear his own voice over the rolling booms of the consecutive impacts.

 

Then came the secondary explosion, and the slower shock wave that bucked the ground underneath them both, tossing John on his side. Hard. The elbow he landed on twinged with the promise of an ugly bruise; somehow he hadn't lost his grip on Rodney's coat, and hauled them close together again. "Are you okay?"

 

Rodney must have twisted to face John. John's vision was still shit, all fuzzy hot white spots, like film burned through by a projector bulb. But he could feel Rodney's breath, mingling with his own panting. "Oh fuck me! That was the Goa'uld, wasn't it?"

 

"Yeah," John agreed. The blast wave had already swept over them, and it was unlikely that debris from the actual explosion could travel twenty miles, but the instinct to get the hell out of the open remained strong and urgent. "They actually did it. They targeted the naquadah. Rodney..."

 

"Oh my god! If we hadn't moved that shit off base, do you realize what would have just happened?"

 

John did, but he doubted Rodney had fully grasped the ramifications. Otherwise, he would have sounded less outraged and more on the verge of puking. Even John's stomach didn't care for the narrow margin by which they'd avoided being vaporized. "What the hell kind of weapon was that?"

 

"Plasma cannons," Rodney said, pulling his feet in and rising to a crouch. "Big ones. Is it over?"

 

"Think so, for now. How are your eyes?" They'd each been carrying supplies; John began gathering the scattered items into a communal pile.

 

Rodney tried to help. When their hands collided, it was impossible to say which of them was trembling worse. "Improving. I think I fell on my laptop. Thank god I stole that impact-resistant field case from the SGC."

 

"Up," John said, letting Rodney brace off his shoulder to stand before passing him items to hold. "Gotta get to the jumper, do a damage assessment." The shock wave had packed the force of a moderate earthquake. Vegas had probably felt it. The public was bound to go nuts, thinking the military was secretly testing nukes in the desert again. Well... at least until the Goa'uld became common knowledge. "I think the base was far enough away from ground zero to escape major harm, but being underground, Prometheus' hangar might not have been so lucky."

 

"I hadn't thought of that," Rodney said, as if he'd forgotten to add bread or milk or something to his grocery list. He looked like he maybe wanted to help John up, but his arms were full.

 

No matter. John wasn't averse to climbing up Rodney's body, using his waistband as a hand hold. He took half of the load, and set out at a pace just shy of a jog. "We gonna need hazmat gear? Is the fallout dangerous?" The air tasted like dust and ozone.

 

Rodney hurried along beside him. "Shouldn't be, no. Look, um... about what I was saying, earlier..."

 

"It'll have to wait. I'll need you on the radio. Civilian head count, contractors too. Get everyone together in a central location. Put someone in charge, someone you can trust to keep them all in line and get nasty if necessary. Nobody moves until this is all sorted out."

 

"I never thought I'd hear myself say this," Rodney groaned, "but Kavanagh is the perfect man for the job."

 

"Good, use him," John said. They squeezed through the narrow space between the hangar doors, and the dim interior light reminded John that his vision still wasn't quite right. Shaking it off, he barreled up the jumper ramp, reaching for the neural interface before he even touched the controls. The jumper powered up obediently, the com already bleeping at him. He slid into the chair and answered, "Sheppard."

 

[Shep.] No surprise, it was Cam. [You guys okay? I was gettin' worried when I couldn't get through.]

 

"Yeah. We were caught in the open. Took us a little time to get moving again. What's your status?" Formalities be damned.

 

[No casualties, thank god. Shook up pretty bad. Ship's fine though. Sensors detected the weapons discharge and we had just enough time to raise the shield. Hangar might be another story. Can see some scaffolding down from the observation deck, and I got a couple teams of engineers checking out the rest.]

 

Behind him, John could hear Rodney arguing on the radio, probably with Kavanagh. "Rodney's herding the civilians together, taking a head count."

 

[I'll send you our list of accounted for. Now, you wanna tell me what the hell happened? Because I've got the SGC on the other line, askin' a bunch of questions I don't have the answers for.]

 

If Cam had been alone, John would have suggested, Tell them they'll get their information after you get your squadron back. Instead, he said, "It was a helluva light show. I counted eight or nine strikes over maybe a fifteen second period."

 

"The naquadah didn't detonate until near the end!" Rodney called helpfully. Then, "Somewhere central, I don't care– Wait. The cafeteria. Not everyone has access to the labs. I need a list, and 'I think I saw so-and-so in building three' isn't good enough. Nobody goes on the list unless you lay eyes on them in person."

 

"McKay thinks they stopped firing once they hit what they were aiming for."

 

"Naquadah has an extremely high energy yield! That's what would have caused the enormous secondary explosion and the shock wave!"

 

John turned around. "Rodney, don't make me interpret. You wanna just talk to him?"

 

Cam said, [I got a better idea. I'm patching the SGC through to you. Tell McKay to give 'em hell. Mitchell out.]

 

It figured that Cam would be a right bastard and cut the connection before John could protest. A new comm screen popped up immediately. "Rodney..."

 

"Sec, just a sec! No, I'm talking to– Never mind. You can't tell the contractors anything yet. Lie, you're good at it. I don't know, a... a mishap with an experiment or something. Emphasize that it's under control."

 

The new speaker was female. [This is Dr. Elizabeth Weir of Stargate Command.]

 

And oh fuck, until that second, it hadn't occurred to John that it could have been Kinsey. He was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to be civil to Kinsey. Caught off guard like that, the first words out of his mouth probably would have been the last words he ever spoke as an officer of the Air Force. He took a steadying breath. "Major John Sheppard of Area 51, ma'am."

 

[Major Sheppard,] she greeted. The slight pause could be nothing. Or it could indicate that Kinsey was there after all, listening in. [I was told I would be speaking to the acting head researcher in Major Carter's absence, a Dr. Rodney McKay.]

 

"He's here with me, ma'am. Once he's finished coordinating with his people on the radio, he'll be able to provide you with a status report for the rest of the base."

 

[Franky, Major Sheppard, I'm more interested in an explanation. When I received word that the Goa'uld had fired on your position, it was with the caveat that Area 51 had likely been destroyed.]

 

"Yeah, about that..." If John had been composing a post-mission report, the emphasis would have been on the mistakes that had culminated in an opportunity for casualties. But Weir wanted to know what they'd done right to stay alive. He tried to shift gears, reorder his thoughts.

 

[Major, I have the President of the United States waiting for an update, and you're the fourth person I've been transferred to, so you'll have to excuse my lack of patience. If you can't tell me what happened–] There was an emphasis on can't that made it sound an awful lot like won't. [–then find me someone who can.]

 

John shot a desperate look at Rodney. Rodney, in dawning horror, waved both his hands as he instructed via the radio, "No no no, no outgoing communications until we have our freaking cover story straight."

 

Well shit. "I can help you, ma'am. The runaround wasn't deliberate, I promise. Me and McKay... we're probably the only ones who know the whole story, because I guess you could say we're sort of responsible."

 

[Responsible for?]

 

"Essentially, the Goa'uld ships destroyed a decoy. There's this mineral called naquadah–" Weir had been doing her homework. [I know what naquadah is.]

 

"Well, Dr. McKay brought it to my attention last night that to the Goa'uld, high-grade naquadah is synonymous with weapons, more powerful than anything else we possess. Area 51 has– had an inventory of both the raw element and devices which used it as a power source. The problem was that–"

 

"Some idiot forgot that naquadah has a unique energy signature that's easily detectable from space!"

 

"Hey, if you want to tell this, be my guest."

 

Rodney must have finished on the radio. He slid into the second pilot's seat, informing, "So far, the worst reported injury is Simpson, twisted her ankle falling off a lab stool. I'd say we were damned lucky, but luck had little to do with it."

 

[Dr. McKay?] Weir said as Rodney sat down. She wasn't behind a camera, but must have been receiving video from their end; and that right there answered the question of Kinsey listening in. He wouldn't have refrained from comment if he'd had John's face to go with the name.

 

"The point Major Sheppard here is failing in his modesty to convey is that we saved the base. Oh, and consequently Prometheus and the entire fleet of F-302s, not to mention all those lives, so whenever the Air Force wants to commence with the ass-kissing and lavish displays of gratitude... Civilians can get medals, right?"

 

"McKay!" John hissed. "What?"

 

Weir said, [Now we're getting somewhere.]

 

Rodney's shrug was shameless, but he continued, "See, naquadah doesn't occur naturally on Earth. So the Goa'uld show up, scan the planet, spot the stockpile in Area 51's vaults, and assume we're sitting on a weapons cache—not the normal Earth crap, but the high-quality imported stuff. It's a legitimate threat, so what are they going to do? Launch a preemptive strike, blast the shit out of us first. Only the joke's on them, because me and Sheppard spent the entire night dragging all that naquadah out to a lonely spot in the desert about twenty miles from the base."

 

John added quickly, "Area 51 is located in the Nevada Test and Training Range. It's a restricted area, so there shouldn't have been any casualties on the ground."

 

"Nobody will even notice a few more craters in the middle of a bombing range."

 

"And I know it's against regulations to remove alien devices from the base, but due to the... pressing nature of the risk, Dr. McKay and I felt that it was appropriate to act without obtaining authorization. Just the two of us. So if there are going to be any reprimands–"

 

[Major Sheppard–]

 

"Hold on!" Rodney huffed. "It's not our fault that the SGC was completely unresponsive when we requested permission through the proper channels."

 

[When was this?] Weir asked sharply.

 

"Rodney– Er, Dr. McKay didn't recognize the problem until maybe... 0100 local time today. Would have been two in the morning in Colorado," John said.

 

"I radioed the SGC myself. I was informed that you were unavailable, despite stressing the emergency nature of my call."

 

[Dr. McKay, my staff has access to me day and night.] "You think I didn't try hard enough, is that it?"

 

Oh, that was it all right. But Weir deflected with, [I'm suggesting that there might have been a misunderstanding, or a simple breakdown in communication. If so, I would like to find the problem and correct it so that it doesn't happen again.]

 

John took advantage of the fact that the video feed cut off mid-chest to stretch over and give Rodney a warning kick. It was ignored, but at least he'd done his duty in trying.

 

"I'll tell you exactly where the problem is. I'm on the Vice President's shit list for a number of reasons, starting and ending with the fact that the jumper is under my control instead of his. The man wouldn't stop to piss on me if I was on fire."

 

"Join the club," John mumbled, slipping down in his seat. So much for protecting their inside source of information. They weren't supposed to have known about Kinsey.

 

But Rodney wasn't finished. "So before you throw around accusations of negligence, you'd better do some housekeeping, make sure that your people aren't answering to another authority. Because rumor has it that you're nothing but a hand-picked–"

 

John kicked him again, hard, not caring if it was obvious when they both jumped. "Ma'am, what Dr. McKay means is that the personnel at the SGC are very... conscious of the chain of command. You wouldn't necessarily have been informed if the Vice President had issued orders that superseded your own."

 

[I see.] There was a slamming sound that didn't bode well for whatever Weir was taking out her frustrations on in lieu of Kinsey's face. John rather hoped it wasn't the desk. General Hammond pampered that desk. [Gentlemen, I'm aware that my performance here is subject to significantly different expectations than that of my predecessor. But the job description hasn't changed, and I intend to do the same job General Hammond did, for as long as I hold this office.]

 

John would believe that when he saw it. Emulating the man she'd replaced would be the surest way for Weir to kill her longevity in power.

 

Rodney suggested, "You can start by having the Area 51 personnel on administrative leave returned to active duty—that is, if you want our ships to be able to launch when the order comes."

 

The silence from the other end of the line was both frosty and deliberate. Then, [I signed that authorization two days ago.]

 

It could be the truth. Or it could be that Weir had signed no such authorization, and was using his and Rodney's unwisely expressed feelings on the matter to dump the blame elsewhere. "There could be a simple clerical delay, ma'am," John allowed, as neutral as possible.

 

[Whatever the cause, I'll see that it's rectified,] Weir said.

 

"Soon," Rodney stressed.

 

"What Rodney means is thank you. And, er, I'll inform Colonel Mitchell to expect his people back? I'm sure he'll have preparations on his end to make." It was a cheap move to invoke Cam's name, but the more people John involved, the greater the pressure would be for Weir to follow through on what could be an idle assurance.

 

[Tell him tomorrow morning at the latest. I don't anticipate any further delays. Kinsey is on his way to Washington, now that the Goa'uld have arrived and the President has officially assumed command of the situation.]

 

I see what you did there. By mentioning that the President was in direct command, Weir had preemptively excused herself should she find her hands tied. The woman certainly was being thorough, covering all the bases, but he still couldn't tell if she was operating from an offensive or a defensive posture, and he was going to drive himself crazy second-guessing his own response. Even healthy paranoia could go a long way toward alienating a potential ally.

 

[In return, this is what I expect from you.]

 

Crap, here it comes.

 

[I'm forwarding my contact information, including a direct line that will reach me at any time. Dr. McKay, I want updates every four hours, even if you call to report that there is nothing to report. And I will be kept in the loop regarding new developments. Anything you would have told General Hammond, tell me. Do I make myself clear?]

 

"Yes," Rodney said, as if debating whether or not her demands were unreasonable.

 

In John's opinion, it could have been a lot worse. Then again, she wasn't done. "Perfectly clear, ma'am."

 

[Good. I'd like a finalized damage assessment within the hour. Will that be a problem?]

 

John glanced at Rodney, who still seemed distracted. "Shouldn't be, ma'am. We're about to conduct an aerial survey of the base. I can include the footage for you to review."

 

There was a slight scuffling sound, like Weir was gathering up papers. [Thank you, Major Sheppard. Dr. McKay. It's been... enlightening.]

 

"Likewise," Rodney said, without the heavy sarcasm that would have accompanied the statement if he'd decided to blow her off. That was something.

 

[Weir out.]

 

The comm window winked out of existence. John released a sigh, but only after he'd issued a couple non-verbal commands to be certain that the connection was cut. "Well?" He didn't elaborate; Rodney would understand the question.

 

Rodney was running his palms thoughtfully along his thighs. "Feels like we dodged a bullet, but I'm not sure why."

 

"Yeah." They'd been doing a lot of that. It was just a matter of time until they took one on the ricochet.

 

~~

 

"Rodney, sleep."

 

There wasn't exactly a lot of room to pace in their quarters, but Rodney had worked out a circuit, from the couch to the door to the little kitchen area and back, sometimes making a side-trip into his room. "I don't think I can."

 

"Would it help if I sat on you?" John was considering it just to make him hold still.

 

The threat didn't register; Rodney didn't so much as glare at John when he bumped into the couch and pivoted, preparing for the next lap. "There's still so much to do..."

 

"Out of our hands," John said firmly. Like it should have been from the start. He hadn't realized how twitchy the broken chain of command had been making him until it had been restored.

 

"Sure, Prometheus and stuff, but the missiles to retrofit for the jumper–"

 

"–won't arrive for a few hours at the earliest, and that's if the SCG had them in inventory for Weir to send." They'd been requested during Rodney's first official check-in. "You can't work on something you don't have."

 

Rodney was shaking out his wrists again. He'd been doing it so often that John wondered if he was developing a tic. "I could pull up schematics and start planning the work."

 

John reached out and snagged him just as he was about to shoot off again. "Sit." "But–"

 

"Sit."

 

Rodney did, but only after visibly weighing the effort required to dislodge John's grip from his pant leg.

 

Shifting around, John stretched out and kicked his feet up onto Rodney's lap to deter further pacing. "That's better."

 

"Waiting sucks," Rodney complained. He floundered for a place to rest his hands.

 

"It does," John agreed. "But you learn to endure it in ways that don't burn up energy you're going to need later." Not that Rodney would be expected to help prep the fleet.

 

Mitchell had been coordinating with Weir all afternoon; in his latest update, he'd voiced suspicions that she was actually some sort of super-organized bureaucrat disguised as a politician. If anything, she was exceeding her promises—the personnel returned to active duty were already trickling back to base—and the surprisingly sound plan they'd devised was to wait for nightfall, bring Prometheus out under the cover of darkness and park her smack on the runway to load the 302s.

 

It was going to be another long night.

 

"How can you be so complacent?" Rodney asked. The you wasn't directed at John in particular, but the military in general. "What happens if the Goa'uld ships fire again?"

 

"They won't."

 

"You can't know that."

 

"It's a test, Rodney. We're being tested. Anubis wants to know what he's up against before committing his full force. So he sends in three ships as bait. They make an aggressive move by blowing up our fake naquadah weapons depot, then they sit back and wait for our response. And the fact that we aren't giving them one tells them a lot, but the stalemate won't end until they decide whether or not we're bluffing. And believe me, when they do, it'll be obvious."

 

Rodney gave up, curling his hands around John's ankle. "We are bluffing... aren't we?"

 

John shrugged. "I'll let you know when SG-1 returns from their scavenger hunt."

 

"Okay, so, say Anubis calls our bluff and SG-1 hasn't returned yet. Then what?" Rodney

 

demanded, edging another surreptitious step toward panic. Enough of those sly shifts and

 

he would build himself up to a real meltdown.

 

"I'm not the President, Rodney. It's up to him."

 

"But if you were?"

 

There was one sure way to derail the circular thought train. "You ready to tell me yet what's so special about that other jumper system?"

 

Rodney froze. "What other jumper system?"

 

"You know what other system. The one you had me pick over with a fine-tooth comb after the aerial survey."

 

The forced nonchalance was painful. "Oh, that. Experimental crap, probably unimportant."

 

"So unimportant that you think it was the reason Ingram's faction sabotaged the jumper during my test flight?" If true, that would make it the sole reason he and Rodney had met in the first place. Damned right John was more than curious.

 

Busted. "I, uh, I did mention that, didn't I?"

 

"You might have let it slip in the middle of a stream of unfiltered rambling, yeah. C'mon McKay..."

 

"I can't," Rodney pleaded. "Maybe if Hammond was still in charge. He at least had restraint. But Weir... god knows who's really holding her leash, and if I bring it to the attention of the SGC now, I might be delivering it into the very hands of the people who tried to fuck you over to obtain it."

 

Like John could have forgotten. "I'm just saying, we could use the extra firepower right now."

 

Rodney tried to shift John's legs aside, without success. "It's not a weapon. It's potentially– Look, please trust me and forget about it for the time being."

 

"Is that the official recommendation of the acting head researcher in Major Carter's absence?" John asked.

 

The set of Rodney's jaw was defiant. "Yes, yes it is."

 

"Okay then," John conceded, easily enough.

 

"What... that's it?"

 

Frowning, John said, "You asked for my trust and I'm giving it to you. What's so difficult to believe about that?"

 

"It's just... well... if you knew the enormity of what we we're dealing with, you probably wouldn't."

 

John twisted and levered himself upright, his feet slipping over the edge of the sofa. "Jesus, McKay! I thought you would have learned by now, if you want my cooperation, you can't say shit like that! I'm practically obligated to–"

 

Taking advantage of his freedom, Rodney had risen to a half-crouch, as if seeking something to take cover behind. Stabbing his finger in John's direction, he said, "Sheppard, remember... there are no take-backs!"

 

Now that was just fighting dirty. "Damn it! If we survive this–"

 

Rodney edged away when John stood. "Full disclosure, I promise!"

 

"You'd better," John growled.

 

"I will. And then we can both figure out what to do, because honestly, this isn't a decision I'm comfortable making on my own." Rodney looked wary and hopeful and scared all at once, like the confession had cost him more than his pride.

 

For a long moment, John stared at him while he fidgeted. But in the end, there was nothing else to say but, "Go on, try to sleep." His own voice was more gentle than anticipated. "I recommend a real bed. The couch was hell on my neck."

 

~~

 

Rodney reasoned that sleep must have happened, because he was fairly certain it had been late afternoon the last time he'd shut his eyes. His room was now dark, as was the common area beyond the door.

 

Okay, so John was either still asleep, or he'd stepped out to help with whatever the hell that racket was outside the window. Rodney slid from his bed and tiptoed to peer through the blinds, but all he could make out was vague, hulking shapes. Aha, and that explained the slight sense of something amiss. It was true dark, not the permanent semi-dusk afforded by the multitude of spotlights that usually illuminated the base.

 

The blackout was probably intentional, given that Rodney hadn't been roused to fix something or take shelter. And he recalled John saying something about Prometheus leaving dock under the cover of darkness, which would explain the noise, but not how the crews were managing to load the ship without being able to see a damned thing.

 

He peered into John's room, but the atypically rumpled sheets played tricks on his eyes; he had to creep right up to the bed to verify that it was empty. Cold, too, as he found when he ran his hand over the slight sag in the mattress, where John would have slept.

 

The note was prominently placed, drawing his attention as soon as he switched on the lights. It said: Didn't want to wake you, you needed the rest. Left for recon mission 2000 hours. Don't bother calling, will be on full radio silence to maintain stealth. And don't worry, I'm really good at this kind of thing. –Sheppard

 

Rodney glared at the paper, crumpling it slowly. Don't worry, my ass. As if John could dictate such things; as if Rodney had control over his anxiety, justified or otherwise. Recon plus stealth equaled spying on the Goa'uld, which meant John's little tin can versus three warships. The only thing protecting him was a flimsy cloak that might prove worthless against the target in question—it sure as hell hadn't been tested!—but oh, there was no cause for worry, not with John Sheppard, trained professional daredevil, in the pilot's seat.

 

There wasn't even an estimated return time. Rodney wouldn't know when John was overdue, so he could stop worrying a little and start worrying a lot.

 

Mitchell might know. Or Weir. Weir would want updates that Rodney didn't have, so Mitchell it was. Rodney slung on his boots, grabbed his gear, and headed down to the hangars.

 

In the end, Mitchell found him. Or rather, Rodney assumed that was Mitchell, calling Rodney's name as he loped near. It was still freaking dark, and the figure was wearing a helmet with funny hinged binoculars pulled down over his eyes.

 

Oh, so that was how they were doing it. "Night vision, seriously?" "Yep," Mitchell said, flipping up the goggles.

 

"That's cheating."

 

"I know, it's great!" His manifest exuberance hinted at little sleep and an overabundance of caffeine. "Got my squadron and my crews back, and we're all cyborged up and getting shit done! Shame Shep's missing it. You wouldn't believe what that son of a bitch can do in NVGs."

 

If Rodney didn't know better, he would almost suspect he was being baited. To prove that he wasn't going to go there, he crossed his arms and answered dryly, "Fly expensive helicopters very close to the ground in the middle of the night?"

 

Mitchell must have grinned; Rodney could make out a flash of teeth. "Well, that too."

 

Not going there, not going... shit. Rodney's mind not only went to the land of scandalous, green-tinted sexual shenanigans, but it liked the view so much that it was considering buying a summer home. He sought distraction in annoyance. "Any idea when he'll be back? The asshole jetted off on his mission without waking me. All I got was a shitty note."

 

"As long as it takes," Mitchell shrugged, hauling them both out of the path of an errant bomb loader. "It was his idea, but Weir cleared it. He's watching the Goa'uld for funny business while we've got Prometheus out in the open. Our ground-based sensors will detect weapons discharge–"

 

"–but if the jumper is close enough, it can detect the energy build-up when weapons come online." Hello, who did Mitchell think he was explaining this crap to, anyway?

 

"And give us enough warning to draw fire away from the base, or at the very least get airborne with shields engaged to eat the blasts."

 

Of course it had been John's idea. It wasn't entirely stupid. There was just one tiny flaw. "If he has to use his radio to issue a warning, the Goa'uld will be able to pinpoint his location."

 

Cam's gloved hand descended on Rodney's shoulder, fingers digging in. "Don't worry. I'm sure he's far enough out that he would be long gone by the time they could intercept."

 

Right, because John Sheppard never took unnecessary risks. Wincing, Rodney slid away from Cam's bruising camaraderie. "I guess... he doesn't come home until we're finished, then."

 

"We?"

 

"You can't expect me to sit around waiting with nothing to do. I'll go insane. So tell me how I can help."

 

~~

 

Thursday

 

~~

 

There had been a time when John had thought he would never tire of the unfathomable solitude of space.

 

That time had come and gone, almost five hours ago.

 

He knew his sense of scale was fuzzy, knew the Goa'uld ships were many miles distant, so far away that at ground level they would have been hidden behind the curvature of the Earth. They were glinting pinpricks to the naked eye, but the jumper's zoom display was overflowing with their sharp, metallic angles, golden peaks and radiating spines. A starfish skewered on a pyramid, an unlikely shape for space travel, but the Goa'uld aesthetic had overcome the relationship between form and function.

 

Their wrongness made John uneasy just to watch them, even half-attentive, out of the corner of his eye. The ships had remained motionless the whole time he'd been observing, so he could only guess at how they would move. Frenetic and darting? A ponderous rotation? With stately, unanticipated grace?

 

John hated being surprised by his enemies.

 

Though, it didn't look like they would have a chance this time. His radio picked up the all-clear from Prometheus, coded and disguised among the millions of signals incessantly polluting Earth's airspace. Acknowledgment was out of the question, but he would be expected home shortly nevertheless.

 

He powered up systems, preparing to depart. The last thing he did was flip off the zoom display, wishing his unease could vanish along with the detail of the Ha'taks.

 

Once the rest of the armada arrived, the Goa'uld could expect a swift victory on strength and numbers alone. But still Anubis waited, with the patience of cunning born from a lifespan measured in millennia. That unsettled John more than the prospect of a hundred warships.

 

~~

 

With the 302s aboard Prometheus, John probably could have parked the jumper in the big hangar. But the base was filling up, returning to business as usual, which meant a place for everything and everything in its place. There was an odd relief to stowing the jumper back in its shed, as if reinforced routine could erase the anarchy of the previous few days.

 

It was late for Weir to be up and about, but John forwarded the footage from his reconnaissance anyway, for all the use it would be. He'd thought about time-compressing it—five hours of nothing down to five minutes was still nothing—but without Rodney, it would have taken him longer to figure out how to do it than to transmit the whole damned thing, and he was looking forward to snatching another nap, maybe getting his damned schedule back to where it ought to be.

 

And actual sanctioned missions means I'm back to writing follow-up reports. Hell.

 

The lights were up, so he didn't have to fumble his way in from the back forty. He'd informed Dreamland tower of his return while docking, and they should have sent the news ahead, but he decided to hunt down Mitchell and check in anyway.

 

It would have been Rodney first, except Rodney wasn't answering his radio. There was the outside chance he was still conked out in their quarters.

 

Cam was unexpectedly easy to run to ground. John found him in his office of all places, poring over charts.

 

"Shep! Come in, siddown."

 

John ditched his helmet on the corner of the desk and sat.

 

Fanning the pages on his clipboard, Cam said, "Can you believe this shit? All this tedious stuff I used to hate suddenly feels like Christmas."

 

"Guess that makes the SGC the Grinch, for taking it away and then giving it all back."

 

Cam grinned. "And you and me are that sled dog with the antlers tied to its head, doing all the dirty work."

 

"Shucks, I wanted to be the little girl with the bows in her hair," John drawled, managing to keep a straight face until Cam paused dead to raise an incredulous eyebrow at him. Then it was a short step from suppressing a chuckle to cracking the fuck up.

 

"Pretty sure the regs don't condone sharing that sort of information with a superior officer," Cam said, mock-severe, which only fueled John's laughter. Finally he gave up and muttered, "Crazy bastard," like the endearment it was.

 

"Yeah," John had to agree. "Hey, you seen McKay around?"

 

"Last I saw him, Kirkland was putting him to work. Think he rode the Batmobile back to the Batcave."

 

"Kirkland?"

 

"Colonel. Guess you didn't hear, Weir got us a proper captain for Prometheus."

 

Rolling his eyes, John reminded, "I spent the past six hours on radio silence. When exactly was I supposed to hear?"

 

"Point." Cam leaned to rummage in a desk drawer. He returned with a couple energy drinks, offering one to John. "How are the snakes, anyway?"

 

John started to shake his head, then changed his mind and snagged the can out of the air when Cam slow pitched it to him. "Quiet. Very quiet."

 

"To the calm before the storm, my friend," Cam said, and reached across his desk to tap John's can in a toast.

 

~~

 

It had been months since John had written a proper mission report. It was muscle memory, not his brain, that pushed his pencil across the paper, detailing the extent of the nothing he'd observed. The result wasn't even half a page, so he went back and padded it with mention of the cloak's first field test against Goa'uld tech. He rated it a tentative success, with the caveat that the enemy might have detected him and simply not bothered to engage. A small, unarmed scout ship was an annoyance, and a minor one at that.

 

He plowed through a meal, then kicked his boots off and settled in for a doze, keeping his radio handy.

 

It was still dark a few hours later when he was woken by the door slamming. He'd been dreaming of past deployments, but not the bad stuff he used to relive, sweating and chilled, in the little dangerous pockets that seemed to exist outside real time. This had been a good dream, faces he missed, grinning and reunited; it took him longer than it should have to shake it off, to let go.

 

McKay's stomping, aggrieved presence might have had something to do with it. There were more pleasant things to wake up to.

 

John rolled up on an elbow when the lights blazed on in the common room. "Hey," he squinted.

 

Rodney seemed startled, like he hadn't expected John to be disturbed by the racket. Which... was total bullshit, so perhaps that expression was guilt rather than surprise. "Major, there you are." He hid his hands behind his back.

 

"Major?" John asked.

 

"Colonel Kirkland got this funny look every time I slipped and..." Rodney began. Then, "Never mind. Nice of you to let me know you're back. And, you know, alive and stuff."

 

"I tried your radio. It didn't go through."

 

"You could have tried harder. I didn't spend the entire time buried up to my shoulders in a console, tracking down a short that rattled loose during the flight." Rodney paused, then backtracked. "Actually... "

 

"So just most of the time, was it?"

 

"Still!"

 

Screw it, he might as well get up. It was close enough to morning to fake it. John slung his legs over the side of the bed, straightened into a stretch. "It was a routine surveillance mission, nothing to get worked up about. I flew up there, sat on my ass for several indescribably boring hours, then flew back. End of story."

 

Rodney's mouth tilted down. "It would have been nice to go with you," he muttered, as if he knew he was being stubborn and petulant, but wasn't going to let it stop him.

 

So that's what this is really about.

 

Rushing on, Rodney argued, "The jumper's first real mission... and you said it yourself, it was a cakewalk. I mean, how many more opportunities like that am I going to get?"

 

"McKay..."

 

"Sheppard."

 

"You're right—none," John said, stalking into the common area. Barefoot, he halted in front of Rodney, noticing idly that Rodney's boots gave him the thinnest of height advantages. "Yeah, it was fun running around with you on those wild goose chases, but official missions are, yanno, official. I don't get to dictate where or when or how I go, or who goes with me."

 

"Bullshit," Rodney said. "Maybe under Hammond, but Weir doesn't know what the hell she's doing. You could have made it sound good, sold her on the idea."

 

John shrugged. "Probably. But if it had been my command decision, I wouldn't have let you go just to satisfy your curiosity. You're an asset, Rodney. Tying up your time for no reason is poor resource allocation."

 

"I'm what?" Rodney sputtered.

 

Much better. A pissed-off McKay delivered blunt-force candor, where an aggrieved McKay tended to obfuscate the problem. "What, do you think I prefer you grounded because it's safer? You waived the right to be coddled on your very first day at the SGC, when you let me shove you in a tac vest, strap a nine mil to your thigh, and send you through the Stargate to be shot at by aliens."

 

Rodney opened his mouth, but his indignation had deflated to the point that whatever the response had been, it apparently wasn't worth saying. He snapped his jaw shut again and regarded John warily.

 

"I'm sure Colonel Kirkland appreciated your help."

 

"I wasn't that much help. I'm not as familiar with Prometheus as some of those other guys."

 

John swatted at him. "Now you're just reaching for modesty." Unsuccessfully, he might have added. "Anyway. Now that I'm awake, I'm contemplating a date with a shower and a hot meal. Interested?"

 

Rodney brightened. "Like, a threesome? I didn't know you were into that kind of thing."

 

"Learn something new every day," John said, and delivered a slap to Rodney's ass as he sauntered to the bathroom, where he made a very loud and obvious display of shutting and locking the door.

 

~~

 

"I'm not saying what Ingram did was right, just that I can understand why he wanted to get his hands on the damned thing so badly," Rodney clarified in between gulps of coffee.

 

The cafeteria was back in full swing, and seating wasn't exactly crowded, but there was a cluster of Airmen at the other end of the table, close enough to overhear. "I thought you didn't want to talk about the mystery device," John said, darting his eyes in a warning.

 

"I don't. Hence the lack of specific details. This is about motive, something I've been giving a lot of thought to, because the pieces didn't really add up before now."

 

"Uh huh. Hey, you ever gonna return the coffee dispenser you stole?"

 

Rodney chased a bit of egg around his plate, finally skewering it. "Nah. I figure it's like one of those travel mugs you bring back to the store for a free refill. But enough about my larcenous tendencies. We're talking about Ingram."

 

Oh well, John had tried. "Fine, enlighten me as to his probable motive."

 

"Notoriety, accolades, that kind of thing. The money isn't bad, either. Ten million kronor works out to over a million bucks."

 

"You think he was going to sell it to the Swedes? And how in the hell would he smuggle something that big off base?" Rodney was headed to the deep end of the not-making-sense pool.

 

Now Rodney leaned in, to hiss in his conspiracy voice, "The Nobel Prize. See, here's the thing. The device deals with this beyond-theoretical branch of physics. The Ancients did the foundation work. But the SGC's researchers are under these massive contracts ceding intellectual rights to the military. So he wouldn't have been able to profit from tampering with the device here. What he could have done was study it, take it apart and probably destroy all the evidence, but not before writing up the research he would need if he was later going to unveil it as his own breakthrough. I'm talking like twenty years from now, after he'd retired and the contract terms had run out. It'd take at least that long to lay the groundwork, otherwise nobody would believe he could pull something so astonishing out of his ass."

 

John pointed his fork at Rodney emphatically. "No. Don't even think about it."

 

Laying his hand across his breast, Rodney gasped, "I would never!"

 

"Yeah, 'cause I won't let you."

 

"No, you don't understand." He leaned in even closer, "This is like being handed the research for the Manhattan Project in the year 1802, and then trying to decide if the world is ready for the atomic bomb."

 

The hell? Rodney had claimed it wasn't a weapon. "Jesus, McKay!" John said, jerking back in his seat. They hadn't had the attention of the trio at the end of the table before, but they sure had it now. "This is not the place. End of discussion."

 

Startled and guilty, Rodney glanced around as if he was just remembering where they were. "You're right, you're right. It's just... it's been eating at me, and the whole academic glory idea is preferable to imagining that Ingram wanted to use it. He could have; that might have been Plan A, foiled only by the fact that he wasn't able to steal the jumper and an amenable pilot, both of which would have been necessary. If you catch my drift."

 

John was afraid he did. Far more had been at stake than he'd realized when he'd been stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere, trying to keep the jumper out of Ingram's hands and find a way home. Suicide at the press of a self-destruct button didn't seem so rash as a last resort anymore.

 

God, it was too early in the morning for these sorts of revelations. John pushed his plate away, the remainder of his breakfast unfinished.

 

"Sorry," Rodney said, like he meant it. And, eyeing a slice of bacon, "Not gonna eat that?"

 

"Be my guest."

 

Rodney was in the middle of reaching for it when his radio chirped. "Now what?" he grumbled, fumbling on the earpiece.

 

A split second later, John's radio made the same noise. His gaze locked with Rodney's across the table, both of them frozen in place.

 

Other radios in the cafeteria joined in, but the sound was soon drowned out by chairs scraping back, people clearing their places amid the murmur of acknowledgments. John fitted on his own radio, but all he needed to know he could read in Rodney's face, morphing through disbelief and dread to settle in resignation.

 

"Sheppard here, go ahead."

 

It was Mitchell, in that unflappable voice he reserved for the special times when everything had gone to shit. [Spread the word, all personnel are hereby recalled to stations, maximum readiness. More than thirty ships were just detected exiting hyperspace. It would appear that Anubis' fleet has arrived.]

 

~~

 

Rodney watched as John darted into their quarters just long enough to snag his kit and helmet. And Rodney's hunch to block the door had been right; John would have tried to barrel back on through if Rodney hadn't caught him by the arm and pulled him up short.

 

"John, I can't– Half the civilians don't know what's going on, but if the Goa'uld are on sensors then news is spreading fast. If Carter was here, she'd be on her way to the labs with some bullshit, cooked-up explanation for why the SGC kept their own employees in the dark." Then she would still have her hands full trying to quell rumors and seditious activities. "So that's what I have to do."

 

"I know." John's arm was still outstretched, tethered by Rodney's grip on his wrist, but so far he hadn't tried to free himself—unless an expression that was equal parts impatience and pleading qualified. "I'll stay on the radio as long as I can. And if– when I'm sent up again, I'll tell you before I go."

 

"Do one more thing for me?" Wetting his lips, John nodded.

 

"Orders are sacred, I get that. Just remember that the people who make them are fallible. Watch out for yourself."

 

"Yeah," John agreed after a moment of deliberation, and if his voice was a little rough, well... he wasn't alone.

 

Rodney let him go, and was surprised when John only made it half a step before lunging back for a kiss that was sharp and bright, fleet as a heartbeat.

 

Another heartbeat and he was gone, and Rodney could have imagined that it hadn't happened at all if not for the sting left behind on his mouth.

 

~~

 

Rodney sent the summons ahead, but took his time heading for the labs. Of all the things the researchers could be pissed about, it would be most expedient if they were pissed at Rodney for making them wait.

 

He dressed in a fresh uniform—that would piss them off too—grabbing a notebook and, as an afterthought, a box of tissues and the pack of waterproof matches from his old  off-world kit before making the trek across the compound.

 

The morning sunlight was blithe and otherworldly, taunting him with the prospect of a lovely day. He was glad to escape it, pushing inside the institutional comfort of the main lab building, and from there into the milling, controlled chaos that resembled one of Simpson's more imaginative plasma simulations.

 

Rodney sort of wished he was military, so that he could yell at them all to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up with a chance of it actually happening. Instead, he was swarmed at the door to the miniature lecture hall, a half dozen people jostling him with questions.

 

Aw, screw it.

 

"Sit down and shut your traps! I'm not saying another word until I can hear myself without having to shout!"

 

The fidgety silence that descended wasn't perfect, but it was good enough. And if Kavanagh and company preferred to remain standing in protest, well, their loss. The chairs in the hall were actually quite cushy. Rodney picked one at the rear of the room, making everyone swivel around to see him. But something told him that he might not want twenty or so irate researchers between him and the exit.

 

"Thank you." He handed the notebook off to Kusanagi, who seemed put-upon that he'd taken her hiding place in the back row and made it the center of attention. "Tear off some sheets and pass it around," he told her. Then he made a show of yanking the remaining tissues out of the box.

 

Good. He had their interest, even if he heard someone mumble, "Looks like McKay's finally lost it."

 

Holding the cardboard container aloft, he raised his voice again. "I'm sure you're all familiar with the concept of a suggestion box. Stop groaning and hear me out! While I'm dispelling rumors and explaining our situation, I want you all to be thinking about any questions or concerns you might have. Write them down." He slapped the box on the table, loud enough to make Kusanagi jump. "Put them in here. When I'm finished, I'll address them in a fair and orderly fashion."

 

He swept a challenging glare across the little assemblage, thinking, They're going to hate me for this, so much. And, when there were no objections, That's kind of the point. Followed by, It's warranted. Only a bastard like me could find the prospect the least bit enjoyable.

 

"Okay. As you're doubtless aware–" Petrov had been on sensors, had in fact been the one to inform Rodney, and there was no way he'd kept his mouth shut. "–a fleet of Goa'uld motherships exited hyperspace about forty minutes ago and took up offensive positions around the planet. Here's what you might not know: The SGC had forewarning, but decided to keep the information under wraps until the threat proved credible."

 

Someone cleared their throat in an obnoxious, exaggerated fashion. Rodney could guess the culprit, but it would be hypocritical to call them out when he shared the same damned sentiment.

 

Pens and pencils hit paper, scribbling.

 

"We're still looking at a cover-up, until the Goa'uld force the SGC to admit at least the partial truth. To that end, communication with the outside is restricted. I anticipate the base going to lockdown, not that it will matter, because nobody in this room is allowed to leave."

 

Kavanagh's hand shot into the air. Rodney ignored him. "As for the Goa'uld, SG-1 should be on their way back from the Lost City by now, hopefully with some ridiculously overpowered Ancient we-win button. Plus, there's our very own Prometheus and the F-302 squadron, which could be ordered to launch at any time."

 

"Where do we fit in?" Kavanagh demanded, unable to contain his impatience any longer.

 

"That's a very good question. And, if you write it down and put it in the little box, you might even get an answer." Rodney checked his watch. "I'll give you... ten minutes. I'll even leave; feel free to discuss amongst yourselves."

 

He left, pulling the door closed behind him, and went in search of the final prop he would need.

 

It was closer to fifteen minutes later when he strode back into the room, an empty wastebasket slung under one arm. The researchers seemed to have put the time to good use; he caught them in a buzzing, gesticulating huddle, which subsided when he dropped the wastebasket on the table with a clang. "Are your questions in the box?"

 

Lee complained, "Is this really necessary?" but nevertheless stepped forward to add his folded slip of paper when Rodney crossed his arms by way of response.

 

"Last call."

 

There were only two more stragglers.

 

Rodney picked up the suggestion box, shook it. "Okay. Lots of questions and concerns. It's understandable. However..." The suggestion box went in the bin; Rodney jiggled out a match and struck it. "This represents the current state of affairs at the SGC."

 

His audience was too stunned to react when he tossed the match in after, and black smoke began to trickle out.

 

"It's not that they don't value our input, just that they're a little preoccupied trying to thwart an honest to god alien invasion. And by 'they' I actually mean the President of the United States, because he's assumed direct control of the situation. Dr. Weir is out of the game, which makes us so far removed from the game that we're not even spectators at this point."

 

The smoke thickened, with licks of flame cresting over the lip of the wastebasket. It broke the stupefaction. Someone shouted, "What the hell?" And, "You're gonna set off the smoke alarm, you fucking idiot!"

 

Huh, hadn't thought of that. Rodney calmly tugged out of his uniform coat, prepared to smother the blaze if necessary. "As I was saying, we're pretty much on our own. We're like a... like a tool that wants to be useful, but until we hear otherwise, our job is to sit here on our asses, and wait, and pretend it's business as usual. Unless of course one of you geniuses thinks up a way to defeat a Goa'uld armada with the limited resources at hand and about a two hour window for implementation..."

 

Kusanagi looked traumatized, and whoa, Rodney wasn't sure if it was due to his callous handling their predicament, or the fact that the bonfire was getting a little out of hand.

 

"Now that we've– Crap." Okay, bad move. "Just for the record, a metal object exposed to fire gains heat via conduction," he informed, blowing on singed fingers after he'd dropped the wastebasket on the ground. The flames went out easily enough, even if he did end up with ash scattered all down his front and the floor.

 

Kavanagh said, "McKay, you're a certifiable moron. You're not even fit to be in charge of yourself, let alone all of us."

 

That might be true, but you're an easily manipulated asshole, Rodney grinned right back. It reminded Rodney of his commercial R&D days, except replace "Corporate Headquarters" with "the SGC", and "isn't listening to our concerns approaching a faulty product launch" with "doesn't have time to address our concerns approaching the potential obliteration of humanity on Earth".

 

Hell, Kavanagh had seen the tactic before, and he still didn't grasp what Rodney gained by diverting distrust and negativity into simple anger.

 

"Right," Rodney said. "The written exercise is over. Now that you've had a chance to organize, evaluate, and articulate your thoughts, I'll begin taking real questions. Kavanagh, you just volunteered to go first."

 

~~

 

"The natives are restless," Rodney informed John over the radio. He'd retreated to a nearby office, far enough away to shut out their squabbling, but not so far that he would miss a major altercation. "I gave them something to cry about, but it's not going to last, because, well, geniuses." He'd also left Kavanagh nominally in charge before he'd fled to preserve his sanity. If anyone could keep those guys from doing something untoward in Rodney's absence, it was a good, solid company man with a hard-on for the rule book.

 

[I don't blame them,] John replied after a pause. [Is it... going to be a problem?]

 

"No. Maybe. I don't know." It could turn into one, once they realized all their talk about strategy and contingency plans amounted to zilch in the grand scheme of things. "They don't have a fucking clue—they've never even seen a Goa'uld! I had one in my head, and I don't have a clue, but at least I grasp the extent of my cluelessness. I mean, there's fuck all we can do now that's going to make a bit of difference when the Goa'uld start gathering us up like livestock. A month ago, or three, or six... sure. But this, I just..."

 

A fraught silence served as response.

 

"What the hell, John? This is the part where you're supposed to kick my ass back into focus, tell me I'm not allowed to give up," Rodney said, anger veiling his distress.

 

[I can lie, if you need me to,] John said at last, every syllable measured.

 

When Rodney jerked upright in his chair, his heels slid off the corner of the desk, falling heavily to the floor. "Jesus fuck, how can you–"

 

[You wouldn't have believed me anyway. I'm just being up front about it.]

 

"Forget it," Rodney snapped. John was right; he didn't want the truth, didn't want a reminder that there were worse potential outcomes than the subjugation of humanity. He didn't want to be slapped in the face with the real reason none of this might matter in a few days, or even a few hours.

 

John asked, [Have you spoken to Jeannie lately?]

 

"No," Rodney said. Had Rodney said goodbye, John meant. He'd considered breaking his own moratorium on contact with the outside, but the simple act of calling would have aroused her suspicions, and anything Rodney could tell her would only compound her worry. It was better this way.

 

[Then you haven't completely given up,] John reasoned. [You know you're in trouble when you start lining up your regrets, trying to prioritize the ones that can be fixed in whatever time you have left.]

 

Rodney wasn't that far gone yet, thank god. "That sounds like the voice of experience," he prompted, without much hope it would lead anywhere.

 

Strangely, it did. [I may have written a letter once, before embarking on a particularly dangerous mission. A fellow crew member, far more wise and experienced than myself, convinced me to leave it with my effects rather than drop it in the mail. I'm glad. It would have been a mistake, throwing fresh regret after old.]

 

A pretty fair indication that the letter had been addressed to John's father. "Was it, you know, cathartic at least to write?"

 

[God no,] John laughed, tight and dry. [It was exhausting. By the time I got back, I couldn't even remember everything it said. I got rid of it before I could give in to the temptation to read it again.]

 

Rodney could almost picture him, a much younger John, sliding the letter out from where he'd hidden it. Between the pages of a book, maybe. Burning it maybe, grinding the ashes into the soil beneath his boot when he was done. He thought about the notebook from P3X-423, the one John would have preferred he destroy, but had nevertheless returned to him that morning in Washington. Rodney hadn't cracked it since; it was more like a talisman, now.

 

[Huh, that's odd.] "What?"

 

[Looks like an incoming transmission, but it's not on the normal channels. I have to clear the comm for a minute,] John warned.

 

"Okay," Rodney said, not hesitating, but it was already too late and John was gone.

 

~~

 

Ten minutes later, John still hadn't reappeared on the radio, and a new wave of worry was creeping up Rodney's spine, depositing tension in the surrounding muscles as it passed. He knew he would be in for another needling headache when it reached the base of his skull.

 

There was a shuffle and a cough outside his door. He rose and opened it a split second after the knock landed, scaring the shit out of Lee, who was standing in the hall with his fist still raised.

 

"Okay, wow," Lee said, giving a nervous laugh. He clutched the hand straight to his chest without bothering to loosen the fingers first. "That was... unsettling, almost like you could read my mind or see through the door, or–"

 

"What is it?" Lack of alacrity fought lack of patience and won; it came out as a rattling sigh.

 

"Oh." Lee visibly yanked the leash of his wandering thoughts. "We thought you might want to know, the telemetry station called in an equipment malfunction. Something to do with the orbital relay."

 

Thank god, an actual straightforward problem. "Anyone on it yet?" Rodney asked, starting to drag him back toward the lecture hall.

 

Lee stumbled a couple steps backward before wobbling around the right way. "Yes and no. Dr. Kusanagi is looking into it, but I really don't think there's anything we'll be able to do."

 

"Bullshit," Rodney said. "The SGC's sensors are more rudimentary than what we have here. They'll be relying on us to flesh out the data they pull down about enemy movements and... stuff. We are going to fix it, even if it means hopping the signal to another relay." Which would take security access Rodney currently didn't have, and maybe an hour of labor, fuck.

 

"No, you don't understand," Lee stammered, shaking his head. "The satellite... it's like it's

 

gone, and it's not the only one."

 

Of course—of course Anubis would hit the satellites. They were alluring targets, so fragile and so necessary to Earth's communications infrastructure, and fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

Communication with the SGC wouldn't be lost, but it would be greatly hampered. Switching to telephone was out of the question; land lines were too easily compromised, and depended on shared network hardware that would be swamped once the public caught wind of the scope of the problem and started to panic. And the public would panic—maybe not right away, when conveniences like GPS navigation devices and digital television failed and cell phones went on the fritz, but soon after, when airports shut down and global financial data stopped flowing and media outlets were crippled.

 

There was no fucking way the SGC was going to be able to cover it up. None. But having that knowledge, instinctive and deep in his gut, made it no easier for Rodney to narrow his attention down, focusing on the discrete problem he could address.

 

The fiber backbone between Area 51 and the SGC could be used to pick up the slack, but it wasn't set up for that kind of thing and wouldn't prioritize traffic without first engaging protocols at both ends. The L band UHF system—shit, the name was one of those hideous military acronyms—might be a better choice. It was secure and flexible, had dedicated voice channels, and with repeaters in place could be pushed beyond the line-of-sight range restriction of a couple hundred miles.

 

Hell, permanent repeater stations might already be in place. It wouldn't surprise him. And failing that, there was the– The jumper.

 

"Dr. McKay?" Lee asked, clearly concerned that the lunatic who'd been propelling them both down the hall seconds before was now dragging behind like an anchor.

 

Rodney crossed his fingers and tapped his radio. "John?"

 

Three seconds, five, nothing. Then, [Yeah, I'm here. Did you hear about the–] "The satellites," Rodney finished for him. "Yes. But tell me anyway."

 

[It's Death Gliders doing the damage, not the Ha'taks. We don't know if Anubis is targeting the satellites he's observed exchanging transmissions with this continent, or if he's just blasting the shit out of everything in sight. Either way, it's a good bet that this is our final warning. Once he pulls his short-range fighters back on board...]

 

The Goa'uld will be clear to open up with his big guns.

 

[The SGC still has comms with Prometheus,] John continued. [They're working on a more permanent fix.]

 

Rodney didn't like the way Lee was staring at him, so he turned his back on the man and dropped his voice a notch. "Remember, communications is—was—my specialty. I could–"

 

[It's under control,] John said, firm. [The Air Force does have contingency plans in place for this sort of thing. Hell, they were probably working on it before you or I even knew there was anything wrong.]

 

"Maybe," Rodney allowed. "But–"

 

[Fine, let me rephrase: I need you to stay low and keep out of the way. And I don't have time to argue about this. I'm about to go to radio silence again.]

 

It had been inevitable that the jumper would be sent back up. Rodney knew that, but there was still a portion of him that was caught unprepared, as if on top of everything else, the news was too much, too soon. "But–"

 

[President's orders. We need eyes on those ships.]

 

"Fat lot of good it will do us! You'll have to break silence and give away your location to provide updates," Rodney snapped, recognizing his tone as the one he normally reserved for informing people that they were being stupid and wrong. John deserved it; Rodney understood the impetus behind the kiss now, a silent parting vow that could stand in for a formal goodbye if the worst came to pass.

 

[I'm aware,] John fired back, equally terse. [It's my judgment call to make. Rodney, listen to me. I'm out of time. Prometheus will launch. Don't... don't go up with her, okay? They shouldn't need you, but don't do something crazy like volunteer.]

 

"John..." Lee cleared his throat, reminding Rodney acutely that he had an audience. "Mitchell will be on board," he said, subdued.

 

[Cam's Air Force,] John reminded, as if duty could abate the potential for tragedy. [He knew what he was getting into when he signed on the dotted line. We all did.]

 

Like hell any of them had signed up for this. Thirty ships to one was suicide odds. Rodney just wished John had allowed him to cling to the clean, dispassionate numbers, rather than forcing him to calculate in terms of human cost. Even if Prometheus was running a skeleton crew, that was a couple dozen souls, plus the 1st SFW. A shield malfunction or a string of unlucky hits could wipe them all out in the blink of an eye.

 

[McKay?]

 

"Yeah," Rodney managed, his throat constricting on the word. "I promise. Now your turn. Stay safe."

 

[I'll do my best,] John said, and the radio went quiet.

 

When he turned back, Rodney caught Lee regarding him with apprehension, as if in the absence of information he thought he should base his reaction off Rodney's, but couldn't read Rodney well enough to do it. Rodney wasn't inclined to do him any favors, make it easier for him. "Go tell the others it's being handled. Tell them: We wait."

 

~~

 

The truth was, John's surveillance mission had been fucked from the moment he'd opened his comm and heard, [Major Sheppard, this is Henry Hayes, President of the United States.]

 

Christ, the man had been Commander in Chief for less than a month. Was a little

 

one-on-one pep talk supposed to make John feel better about flying into the teeth of thirty heavily armed warships with no support and no offensive capabilities? For that matter, where were the man's advisers, the Joint Chiefs, General Hammond? Why couldn't he have put someone on the damned radio who remembered how to issue a damned order? Instead, John had gotten a rambling conversation that had unfolded like an outline for a damned field trip.

 

The President hadn't even had the grace to sound anxious. Either he was too consummate a politician to drop the candid, jovial act, or they had him strung out on tranquilizers. Maybe both.

 

The result was full autonomy for John, where he would have preferred the assurance of things like a clear objective, an acceptable time-frame in which to complete it, and the conditions which would signify failure.

 

Okay, John could probably figure out the failure part on his own: being detected; being shot down; being detected and incapacitated and pulled on board one of the Ha'taks to be implanted with a symbiote, then returned to Earth as the perfect double agent, with the additional threat of a Goa'uld that could operate Ancient tech.

 

It was perversely comforting to know there were worse outcomes than death.

 

With the satellites gone, the radio between him and Washington was having to bounce through Prometheus. Colonel Kirkland had seemed solid enough when John had touched in briefly, and since he would be John's de facto commander in the field, it was expedient that he was able to eavesdrop on John's orders directly, rather than hear them filtered the wrong way up the chain of command. Awkward didn't even begin to describe the thought of having to contradict a superior officer with the words, Well sir, the President said...

 

Then again, President Hayes had actually referred to the Goa'uld as "the bad guys". So fuck it—if the call came and Kirkland needed him, John would consider his previous instructions countermanded.

 

Major, I want you to go up there and... keep an eye on things.

 

Things. How specific. John presumed he'd meant the Ha'taks, but the Death Gliders currently represented the only movement worth noting. They idled in small clusters around their behemoth parent ships, occasionally sweeping out in bored-looking patrols that forced John to maintain his distance. Mid-air collisions were a persistent danger even when all ships in the vicinity were visible on sensors; John didn't trust his proximity alarms to warn him with enough time to get the fuck out of the way if something came at him fast and oblivious.

 

He'd relegated sensors to one corner of his display. The rest was filled with energy readings (flat and uninteresting), a tracking history of the patrol patterns (seemingly random), and close-camera views of the space immediately surrounding the jumper (speckled with drifting debris from the satellites). Should have been more than enough to consume his attention, but he kept having to yank it back with a vengeance, whole minutes lost to the silent, empty expanse in his own head.

 

What he wouldn't give to be able to hit up Mitchell on the radio, trade some bullshit and maybe crack a few jokes. This solo crap was like solitary confinement, without the relief of being able to shut down hyper-aware senses that strained against the lack of input.

 

John had done solitary in SERE training. It wasn't an experience he'd wanted to repeat.

 

Another patrol arced out. He thought it was Foxtrot, maybe. He'd thought about assigning them names, but his creativity had abandoned him. Rodney wouldn't have had that problem, though he probably would have borrowed from comic book villains or breakfast cereal mascots. Snap Crackle and Pop. Toucan Sam. Tony the Tiger. It would be kind of awesome to inadvertently commit that shit to posterity. If Anubis' invasion even made it into the history books; if the history books weren't written in Goa'uld, after today.

 

Fresh patrols suggested the Death Gliders wouldn't be recalled soon. He wondered what the holdup was, why Anubis was being such a fucking cocktease, flaunting his big guns and then doing nothing with them. Then again, there could be frenzied negotiations taking place, bluffs and posturing eking out a precious delay. Anubis had to have been in contact with someone on Earth important enough to befit his own ego. Maybe Weir at the SGC, or—god forbid—Hayes.

 

John's radio made a polite tone of inquiry. It required conscious effort against training and habit to forgo an immediate reply.

 

[Major Sheppard, this is General Hammond. I hope you're listening.]

 

Holy shit. Hammond's voice was an unexpected oasis of reason. Maybe they were going to make it out of this clusterfuck in one piece after all.

 

[Be advised, we have received word from SG-1. They are inbound, ETA approximately four zero minutes. Destination Antarctica. Seems they found evidence of something interesting down there beneath the ice.]

 

John didn't dare speak aloud. The jumper might interpret it as an instruction to open his mic. Fuck, they went half way across the galaxy just to tell us that what we've been looking for has been on Earth the entire time? I suppose it would be too easy if they sent the coordinates ahead so we could start digging out whatever it is. And how the hell do they think they're going to squeeze through Anubis' blockade?

 

[Prometheus has just launched to run interference, with myself at the helm. Safeguarding SG-1's reentry and mission is now our top priority. They will be exiting hyperspace beneath the Goa'uld fleet, and we need to be in position when they arrive. The second we pick them up on sensors, so will Anubis.]

 

By then, SG-1 should have reached the relative safety of the atmosphere—relative because the motherships probably wouldn't follow, but Anubis had plenty of smaller ships that would. The Death Gliders and Al'kesh didn't pack as much firepower, but Prometheus would have her hands full on numbers alone. And incidentally, why the hell was Hammond on the bridge? Prometheus had a captain, a competent one by Cam's assessment. The general was perhaps the only person on Earth with a comprehensive understanding of both sides of the conflict: defensive capabilities, offensive capabilities, tactics. He could issue orders just as easily from a secure bunker somewhere. Where was the sense in putting one of their most valuable assets on the front line?

 

So much for the hope of Hammond steering them clear of this clusterfuck. He was mired in it right along with everyone else.

 

[Major, with the satellites down, SG-1 may have a difficult time determining their position when they break hyperspace. We could use you on lookout. The Gateship's sensors stand a good chance of spotting them before Prometheus does. Hold your position until one eight three five zulu, then rendezvous eight zero miles south south-east of McMurdo Station.]

 

John pulled up a map, homed in on the rendezvous point. Crap, that was practically in McMurdo's back yard. There was no way they weren't going to be picked up on radar.

 

[Hammond out.]

 

Gone, just like that. John checked his watch, checked the jumper's clock, which had been laboriously convinced to keep time according to Earth standards. Twelve minutes. He could do twelve minutes. Twelve minutes was blink-and-you-miss-it easy. He did blink then, rubbing at his eyes once, hard, while he commanded the jumper to bring the window showing the Goa'uld ships into wide display.

 

The Death Glider patrols were coalescing into squads; a pair of Al'kesh peeled away from the jumble of the fleet to fall into formation.

 

Fuck.

 

He watched for a moment longer to be certain of what he was seeing, and saved a series of reference photos to back up his claim, should it be necessary. Then he broke position early, diving for the planet, away from the rendezvous point and away from the lazy, almost gentle falling trajectory of the Goa'uld attack squadron. Light fighters and mid-range bombers—it could be nothing else.

 

He would be detected the instant he transmitted. John opened his comm. "Prometheus, this is Gateship. I have two Al'kesh and sixteen Death Gliders breaking away from the main force. They are entering the atmosphere, trajectory puts them on an intercept course with your ship. Imagery to follow. Please respond."

 

Prometheus' radio was open for long seconds before Hammond replied. John could hear the racket in the background being smoothed into submission by his precise, almost genteel orders, calling for weapons, for shields. Then, [Major Sheppard, we tally. We're tracking their approach on sensors. Seems Anubis noticed our launch.]

 

Great Just fucking great. Anubis wasn't going to have to detect SG-1's reentry. Prometheus was going to lead him right to them.

 

[Imagery received, major. Good job. Continue to break away from the rendezvous point until radio silence is reestablished.]

 

"Acknowledged." If something was going to chase John, it would have started in his direction by now. The Goa'uld had to know he was a cloaked, moving target; his radio transmissions were transient evidence of his passing, like footprints in sand. The attack squad wasn't adjusting its course to intercept, or splitting to pursue multiple targets. It was ignoring the jumper. In fact... "Sir, the Goa'uld attack squadron is maintaining speed and formation. I don't–"

 

[We have them on visuals, major.] Hammond barked to the helm, [Prepare for contact.]

 

Fuck, they aren't slowing. "Sir," John cautioned, "I don't think they intend to engage Prometheus."

 

Sure enough, a few seconds later, there was an explosion of confusion on the bridge as the Goa'uld ships scraped almost directly beneath Prometheus and kept going. The helm requested instructions; Hammond drowned them out with a demand for clarification. John heard someone say, as if offended, [They never came within weapons range, sir.]

 

[Major Sheppard,] Hammond began, volume reset back to normal, all reactionary emotion purged from his voice.

 

John tried to do the same, but the words caught in a dry throat. "Sir, I think their target is Area 51."

 

~~

 

Come on come on come on come on come on...

 

No response. Why the fuck was there no response? John had a rendezvous to make. There wasn't time-

 

[Sheppard.] Rodney sounded breathless. [What the hell's going on out there? We heard Prometheus launch—at least I'm pretty sure that's what that noise was—but no one will tell us anything. I can't even get through-]

 

"Rodney, I need you to shut up and listen. We think Area 51 is going to come under attack–"

 

[What?]

 

"Soon. Al'kesh and Death Gliders en route to your position."

 

If anything, the quaver dropped from Rodney's voice, at the same time he almost whispered, [It won't be a problem, right? The 302s can handle it... right?]

 

John continued right on top of him, "Cam's 302s are staying with Prometheus. We're headed to Antarctica to support SG-1 when they drop out of hyperspace."

 

[You mean they left the base unguarded?] It was still quiet but a hiss now; Rodney must have been trying to conceal the conversation from a potential audience. [Jesus, that's just– Why in the hell would the Goa'uld send ships when they could blast the shit out of this place from orbit?]

 

"They probably pinpointed it as Prometheus' origin, think it's a shipyard." No wonder they were moving quickly, hoping to catch other Earth ships still vulnerable in dock. "Anubis knows we have access to Asgard tech at the very least. The Goa'uld probably want to scavenge whatever they think we're sitting on. You have to prepare for the possibility of Jaffa on the ground. It's too late to run. Take everyone to cover. Go deep. There have to be reinforced labs somewhere–"

 

[Yeah,] Rodney said, as if by rote, as if not actually comprehending the instructions. [Yeah, okay.]

 

"Hammond's working on getting you some help from Nellis, but it'll take a few minutes to scramble fighters, and when they start loosing ordnance, their primary concern won't be for friendly units underfoot. There's a potential for blue-on-blue casualties. Rodney, are you moving?"

 

[Yeah, working on it.] There were other sounds beneath his words now, the scrapes of furniture and the murmur of a compressing crowd.

 

"Stay safe," John prayed. [John–]

 

He slammed the connection shut with a thought, and shoved Area 51's plight far to the back of his mind, where it could rattle around without encroaching on his immediate concentration for the mission. It was discipline allowed by training, by conditioning and long experience, and he'd never been so grateful to fall back on it in his entire life.

 

Radio silence reestablished, he executed a hard turn and burned off in the direction of the rendezvous, willing ever greater speed out of the jumper's laboring engines.

 

~~

 

"We should arm ourselves," Kavanagh repeated, hurrying to keep up with the pace Rodney was setting.

 

"With what?" Rodney snapped, patience expended on the previous argument, the one about weapons being useful only if you knew how to accurately fire them. Except he'd had to frame it in a comparison that even Kavanagh couldn't fail to understand, so he'd likened them all to Imperial Stormtroopers and been done with it. Or so he'd thought. "There are no zats or staff weapons in inventory. The SGC keeps them all under lock and key in their armory. But, you know, if you do manage to find one of the absent security contractors–" Rodney assumed they were still on base somewhere, but all their posts were abandoned, "–by all means, ask them to hand over their rifle. I'd love to see how that works out for you."

 

"I'm just saying–"

 

"The isolation labs," Rodney said, pointing down a branching corridor, even as he slowed but didn't alter his own course. "They're built to contain hazardous materials, up to and including fires and explosions. So it stands to reason they'll keep that shit out, too." So long as the building didn't withstand a direct hit from a bunker buster, the scientists should be safe there. "Once everyone is inside, lock the door and stay quiet. Don't move until someone comes to get you. It could take a while if there's debris from the attack blocking the halls."

 

Kavanagh paled. "What, me? Where the hell are you going?" He probably meant it to sound every bit the accusation it did.

 

"I have to do something for Major Sheppard," Rodney lied. "Lock the door, don't wait for me." He motioned down the corridor again before spinning around into a jog, refusing to glance back over his shoulder to see if any of them were stupid enough to follow.

 

~~

 

Screw flexibility. In John's opinion, having the time and intel and foresight to plan through an appropriate level of contingencies was preferable to being forced to adapt in the field.

 

Like this shit with SG-1. He was at the rendezvous point. Prometheus was closing steadily, despite taking the scenic route over the ocean in a bid to avoid being spotted by land-based radar. (The loss of the satellites was working in the SGC's favor, for once.)

 

So where were the stars of the show?

 

[Gateship, do you have them on sensors yet?]

 

Negative, John thought at radio, because damned if he was going to transmit and give away his position without something pertinent to report.

 

As he understood it from Rodney's explanations, hyperspace was an exact science. If SG-1

 

-– meaning Carter—had said they would be here, they should be here. Where the fuck was here, anyway?

 

John had been too busy hauling ass to take in the terrain. He did so now, as well as he could from his vantage of five thousand feet. There was a fucking lot of ice beneath him, but it wasn't the featureless white he'd half expected. Regardless of the solid state, it was still a large body of water; aquatic blues and greens shimmered in the ceaseless summer sun, disconcerting as any mirage.

 

His trained pilot's eye could pick out geographic features in the near distance, wind-scoured rock that appeared as dark scratches against the lighter field. His sense of scale was beyond fucked though, with his vision threatening to white out from the glare, and the added promise of a brewing headache. He dimmed the jumper's viewing port, almost wishing for darkness and a landscape artificially flattened by the familiar green cast lent by night vision goggles.

 

Wait. Whoa, wait just a minute.

 

There was nothing beneath him but ice. John cursed internally, scouting with the jumper's sensors even as he called up a map. Detail for the area was poor—one of those contingencies he'd failed to anticipate was navigating across fucking Antarctica the old fashioned way—but it was still apparent that he was some twenty or thirty miles off the coast, smack on top of the Ross Ice Shelf. The sensor readings confirmed it: there was solid ground down there, deep, but it was the fucking ocean floor.

 

Either I'm in the wrong goddamned spot, or SG-1 is going to be shit out of luck trying to reach whatever they're after.

 

He prayed it was the former. After all, SG-1 had traveled half way across the galaxy to gain intel that was god only knew how many thousands of years out of date. Landforms changed shape and coastlines shifted; SG1's target might have been built on dry land, but that didn't mean the ocean hadn't swallowed it up in the intervening millennia.

 

Proximity alarms rang as a ship blinked into existence to his west. It was losing altitude at a dangerous rate, not just falling but plummeting well in excess of terminal velocity. Exiting hyperspace too close to a planet was, apparently, much like being shot out of a cannon that was aimed directly at the ground.

 

John tracked its progress, worrying his bottom lip as he watched it struggle to decelerate, the altitude reading spinning down with dizzying speed. Ten thousand feet. Six. Three. One... and holding. The ship bottomed out of its dive and skimmed off, adjusting its course. Whoever was at the controls was one hell of a pilot; John might have needed a change of underwear after a stunt like that.

 

He opened his comm once he was certain that the distraction wouldn't have lethal results for the ship and crew. "This is Gateship. Unknown craft, heading two one zero degrees, identify yourself."

 

~~

 

John would want me to do this.

 

Okay, that was a lie, too. John would want someone else to risk their neck—hell, he'd want to do it himself—but Rodney didn't have the luxury of options. He didn't have, say, a Lance Corporal Olson, complete with a vest full of C-4 and grenades, and a predilection for showy explosions. Rodney would have settled for the C-4 or the grenades, but the fact of the matter was, he had shit. Which was why it had to be someone resourceful, someone who could make creative use of the available tools to get the job done.

 

How many of those other poor bastards huddled in the basement with Kavanagh had ever built their own bomb? Granted, they were all smart enough to figure it out, but practical experience went a long way in a crisis, and there hadn't exactly been time to take a skill set survey of the potential candidates. So it had to be Rodney. He was the known factor.

 

Sheppard could just fuck off if he didn't like it. It was already too late, anyway. The decision was made; he was going.

 

He was doing this. He was really, really doing this.

 

"Fuck," Rodney said, shoving the door open and slipping outside.

 

The late-morning sun was no longer merely impertinent. The first touch against his face felt like he'd been painted with a target even though there were no Jaffa in sight, no telltale roar of their ships overhead. Didn't mean they weren't coming, or were already here, just around the edge of the building. Or maybe pouring onto the runway, forming up in foot patrols with the pageantry due a conquering alien force.

 

He needed to reach the hangars, and he needed to do it fast. So no creeping along the edge of buildings, minimizing the time he spent in wide-open, unprotected spaces. He sucked in a breath, pushed full into the sunshine, and ran.

 

~~

 

"This is Gateship. Unknown craft, heading two one zero degrees, identify yourself."

 

[Major Sheppard.] It was Teal'c's voice, or someone doing a scary good impression of him.

 

"Authentication code bravo delta charlie alpha niner," John confirmed.

 

[This is Sierra Gulf One, authentication two six three one two niner three.] A new voice, and the code confirmed as Carter's.

 

John hailed Prometheus on the same channel. Shared comms would be critical now for speed and clarity of information exchange. "Prometheus, this is Gateship, I have them, west of rendezvous point by two five miles and increasing. Transmitting coordinates."

 

[This is Prometheus, copy.]

 

[General Hammond?] Carter asked.

 

Hammond wasn't one to skip pleasantries without good reason. [We are tracking a second squad of Goa'uld fighters, this one inbound to your position.] So much for the slim hope that Anubis wouldn't notice, or wouldn't consider a lone cargo ship enough of a threat to intercept. [What's your mission status?]

 

[Colonel O'Neill is–]

 

Please not dead, please not dead...

 

[He's compromised, sir. I've relieved him of command. Our target is below the ice; I believe Colonel O'Neill is modifying the ring transporter to act as a thermal drilling tool, but I have no estimate for how long it will take to bore an access shaft.]

 

[Major Carter, what is your target, exactly?]

 

John had the Goa'uld on close sensors now, another small squad of bombers and Death Gliders. Prometheus would chew through them like rounds through a paper target, provided she could reach them in time. If the initial rendezvous site had been accurate, it wouldn't be a problem. But SG-1 was tracking away from Prometheus, while the Goa'uld, on a course to intersect SG-1's far flank, were closing the gap faster than the larger, more ponderous Earth ship. "General Hammond, sir–"

 

[I'm aware, Gateship. Standby. Colonel Mitchell, Snake Skinners are clear to launch.]

 

Cam wasn't on the party line. Whatever his reply was, it was lost on Prometheus' internal comms.

 

[Major Carter?]

 

[We don't know, sir,] Carter admitted. [The data from Praclarush Taonas suggests the existence of an Ancient outpost near the site where the second Stargate was discovered. We were able to procure a compatible power source, a type of energy module, and Colonel O'Neill– Sir, he seemed convinced that the outpost is the key to defending this planet from Anubis, but I'm afraid he wasn't able to communicate what, exactly, to expect. The Ancient repository...]

 

[Colonel O'Neill is unable to speak,] Teal'c stated for her, [and is no longer in control of his actions. He is now completely under the influence of the repository of knowledge.]

 

Crap. If O'Neill was that far gone, he might not survive the day. And even if his efforts did save Earth, it was pretty damned unlikely that the Asgard would intervene again in time to save him from the database that was overwriting his brain.

 

[General Hammond, please be aware, we are in position over the suspected Ancient outpost, and Colonel O'Neill has initiated the drilling process.]

 

O'Neill was doing that? The cargo ship on zoom, John watched a wide pillar of energy shoot down from the hull. Steam exploded when the drilling beam made contact with the ice, thick waves rolling out in every direction, churned by the sudden difference in air temperature. It reminded John of a chopper kicking up dust in a desert landing; and yeah, SG-1 didn't have to worry about clogging their engines with grit, but the cloud itself was just as bad from a tactical standpoint. The damned thing was visible for miles.

 

There was a telling delay before Hammond advised, [Colonel Mitchell's squadron is pushing ahead to provide preliminary cover. Hold tight until they arrive.]

 

Carter must have noticed. Grim, she agreed, [Yes sir.]

 

~~

 

Apparently, there hadn't been time to stow the leftover ordnance after outfitting the 302s. So the problem wasn't so much finding a device with explosive potential, but rather finding one he could drag back across the compound without needing a bomb loader to carry the damned thing. Rodney eyed a rack of smaller missiles, still well over nine feet in length and probably close to two hundred pounds. Most of that had to be propellant. If he could find some way to detach the warhead...

 

"What the– What are you doing here?"

 

Rodney spun around to discover that he'd been stalked by a woman in tan camouflage. She was lowering her sidearm, her thumb resting against the safety, and shit, he knew her.

 

Once upon a time—god, it felt like years ago—he'd asked her for directions. Mitchell had had to extract him from the prickly situation that had ensued, when she'd misunderstood Rodney's question for a come-on.

 

"Sergeant," Rodney said, wary, because it was obvious that the recognition was mutual.

 

Worse, she had him at a disadvantage, the price of infamy. "Dr. McKay, we've had warning that this base is about to come under attack."

 

Damn it, he wasn't close enough to make out the name stitched above her breast– chest pocket. "Yes, I'm aware–"

 

"Then why aren't you in a secure location with the rest of the civilians?" she demanded. The implication was clear: it was going to be dangerous, and the professionals didn't want kiddies underfoot, making their jobs more difficult.

 

Rodney opened his mouth to speak, but ended up cocking his head instead, listening to a distant whine that crescendoed to a full-on screech in seconds. Whatever it was, it was flying fast and low, and–

 

Oh, right. Of course her ears would be able to tell the difference between an Earth ship and an alien fighter; her tense expression confirmed the worst. "They're here. We're falling back," she ordered, reaching for his arm.

 

He wasn't quick enough to dodge her, and her grip was strong enough that he'd have to struggle to break free. He was going to have to talk himself out of it. "Falling back to where?"

 

"The ground crews that didn't launch with Prometheus have set up a secure position in delta block. I was a forward observer. Come on."

 

Rodney dug in his heels. "No, you don't understand. I need the warhead off that missile. There's a–" Christ, how much could he say without saying too much? "If there's any chance the Goa'uld are going to salvage tech from this facility, there are certain... devices that cannot be allowed to fall into their hands."

 

He had her, maybe. Or at least he had her off-balance and second guessing, enough to press for an advantage.

 

"I'm serious." Mystique shrouded the work the civilians did on base; Rodney wasn't above shamelessly abusing it, though in this case he wasn't even exaggerating much. "The shit we have stashed away in the storerooms? Let's just say that Anubis is pretty damned proficient at stomping out his enemies in the conventional three dimensions. It would be bad if he gained the ability to obliterate them in a fourth," he said, pussyfooting around the words she would never believe: time travel.

 

The fucking device in Ingram's fucking mystery crate probably wouldn't function without the jumper—if it functioned at all—but the Goa'uld were tech scavengers, brilliant at reverse engineering. They would want the research for the same reason Ingram had, but the Goa'uld wouldn't take decades to reach a practical application. And even if they did, what would it matter? Hello? Megalomaniac near-immortal being with a time machine? Anubis would rampage across creation like the bastard mutant offspring of Genghis Khan and Dr Who.

 

Maybe it was the sincerity of his plea, or maybe it was his expression—he knew he had to look desperate. Whatever the cause, she reached for her radio with her left hand. "Sergeant Patterson, this is Swindell. Requesting an escort, hangar alpha two. I have a civilian here who needs to reach the labs."

 

The radio squawked an immediate reply. [Negative. Get your ass back to the perimeter. We have confirmed enemy contact, and there's a fucking air strike inbound.]

 

"Understood." Sparing Rodney an almost sympathetic shrug, she said, "You heard the man."

 

Rodney saw his chance when she dropped his arm. He danced out of reach. "You'll have to go without me. I'm going back to the labs."

 

"Dr. McKay–" she reasoned, but whatever else she tried to say was lost in the scream of more ships overhead, followed close by the unmistakable to anyone who'd ever heard it crackle of a plasma weapon being discharged. Distinct booms rolled into a blanketing din as the Goa'uld attack squadron opened fire in concert. "Too late!"

 

The noise seemed to come from everywhere at once, distance and direction impossible to guess. Rodney inched toward the doors for a better view, only to stumble back when a pair of small explosions scorched the concrete access track outside. He watched as another was laid down, maybe fifteen yards nearer, and another, a perfectly-spaced column marching straight for them.

 

Maybe sixty yards remained before they would be under fire. A matter of seconds.

 

"We're being strafed," Swindell swore and sprinted deeper into the building, catching up Rodney and pushing him along with her. Another blast nearly drowned her out. "Fuck! Will the hangar survive a direct hit?"

 

"I don't know!" Rodney dodged a tool cart, running for the rear corner. There was a scaffold ladder pushed against the wall. If they huddled beneath it, it might protect them from falling girders if the roof collapsed. And that was a big might.

 

They had to reach it, first.

 

How many blasts was that? Two, three? The next one, then, or the one after that. Rodney wanted to screw his eyes shut in anticipation of the inevitable, but he reached out, found Swindell's hand instead. Somehow they were running in sync, the coordinated swing of their arms not disrupting their strides. Swindell reached the ladder first, ducking between the rungs and hauling Rodney in behind her.

 

When the blast came, it was too high, the wrong sound. It was a full-on honest to god explosion, huge and deafening, and debris was raining down on the hangar before Rodney could process what was happening.

 

But the burning, mangled wreckage of a Death Glider that crashed through the roof in a cascade of sparks from dozens of shattered fluorescent lights? That part was pretty self-explanatory.

 

~~

 

[Gateship, this is Skinner One. Got an update on those coordinates for us?] It was Cam, trying—and maybe succeeding a little—to sound no more excited than a bored commercial pilot announcing a landing delay due to inclement weather.

 

Good for squadron morale, John supposed. "Affirmative. Transmission away, you should be able to feed it straight into your flight computer."

 

[Received, my thanks. But I'd still give my right nut for AWACS or even functional GPS.]

 

"Just your right?" John asked mildly. This he knew how to do, diffuse tension while staring a big mission in the teeth. He'd even been good at it, once upon a time.

 

[Lost the left one in a card game last year.]

 

"Poker?"

 

[Solitaire.]

 

Okay, John was good, but he bowed to genius.

 

Cam sobered. Playtime was over; it was strictly business from here on out. [Be advised, we're coming in weapons hot. Get your flimsy invisible ass to a safe altitude, and don't try to be a hero. I'm not gonna come to your rescue when McKay reams you out for scratching the paint job on that ship.]

 

"Roger." John pulled back on the– It wasn't a yoke, but it sure felt like he was trying to pilot a ship with the maneuverability of a chopper, using the controls from a fixed-wing aircraft. Sometimes the incongruity fucked with his mind. "Eight thousand?"

 

[Better make it ten.]

 

Great. I'm not gonna be able to see shit from up there. Not... that John would have been any use as a spotter. He wouldn't be able to tell the F-302s apart in midair, wouldn't know who to shout a warning to if he saw a Death Glider latch onto someone's blind spot. Besides, the 1st SFW knew their job. They looked out for each other, and unlike John, they would be able to distinguish each fighter in the heat of combat.

 

[Sierra Gulf One, status?]

 

[Still drilling. Progress unknown. And we have visual on those uninvited guests.] Carter too had a preternatural calm, especially for someone with twenty enemy fighters bearing down on her.

 

[ETA inside three minutes. Initiate evasive maneuvers if necessary,] Cam said.

 

That was right—Mitchell outranked her. [Sir, if we move the drilling beam now, we may have to begin all over again when we return to this position. I have no idea if the walls of the shaft are stable, and it's unlikely that we could line the beam up in the exact same spot again. We could cause the progress we've already made to collapse.]

 

Hammond intervened. [Major, use your best judgment.]

 

[I will, sir.]

 

[Godspeed,] Hammond said, for SG-1 and Mitchell's squadron—and hell, everyone aboard Prometheus, and probably John as well. [Earth is depending on our success.]

 

~~

 

The battle for Area 51 was over in minutes—or so they told him, later. The echo of explosions rang in Rodney's ears for much longer, until his overloaded senses were unable to distinguish reality from illusory feedback.

 

"You're hit," Swindell said in a lull, surprised. As if she hadn't been right there with him in the storm of broken glass and shrapnel from the metal roof, from the Death Glider itself. Her arm was still around his hunched shoulders, where she'd ducked them down as tight as possible, protecting their heads—and stomachs filled with soft, vital organs.

 

Rodney turned his face just enough, feeling flakes of debris fall out of his hair and off his sleeve. "So are you."

 

"Where?"

 

It was the same for him, too numb on adrenaline to be able to pinpoint specific hurts. "Right side. Doesn't look deep, but it's still in there." A piece of metal about the size of a playing card had sliced a neat cut through her uniform blouse and into flesh; the mottled fabric around the wound was already turning a dark red. He gently shrugged out from under her arm. "Here, hold still and I'll try to–"

 

"Don't," she hissed. "It'll just bleed more. Same for yours. They look superficial, but don't touch them until we're someplace we can get patched up right." They both started at the rumble of a particularly large explosion, even though it was distant with a slight delay before the ground tremors reached them. "You good to move? We need to get the fuck out of here before something else lands on us and finishes the job."

 

"Yeah, I think so." She'd extracted herself from the scaffolding, but she didn't seem steady on her feet yet, so Rodney ignored the hand she offered to help pull him out. Ah, there, a lance of pain in his thigh to go with the lesser twinges that dotted his back and shoulders. He was about to say, Superficial my ass, except it was—it really was—compared to the metal rod embedded in the wall a yard to their left. The thing could have gone through his ribcage just as easily, so if a few scratches were the extent of his injuries... well, he'd be a wuss to complain.

 

Following his gaze, she noted the close call and clamped her lips into a hard, blanched line.

 

"I don't understand," he said, frustration and anger doing nothing to steady his voice. "Why are the Goa'uld blowing shit up if they want to salvage our tech?" The tech Earth had salvaged from other aliens. Oh, the motherfucking irony.

 

She moved as if to shrug, then thought better of it. "Have to secure it before they can take it. Probably went for our aircraft, trying to prevent us from mounting any kind of meaningful defense. There were–" She paused, taking inventory. "–a couple of Hercs on the tarmac, at least one of those commuter jumbos. You can bet they're nothing but smoking craters now. Hangars are an obvious target. Every bird you destroy on the ground is one less to fight in the air."

 

Rodney surveyed the damage with renewed interest. The acrid but unfamiliar stench probably belonged the downed Death Glider. Charred alien avionics popped with the occasional spark or small flame, and unknown fluids spread in sheening puddles across the concrete floor.

 

Of course, the stink could belong to the pilot... what was left of him. Or her. Rodney deliberately dismissed that possibility before his stomach could revolt.

 

A full quarter of the hangar was gone too, and much of what was left had caved in on itself. They were going to have to traverse an obstacle course just to reach the doors. And... fuck, there was loose ordnance jumbled in with the mess. "We are so lucky none of that went off."

 

"It's not armed," she said, her expression far less confident than her words. She clicked her radio, "Sergeant Patterson, this is Swindell."

 

The response was immediate. [Good to hear from you, we weren't sure we were going to. What's your status?]

 

"Walking wounded. Hangar alpha two is a loss. Are we clear to break cover and return to perimeter?"

 

[Affirmative. Dreamland airspace is declared secure. Squadrons from the 57th Wing neutralized the threat, but caution is advised until ground units can do a sweep of the base. Alpha two's far from the only loss. ETA?]

 

"Better give us ten. We'll be moving slow."

 

[Acknowledged.]

 

"Swindell out." She pulled off her cover, swiping her forearm across her brow, leaving a little streak of blood. Addressing Rodney, she asked, "You're not gonna do anything rash, are you?"

 

"No, I–" The sentiment broke on a laugh that was thready and a shade too close to hysterical. "I think I'm done with rash for today. If you're sure the storeroom's safe..."

 

"The immediate threat has been neutralized."

 

Immediate. That was some honesty he could have done without. "Then I suppose it can wait." But after he was patched up, and after he'd verified that his scientists were all safe, Rodney was going to take a warhead and blow the shit out of that crate, like he should have done when he first found it.

 

Testing his leg to make sure it would hold weight, he followed Swindell as she began to pick her way to the exit.

 

~~

 

Just about the only thing John could see unaided from ten thousand feet was the cushion of steam kicked up by SG-1's drilling beam. The zoom wasn't much better, a top-down view with no sense of perspective. He couldn't tell if the closing Goa'uld ships were on a level approach, or if they'd taken the advantage of a higher altitude.

 

Wouldn't matter much either way against an unarmed cargo ship. John hadn't thought to inquire if SG-1's borrowed Tel'tak had shields. Some did, some didn't. And even then, the technology wasn't robust, wouldn't withstand more than a few good hits. Hell, a shield might not even be operable with the energy beam engaged. It could explain why Carter hadn't called off drilling, was still sitting there, an easy, stationary target.

 

"Major–" he began to warn.

 

Carter's reply was terse, reminding John that his further presence on the radio was distracting and, apparently, unnecessary. [Yes, I see them. We're almost through. Just need a few more seconds, a few more...] There was noise in the cockpit, shouts in the background, but John couldn't distinguish individual voices. Then an alarm, not the harsh buzz typical to Earth vessels, but a more melodic note, if equally insistent.

 

Cam's squadron weren't the only ones coming in hot. The Goa'uld fighters had pulled into the far edge of weapons range and loosed an early barrage, gambling on luck rather than closing further, waiting for accuracy. John could see streaks of light fan out from their attack line, pretty as tracer rounds at night.

 

Spray and pray.

 

It almost worked.

 

[This is Skinner One, plasma blasts detected, I repeat, blasts detected.] The information was for the benefit of Cam's squadron, as were his instructions. [Weapons range in twenty seconds, thirty five to engage. Hold fire until you can see the whites of their eyes, and then I want absolute confidence before you pull the trigger. Our friendly in the field looks just like one of the snakes.]

 

One of the bursts from the barrage clipped SG-1's craft low and starboard, sending it rocking. Someone—Teal'c maybe, or Bra'tac—cursed as the drilling beam skittered off target, throwing up a fresh billow of steam.

 

[Did we make it through?] That was Jackson, unerringly focused on mission priority despite the chaos erupting around him.

 

A pause. [No. And now we're off target. God damn it.]

 

Cam said, [Major, get the hell out of there! Drop low, we'll come in high. Ten seconds to contact.]

 

[Initiating evasive maneuvers.]

 

The movement wasn't obvious to John from above, but he gathered SG-1's Tel'tak was dropping on Cam's orders. The Goa'uld loosed more shots after it, their offensive wall breaking into smaller hunting packs. The formations were familiar from the hours John had spent mimicking them in Black Flag drills; point fighter, two wingmen staggered wide in the rear. He also knew from experience that it was regrettably effective at herding and trapping lone prey.

 

John's hands tightened around his own controls until his knuckles protested the strain.

 

Come on, come on come on...

 

He watched SG-1 evade a string of hits, then eat two in quick succession, one of them blowing out an engine. At least, John hoped that was an engine leaking the thick, dark smoke; they were external, wouldn't bleed noxious fumes into the cabin. Something else on fire might.

 

[We've sustained damage.] A different alarm in the background now, shrill and twittering. [Agility and speed are compromised. We will not be able to withstand another direct impact.]

 

The comms from the 1st SFW were a steady buzz, coordinating the final approach in mix of words and anticipation of needs that bordered on telepathy. John was enough of an outsider to recognize just how well Mitchell's pilots knew each other, knew their parts in the greater, deadly whole. Targets were acquired, and he picked out Cam's order: [Fire when ready.]

 

Missiles preceded the F-302s into the fray, explosions dotting the field. From his perspective, it seemed that half of them were smack on top of SG-1, but he knew that couldn't be the case. Then the Earth fighters themselves wove into the gaps not already occupied by Death Gliders, and John lost track of friend and foe. The ships were too similar in outline; he watched them begin to drop, small explosions chaining into larger, fatal ones, only the jumper's sensors telling him whether to celebrate or mourn each loss.

 

Distance made the destruction surreal, almost eerie; the only sounds he received came muted, second-hand through the radios. Interspersed with the shouts and dull, out-of-sync booms were reports of casualties, men and women John knew expiring in a rain of flaming wreckage.

 

Fuck, fuck.

 

One of the Goa'uld bombers was in close now, lobbing bursts from its heavy plasma cannons. It felled another of Cam's 302s and zeroed in on SG-1 before a concerted attack of Earth ships could bring it down. The large ship lurched, spewing smoke, and finally careened off course, cannons still blazing.

 

It was luck, nothing more.

 

The plasma bursts raked across the field, and seconds later the news came. [This is Skinner One, I'm hit, I'm hit. Team lead four, you have command; I'm going down. Banks, you with me? Jesus Chr–]

 

A lone 302 disengaged, cutting away from the battle. John followed it, saw the uneven flight line as the pilot—as Cam—struggled to keep the damaged fighter level. He was shedding altitude too fast... Eject, damn it! You're running out of time.

 

The canopy was intact on impact. Somehow—John didn't know how—Cam had held his approach steady enough that the 302 didn't disintegrate when it collided with the ground. Instead, it plowed a mile-long furrow in the snow and ice before its violent momentum was expended.

 

[Cam. Colonel Mitchell, please respond!]

 

Nothing. It was a threadbare hope, John knew. The hard deceleration alone should have been fatal, but if the inertial dampeners had held, then maybe, just maybe-

 

[This is Prometheus, entering range to engage.]

 

John was the logical choice to go down there, extract the crew... or their bodies. The other ships all required a clear, firm runway. The ice field contained hidden obstacles and probably wouldn't hold weight. But the jumper could hover inches above the ground on autopilot, which put it one up on the bird John was accustomed to flying for combat rescue. Otherwise he would never be able to do it solo, but with the jumper he stood a chance.

 

Fuck asking permission. As soon as Prometheus had cleared out the rest of the Goa'uld, he was going. He began dropping the jumper into position, mentally cataloging the medical supplies he'd packed, when he finally noticed the unnatural silence from the radio.

 

[Oh my god...] someone breathed.

 

He'd lost track of the battle chasing Cam, and scrambled to regain focus from his new vantage. Prometheus was in the thick of things now, laying down suppressive fire with its deck-mounted railguns. But his gaze was drawn to SG-1's cargo ship, which spun in a lazy circle. He grasped the cause when he saw a smaller craft—a Death Glider, he thought—tumbling end over end, fully half of its wingspan ripped off in the collision. Seconds later it exploded.

 

The matching damage to SG-1's ship rotated into view, an enormous gaping wound too close to the forward viewing port. There was no chance in hell the cockpit hadn't been breached, none. And even if the pilot was still conscious, still alive, there was no way the foundering ship could recover from its increasingly pitched rotation. Pulse rushing in his ears, John couldn't look away as it tipped over, single engine still firing, and corkscrewed toward the ground.

 

It met the ice in a fireball.

 

~~

 

End part 1

 

~~

 

Thursday, continued

 

~~

 

Rodney had a pronounced limp by the time he and Swindell reached the secure perimeter. She'd offered to help him hobble along, but he'd seen the sweat standing out on her brow, the way she had her bent elbow clamped hard to the side where she'd taken the shrapnel, and declined.

 

Their passage was through a landscape rendered foreign by destruction. Entire buildings had been reduced to heaps of twisted rubble, and evidence of the heated aerial battle dotted the ground as scorched craters and the remains of downed ships. Many were Goa'uld, but Rodney averted his eyes from the broken forms of Earth planes, sometimes their origin only evident by a partial wing, a chunk of fuselage bearing familiar Air Force paint. And once, there was a flapping parachute anchored to an ejection seat; Swindell insisted on getting close enough to make sure there was no one still strapped to it.

 

Fighters still roared in patterns overhead, but some were landing, perhaps light on fuel or ordnance or both. They were having to make use of the far runway. Swindell's prediction was correct; the near one held the blackened bodies of the C-130s and the commuter jet. Another C-130 was on approach to land, hopefully with the promised ground units to secure the base, and a medic or two would be welcome. It had arrived far too quickly to be from the SGC, which meant a whole mess of eyes that didn't belong sightseeing in one of the most secretive facilities in the world. Rodney doubted the help available on short notice would have been vetted for the appropriate security clearance. And then there was the oh by the way, aliens are real and can look just like your friends punchline.

 

What a fucking nightmare. If there was any chance the Goa'uld had set foot on base, every single person on it was going to have to be examined for a symbiote. It was probably petty to wish that Carter was here to handle things for him, but there was undeniable appeal to hiding in the basement like a good little civilian until it all blew over.

 

The radio didn't reach through the walls of the secure lab—he'd tried. From a distance the building looked intact, so hopefully all were safe. He hadn't left them down there long enough to mutiny against Kavanagh.

 

Well, yet.

 

The secure perimeter surrounded the stout building that had housed the smaller missiles before they'd been loaded onto Mitchell's 302s. A couple still rested against the wall, and a pair of heavy machine guns—god, they looked like the kind from the helicopter John had flown to Canada, maybe they'd been taken off a plane or a vehicle?—protected the door. There was an incongruous blue tarp lashed down over the roof. Following Rodney's curious gaze, Swindell lifted her chin at it and said, "So our guys knew what not to aim for."

 

"Ah."

 

They were escorted inside by a pair of guards, but the building proved nearly empty, most of the enlisted strung along the perimeter keeping watch. Patterson stepped up, declining to introduce himself by full rank; he turned out to be a tech sergeant, if Rodney was reading his stripes correctly. After the first couple they tended to blur together unless you were close enough to count. And the way Patterson was gesturing with abrupt, adrenaline-fueled energy, Rodney didn't want to get that close.

 

Patterson looked at Rodney like he was the solution to all his problems, hand-delivered on a platter by a hot, topless waitress. (Okay, Swindell still had her shirt on, but even Rodney could admit she was okay, in that pixie-haircut, I-kick-ass-with-the-boys kind of way.) Probably meant the fucker thought Rodney was in charge or something.

 

Oh. Wait.

 

The hunch was confirmed when, after a brief sit rep, Rodney said, "We need medical attention, Sergeant Swindell first," and Patterson himself rocketed away to locate a first aid kit.

 

"Well crap," Rodney muttered, helping ease Swindell to the ground, and joining her with a hiss, injured leg stiff and outstretched. "I think I'm ready for today to end. You?"

 

She dredged up a laugh. "About an hour ago would have been good."

 

~~

 

[Mission failure, we have lost SG-1,] General Hammond stated over open comms. The words were steady, but every inch of his responsibility and long years of dedication and service were naked in his voice.

 

This was the part of command that never got any easier, was in fact a weight that only grew, a heavy chain forged, loss after loss.

 

It hadn't quite sunk in yet, probably for none of them, but Hammond was helping to make it awful and real—although the awful wasn't his fault. It just was. He began to call for updates, taking stock of what was left of Cam's squadron. More than a third gone, and none of the remaining 302s had more than a quarter of their ammunition left. Some had expended everything, up to and including the kitchen sink.

 

The pyre that had been SG-1's ship still coughed up smoke, a smudge against the purity of the ice field. It was surrounded by scattered wreckage from other ships, friend and enemy rendered anonymous in death. Some of the smaller impact craters continued to burn as well; the Earth ships still in the air avoided even flying near them. They huddled with Prometheus at the edge of the now quiet battlefield, the entire fleet visibly exhausted and reeling.

 

After conferring quietly, Hammond said, [Prometheus will not be taking ships back on board. The 1st SFW will proceed to McMurdo to regroup and refuel. The base commander has been apprised, and you have clearance to land. Await further orders from the President or the SGC.]

 

[Yes, sir.]

 

John remained silent. They all did, so much that he could hear the rasp of breathing on the comms, the occasional shuddering sigh.

 

[As you all know–] Hammond tried, and halted. John couldn't remember a time when the general had been adrift without an appropriate thing to say, some sentiment that would bring sense to chaos or perspective to sorrow. But nothing like this had ever happened before. SG-1 was gone, and with them Earth's last good hope.

 

[Major Sheppard.]

 

John had to grasp for his own voice. "Yes, sir."

 

[Return to the SGC. The President will need to be fully briefed on what transpired here.]

 

"Sir?" There had to be a reason Hammond didn't intend to deliver the report himself.

 

[Sensors indicate Anubis' motherships have armed their main cannons.]

 

Of course Anubis would retaliate. This was a textbook conflict escalation. So why–

 

Oh. Oh, god.

 

[A direct assault by Prometheus is the only option remaining to us. We can't sit idle while the Goa'uld attack our cities. Nor can this ship survive a sustained barrage from space. We must decide Anubis' target for him, force him into a reactionary position.]

 

Hammond was right, of course. Anubis had already dictated too many parameters of the engagement. Earth's forces were entering endgame on the defensive, and the only way win back any ground would be to control the element of time. Any delay now risked forfeiting even that small advantage.

 

That was the strategic standpoint. Realistically, all the tactics the Goa'uld needed were their overwhelming numbers, and Prometheus had already sustained some damage taking out the last of the Anubis' fighters. John choked down a protest, aware that he couldn't beg Hammond to reconsider.

 

One of the 302 pilots spoke. John thought he recognized team leader four, the one Cam had promoted in his place. [Sir, requesting permission to escort–]

 

[1st SFW, what are you waiting for?] Hammond nearly barked. [You have your orders.]

 

[Understood, sir.] The squadron split away and formed up, gaps in their line where their fallen comrades belonged. One fighter nosed forward to take Mitchell's position in the lead.

 

[Ladies and gentlemen, it's been an honor.]

 

The silence following Hammond's words stretched, a seeming eternity of seconds, thinner and thinner until it seemed a thread that would snap at the first scuffle of movement, the first exhale. But no one was even breathing; certainly John wasn't, and he probably wasn't the only pilot out there to touch his visor in a lingering salute.

 

The F-302s wheeled as one and struck out north.

 

John hadn't moved, save to take in a trickle of air. It wasn't enough, but his chest was too tight to permit any more.

 

It was the first impact of the motherships' plasma cannons that catapulted him out of the strange, frozen moment. Prometheus banked hard and pushed her bow up, seeming to chase the successive blasts skyward to their source.

 

John broke the jumper opposite, wondering how far out of range he was going to have to run to avoid accidentally being hit. Anubis couldn't be aiming at him, had to be gunning either for Prometheus or the buried prize SG-1 had failed to capture.

 

Problem was, Anubis couldn't be certain they'd failed. Long after Prometheus had cleared the area, the blinding energy pillars kept up a barrage over the suspected Ancient outpost. The steam that the drilling beam had kicked up was nothing compared to a section of ice the size of a school bus being instantly vaporized, the process repeated over and over. The entire field was going to destabilize, collapse like an enormous sinkhole... and Cam's fighter was still down there, intact.

 

John clutched at anything resembling hope.

 

He lost sight of the 302 in the thick, soupy cloud, but there was enough residual engine heat to locate it on thermals. The assault was finished by the time he could ease into position, not trusting his instruments to accurately predict where the ground was when the whole region had to be bucking in the throes of aftershocks or worse.

 

Oh his display, he saw that the canopy was still closed. He could also make out the dark shape of a helmet through the fractured front pane, but no movement, and another radio inquiry yielded no response.

 

Right—he was going to have to crack her open without any help from the occupants.

 

Initializing the jumper's version of an autopilot, he moved to the rear compartment and began pulling down supplies from his hanging nets. And okay, he'd screwed the pooch with his provisioning. There was a goddamned life raft, but no cold weather gear.

 

Fucking desperate missions to bizarre, inhospitable locations. You'd think he'd be an expert by now.

 

John stepped into a flight harness, fastening it over his jumpsuit with practiced ease. His old chopper had frequently operated with the rear ramp down—the tail gun couldn't fire otherwise—and safety tethers had been SOP when performing some functions in the rear compartment. Slipping and falling into an ice crevasse would be just as unfortunate, so he fed himself out a long coil of line, secured it to the jumper's interior, and dropped the hatch.

 

The cold hit him so hard it robbed him of breath. He gasped. The air that went into his lungs was all bright needles, but there wasn't time to adjust.

 

He'd positioned the jumper well. The ramp was overhanging the 302; he was able to shuffle down it and step right onto the wing. The footing was suspect, so he tried to keep his center of gravity low, dropping to a crouch to pop the release latches. The canopy seal was stuck, and he had to pound it free with a fist. Any longer and it might have frozen shut for real, requiring a heat source to get it open.

 

In the first seat, Mitchell was slumped in his safety harness. The lack of obvious massive trauma caused that niggle of hope to stir. John scrabbled at the velcro wrist fastener of his glove—it was fire retardant, too thin to be doing him much good out here—and yanked it off with his teeth, unfastening Cam's oxygen mast to search for a pulse.

 

He didn't get that far. His presence, or maybe the cold air—something prompted Cam to twitch feebly. Even without a strong wind rushing around them, John doubted he could have made out whatever Cam tried to mumble through lips that barely moved.

 

Alive, thank christ.

 

"It's Sheppard. John. It's okay, I've got you."

 

He cut Cam out of the harness, numb fingers almost worthless on his utility knife. There wasn't a choice; he gripped Cam's nearest arm and hauled him out of the cockpit, aware he had to be aggravating whatever injuries the man had. "You weight a ton," he complained, teeth chattering, and vowed to give Cam shit for it later. Cam was going to be around later to let him do it, because no way in hell John was going to watch him die in transit after pulling his ass off this godforsaken field of ice.

 

Dragging was safest. There was only a small gap between the wing and the ramp, but despite careful handling, Cam let out a moan when John eased him over it.

 

It was marginally warmer in the rear of the jumper. Draping a thermal blanket over Mitchell, John went back for his co-pilot.

 

Captain Banks was sagging in his harness too, but there the similarity ended. There was blood beneath his mask, frothy pink, and the man's neck was loose and unresisting when John tilted his jaw, fumbling for a non-existent pulse. He tried two different spots, opened the collar of the flight suit for a third.

 

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

 

He could see now that something wasn't right in the rear of the cockpit. There was sharp-edged bare metal where there shouldn't be, like an explosion had blown debris forward into the cabin. An engine suffering catastrophic failure maybe, or the impact from the plasma cannon. John was sure he wouldn't want to see what Banks' back looked like. Still, he tried once more, rubbing the crystal of his watch clean, then holding it before the man's face to catch evidence of breath, any trace of life.

 

Shit.

 

John's fingertips came away stained when he drew the chain from around Banks' neck, removed one of the silver discs.

 

He wished he could do more, but the body would keep. His patient might not.

 

~~

 

For the intensity of the battle that had raged over Area 51, there were surprisingly few casualties, the verified deaths all fighter pilots. Rodney and Swindell were only joined by three others in the little area inside the secure zone that had been cordoned off for triage purposes.

 

"That's all I can do for you here," a combat medic said, rolling a line of tape around Rodney's thigh to help secure the wad of gauze. He cut the end with the same surgical scissors he'd used to slice open Rodney's pant leg—deaf to Rodney's protests—and tucked them away in a vest slot without looking. It reminded Rodney of the casual way a gunslinger might holster a pistol.

 

The medic had one of those, too—a sidearm like John's—plus an assault rifle, plus a kevlar helmet and body armor. The bulk of the armor, in addition to his utility vest, gave him a puffed-out appearance that might have been amusing if he wasn't also wearing latex gloves streaked with Rodney's blood.

 

Glass had had to be removed from four spots on Rodney's back, bits of metal from two more. The entire thing was now stiff with large adhesive bandages, his bare skin pulling strangely whenever he moved, particularly his shoulders.

 

Moving ached; he tried to keep it to a minimum.

 

"Thanks. Thank you." Rodney flexed his knee, testing the tightness of the dressing before pulling his legs beneath him in preparation to stand.

 

"Need help?"

 

"I got it." But it would be interesting getting up the stairs to his quarters for a change of clothes. Well, provided the building was still standing. He couldn't remember.

 

Snapping off his gloves, the medic said, "Want to wait in the Herc? It'll be another twenty minutes or so before we'll be able to evacuate you to the hospital. The runways are jammed."

 

"What? Oh no, I can't leave. I still have to–" Still had to destroy the Ancient solution to a question so advanced, Earth physicists wouldn't get around to formulating it for another hundred years. And he had to contact the SGC, make sure they knew what had happened. Had to make sure the unit dispatched to retrieve his researchers from the secure lab had succeeded. Had to find some way to stretch a radio signal to freaking Antarctica with the satellites gone and their communications array knocked out by the Goa'uld. The list could go on and on. "I'm kind of in charge around here, on the civilian end of things. I can't abandon my post because of a few cuts and scrapes," he reminded himself, because god, what he wouldn't give to crawl into a hospital bed with some good drugs and just... retreat behind his eyelids while the world went to hell.

 

The medic didn't even bother to argue, just shrugged and said, "If you're sure."

 

"Positive." There was nothing to be done for his flapping pant leg or missing shirt, but at least his boots had been left intact. Rodney helped himself to a blanket from the triage stash, gingerly finding a way to sling it around his shoulders unaided to prove that he really was fit enough to be up and mobile, and made for the door.

 

Patterson was nowhere in sight, having deferred command of the situation to an officer who'd arrived with the first wave of reinforcements. Rodney didn't appreciate the new lieutenant's bossiness on principle, but liked the kid even less when he refused to let Rodney leave the perimeter without a security escort.

 

As if Rodney needed a damned babysitter. He wasn't the one who looked barely old enough to buy booze without a fake ID.

 

Ignoring the guard was better than answering questions Rodney didn't have the energy or patience for, like: How long has the government been hiding the existence of aliens? Or: Where are the spaceships? He hobbled along, cataloging his hurts as they began to retreat behind the camouflage of whatever pain medication he'd been given, and failed to notice the contingent approaching from the direction of the runways until it was nearly on him.

 

And what if they'd been Jaffa? his common sense admonished him for the lack of attention.

 

My companion would have freaked out and shot them? he fired right back.

 

Okay, point.

 

"Sir," the guard said, as one of the officers pulled ahead of the knot. "I was just escorting Dr. McKay to–"

 

"You can turn around and escort him back to the perimeter," Lieutenant Colonel Mustache said. At least, those looked like silver leaves on his collar. The mustache spoke for itself, wide and neat, overhanging the edges of his mouth in a pronounced way when he frowned. "This is an active combat zone. Can't have civilians wandering around."

 

Dignity was a lost cause, but Rodney was grateful for the blanket. He would have been even more ridiculous with a bare chest, given how the draft was making his nipple stand at attention. "Dr. Rodney McKay, head researcher," Rodney interrupted before his guard could try to make him comply.

 

Mustache hesitated. "Lieutenant Colonel Abe Ellis," he gave at last, and didn't seem put out when Rodney refused to let go of the blanket to shake his hand. "Dr. McKay, you're just the man I needed to find. I've assumed command of this operation, but as you're probably aware, none of my people have been read in to the programs being conducted out of this base. You'll need to come with me, answer some questions so I can be brought up to speed."

 

Rodney jerked his chin over Ellis' shoulder.

 

"He has." "Excuse me?"

 

"Hey, you."

 

The guy Rodney was staring at made a small gesture. "Me?"

 

Tall guy, bald—the last time Rodney had seen him, he'd been wearing a glazed expression from being bombarded with a technical description of the F-302's hyperdrive. "Major... Price, right? I was with Major Sheppard when he gave you a tour of the facilities."

 

Ellis swung around, displeased, as if this was something Price should have shared with him. But they were wearing different uniforms, and Rodney remembered that Price was a fighter pilot; the two had probably met no more than ten minutes ago on the runway.

 

"I remember," Price acknowledged. "I'm glad to see you–" Alive, he'd almost slipped and said, Rodney would bet on it. "–safe."

 

Smug, Rodney informed Ellis, "Major Price here is a candidate for the 1st Space Fighter Wing," he lied. The S actually stood for Stargate. "He's had a long talk with Colonel Mitchell, the squadron commander, and I'm sure he'll be able to fill in some of your blanks while I return to my quarters for a change of clothes."

 

Price threw Rodney a look of dismay. "Of course. I, er, don't suppose Major Sheppard or Colonel Mitchell are here?"

 

"The 1st SFW accompanied General Hammond and Prometheus on a critical mission," Rodney addressed Ellis. He wasn't name-dropping, exactly, but it couldn't hurt for Ellis to know Rodney had connections in high places. He half wanted Ellis to inquire about Prometheus, so Rodney could slap him with the classified routine. "If you want to know more, you'll have to wait until I can rig an alternate radio relay. Among other things, the Goa'uld—those would be the bad aliens—knocked out our main communications platform."

 

Ellis considered, his eyes flicking between Price and Rodney. "Major Price, you're with me. Airman, with Dr. McKay, and I want him available on comms if I need him."

 

"Yes sir."

 

"Dr. McKay, I want you in the..."

 

"Squadron briefing room," Rodney suggested. He thought that building was still standing.

 

"Yes. Ten minutes."

 

"Better make it twenty. I don't limp very fast," Rodney countered, to let Ellis think he was playing along. It would take him at least ten to ditch his escort. Then Rodney had a date in a basement storeroom with a big wooden crate.

 

~~

 

John hadn't been called on to perform a casualty evaluation in years, but the checklist came easily enough when he reached for it in his memory; thank god for training by rote.

 

Helmet off. Easy, easy, easy with the neck, could be injured. Airway: head back, chin up.

 

Breathing independently: check.

 

Responsiveness. "Cam, can you hear me?" John asked. Strong volume. Pretend calm.

 

Mitchell's eyes didn't open, but he roused enough to mumble something that could be an answer, or could be delirium. Either way: check.

 

John unzipped the flight suit, then swore and fumbled for his knife again to slice apart Cam's undershirt, exposing his chest. No sucking wounds, and that right there was probably the deciding factor. "I'm trying to figure out how bad you're hurt. The closest hospital is in New Zealand, but if you can hold out I'd rather take you to the SGC." He felt down limbs, looking for compound fractures or signs of hemorrhaging, anything that would require immediate attention. He'd already decided to forgo splinting simple breaks; with the inertial dampeners cranked up, the ride would be as smooth as silk.

 

"Cam?"

 

Mitchell's lips twitched again, soundlessly, but he managed to fold his hand with two fingers out. Two for the second option, the SGC.

 

"Okay." John yanked down the med kit, dug through it until he found the auto-injector he was after. "I'm gonna give you something for the pain, easy, here it comes..." He wasn't sure how the needle would handle nomex, but it did all right, straight through the fabric and into Mitchell's thigh. "Good, okay. You're gonna be fine. Nothing left to do now but lie back and enjoy the trip. Your first jumper flight and you're not gonna be awake to see it. That fucking figures, eh?"

 

When there was no response, John finished by draping the blanket back over his patient, even though the heat was cranked up. He realized he hadn't said anything about Banks, but if Mitchell was cognizant that his co-pilot wasn't aboard... well, there was nothing to say.

 

Any further recovery effort would be challenging and a long time coming, so John made one last sweep of the battlefield. The ice yielded no other intact cockpits, no ejection seats, just strewn wreckage and the enormous craters left by the Goa'uld barrage. He saved footage, documenting everything for someone else to sort out later. Then he found his bearing and full-throttled the engines.

 

There was critical information to pass to the SGC, but John had been shying away from the radio, unable to relinquish that last gasp of hope allowed by ignorance.

 

Prometheus. Were they– Had they– Fuck, he had to. There was no one else.

 

It was convenient to be able to open the comm with a thought, to remain rigid, hands clenched on the controls. The window rose to the forefront of his display. John tried to wet his lips, but there suddenly wasn't any moisture in his mouth, or even his throat. "Prometheus, this is Gateship. I have retrieved Skinner One and am casevacing him to the mountain. He's the only wounded, the rest assumed KIA."

 

He forced himself to count out seconds, to wait the reasonable length of time for a reply. "Prometheus, do you copy?"

 

Silence roared on the other end of the line. He was casting the inquiry into a void. "Prometheus, this is Gateship. Please respond."

 

Taking a couple steadying breaths, he switched channels. "Mountain, this is Gateship."

 

He didn't expect a reply without satellites to bounce a conventional radio signal, but it was still possible the SGC could hear him. The designers of the jumper had been able to overcome gravity and inertia; why would they let a little thing like planetary curvature stop them from finding a way to shoot a transmission half way around the globe?

 

"Mountain, on the chance you're receiving me... the mission has failed. I repeat, mission failure. Casualties sustained engaging a Goa'uld attack squadron approximately two five miles south south-east of McMurdo Station. Sierra Gulf One is down. Prometheus presumed down after directly engaging orbiting Goa'uld fleet, but cannot confirm status. Snake Skinners routed to McMurdo to await further orders. Gateship inbound to the mountain with wounded, ETA approximately five zero minutes. Request trauma team standing by."

 

He could talk himself hoarse the rest of the trip filling in useless details, but even if the SGC was receiving him now, he knew he would be called on in person to recount the losses over and over. Why put himself through that more times than he had to?

 

Shutting down the radio, John poured his concentration into flying and let everything else fall away from his mind.

 

~~

 

Rodney and John's quarters were intact. The other end of the hall hadn't been so lucky.

 

He tried the phone. Dead, no surprise. The power would be out too if not for the generators. He considered trying his cell, but it was as secure as a sieve. Maybe as a last resort, when he'd expended his other options.

 

Rifling through drawers, Rodney compiled a uniform that bore an intentional resemblance to the one his escort was wearing. The only exception was a button-up shirt to go beneath a heavier jacket; he wasn't about to contend with pulling a proper undershirt on over his head.

 

The jacket was actually John's. It had Sheppard stitched above the pocket, and the tan camouflage fabric was soft and faded from too many washings. It definitely pre-dated John's stint with the SGC—that would explain why it had been buried at the bottom of the pile.

 

John– No, Rodney stood a much greater chance of being able to reach the SGC. Weir would have news; someone with a radio that could reach from Antarctica would have relayed word of SG-1's progress. And she would want a status report from Area 51, but fuck if Rodney knew how to begin describing the situation. If he thought about it, he would inevitably have to contend with the fact that he'd just been wounded in an honest to god alien assault. No way was he prepared to cope.

 

Focus on one task at a time, he excused, fumbling at buttons. Crate first, the rest of that shit later.

 

In a stroke of inspiration, Rodney grabbed the vest from his old  off-world kit, pockets still bulging with potentially useful items. But more important, at a distance it could pass for the flak jackets the ground units were wearing. Last was his laptop, crammed in its protective case; he threw in some powerbars and a bottle of water for good measure.

 

Back outside, his escort broke his self-imposed silence to try to correct their course. "Sir– Ah, doctor, it seems to me that the squadron briefing room would be in that direction."

 

"Good guess," Rodney said, not slowing. "But we still have time, and I need to make sure my researchers made it out safely. They were barricaded in one of the secure labs." A team had been dispatched to retrieve them, but Rodney hadn't heard from either party since.

 

The guard swung around and followed, ear cocked for his radio, but trusting enough not to call for permission or to advertise the detour.

 

The labs were in better shape, perhaps because the buildings had been constructed to more stringent standards. Rodney found the secure room dark and empty, the door wide open. No sign of a struggle or forced entry; the scientists must have left with friends. Still, he flipped on the lights and poked around, moving far enough into the room that his escort wasn't comfortable remaining in the hall with Rodney out of his sight.

 

"Oh. I need– Can you lift this up for me? I'm trying to reach–"

 

"This?" The guy asked, hovering near the intimidating-looking rack of equipment Rodney had indicated.

 

"Relax. It's not alien, not dangerous," Rodney coaxed, and that did it. The guard found a grip, heaved... and Rodney turned and bolted for the door, throwing the electronic lock the second it was closed.

 

The guy's shouts were pleasantly muffled. "Hey! What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

 

Rodney keyed in the sequence for a low-level contamination event. The light on the panel switched from green to red. "I'm sorry, I have some vital housekeeping to do, and you'll be in the way. The door will release by itself in about twenty minutes, once the system verifies a false alarm. I'll even send someone to make sure you got out, just in case," he promised, and made for the stairs that lead outside.

 

"Damn it, I'll get in trouble for this! Unlock the door!"

 

As if Rodney was going to suffer a pang of conscience and change his mind. He had to blow the crate now; he was pretty sure there wouldn't be another chance once he was under Ellis' thumb, and Anubis could attack with a larger, overwhelming force at any time. The base might even be evacuated.

 

And Weir... there was no way Rodney could throw her at Ellis and expect Ellis to buy that she was rightfully in charge of the entire operation. Short of getting the President or General Hammond on the line, he could see no simple way to end a potential pissing contest, so he was just... going to work quickly behind Ellis' back to make sure the need didn't arise.

 

He probably should be concerned by the ease with which he could rationalize deviant or duplicitous actions. Not that he hadn't already been good at rationalizing things to himself, but the SGC had honed the skill, made him comfortable wading into those gray areas.

 

Given a means to destroy the Goa'uld fleet, he would do it without flinching at the deaths of so many enemy combatants. Hell, he'd done it before, destroyed a Goa'uld ship. But the only death from P3X-423 visceral enough to stick with him had been the Jaffa he'd put a hole through point-blank with a staff weapon.

 

See? You shrugged that off, you can do it again. This isn't any different, he lied to himself, taking a lengthy detour around what was left of an Earth fighter. If he kept his eyes down, and his focus on the hangar that was his destination, he wouldn't fall prey to the impulse to cringe at what was left of the fuselage—the cockpit split open, its contents exposed to the oblivious midday sun.

 

Despite his almost meandering course, he wasn't halted by any of the patrols he spotted crisscrossing the grounds. They paid him as little regard as he paid them; it couldn't be that his disguise was any good, merely good enough when combined with the numerous pressing distractions.

 

He returned to hangar alpha two, the one place he was certain to find the warhead he needed. The tattered roof still groaned and disgorged the occasional piece of falling scrap. Rodney kept to the stable side, inching through debris until he could crouch next to one of the tumbled missiles.

 

An instruction manual sure would be handy, but even if Rodney hadn't made a hobby of gutting electronic equipment, he still would have known to start with the bolts. There were only a few securing outer ring clamps, but they were machine torqued and a bitch to remove. Then, with the loosened clamps gone, he could break the missile down to its component parts. The warhead wasn't in the nose like he'd assumed, but the next section back, a cylinder over a foot long, less than half that in diameter. It weighed maybe twenty pounds, the effort of scooping it up and cradling it to his chest making the lacerations beneath his bandages pull and complain.

 

He nearly dropped the fucking thing while climbing to his feet, when his radio chirped at precisely the wrong moment.

 

[Rodney, if you can hear me, please respond.] It was John. How in the fuck...?

 

Rodney set the warhead back down and rifled through his gear. Why hadn't he put the radio in one of the accessible vest pockets? He expected John to keep talking, allowing Rodney to follow the sound to its source, but the transmission consisted of just that one, brief inquiry.

 

Finally he located it, clawed the damned thing out. "John! Oh my god, it is so good to hear your voice."

 

[Thank god. I'm over Arizona, been trying for the last ten minutes, ever since I thought I might be in range. Are you–]

 

"No, we're not," Rodney said, clutching the radio up near his face with both hands. "We're really not. Oh my god, you don't even know–"

 

John's voice dropped to a stealthy volume. [Are you injured? Are you captured? The Goa'uld–]

 

Yes, yes of course. Important news first. "The Goa'uld were wiped out by fighters from Nellis. But there are casualties, and the base is practically destroyed. Buildings ruined. We're on generators, the communications array is down... there's wreckage and blast craters everywhere, and bodies..."

 

[Rodney,] John repeated, dispassionate in a way that normally would have shut Rodney up on the spot.

 

Rodney couldn't stop this time. It was all welling up, rushing out; the rising agitation was clear in his voice, and he didn't care. "I don't know if anyone's been in contact with the SGC. There are all these guys swarming the base, and none of them have security clearance. There's a lieutenant colonel in charge, but I've been dodging him because I need to destroy the crate, Ingram's crate, in case more Goa'uld come. That's why I was in a hangar when the Goa'uld attacked. A Death Glider crashed through the roof—don't worry, I'm fine! I'm banged up, but I'll be fine. I– John–"

 

[Are you alone?]

 

The conversational disconnect threw him. "What?"

 

John said again, [Are you alone?]

 

Now the quiet gravity of the question registered, bringing with it a clench of fear. "Yeah. Yes."

 

[I couldn't tell you if there was anyone else there to see your reaction. Nobody else can know, not until the SGC decides–] He stumbled, almost didn't seem able to collect himself to press on, but somehow did, [–decides what to do. Rodney... the mission failed. Prometheus and SG-1 are gone.]

 

Rodney had suffered through some rudimentary hand-to-hand training. He knew what it was like to have his legs swept out from under him, that spit second his body knew before his brain did that balance was unrecoverable, the fall inevitable. This was similar, his body reaching comprehension far before the rest of him. How else would his arm know to flail around for something to use as support, just as the rush of dizziness crested over him?

 

"How?" he whispered.

 

John made a hoarse sound that could have meant anything from not now to it's not important to I can't talk about it.

 

Sam was so... so amazing, so capable and brilliant. Rodney couldn't imagine her just gone. And Teal'c was a mountain, how could anything bring him down? O'Neill was too wily to ever lose a fight, Jackson too dogged... oh god, and Hammond.

 

[There was a fight over Antarctica like what happened at Area 51. Bombers, Death Gliders. We lost a lot of the 302s. Cam went down; I pulled him off the ice, but he's hurt bad, and I'm taking him to the SGC for help. I don't know if he'll make it. His co-pilot didn't. But I had to– It was the one thing I knew I had to do. Everything else– I just, I don't know.]

 

"You did good," Rodney blurted, because this was John, and John had never misplaced Rodney's absolute faith. He tucked the radio against his cheek, as if that was somehow the same as sharing contact, comfort.

 

[No, I could have gone up there, tried to find Prometheus. I don't even know what happened, and we need to. Weir will ask, the President will ask. I could have– Maybe if I'd just skimmed up high in the atmosphere, it wouldn't have added much time to the trip.]

 

"You did what you could, the only thing you could, and the rest is out of your hands. Just–"

 

[I have to go. The SGC– I must have entered transmission range. Stay where you are, I'll come get you as soon as I can.]

 

"John, wait – John?"

 

Rodney pulled the radio from his ear, ending the hiss of static.

 

~~

 

 

 

(Part 8 WIP ends)