TITLE : SG-1 goes aaAAARGHHHH!!!
AUTHOR : Perry Tratchett
In recent years a new civilisation has begun wandering through the stargate network, poking their noses into places where their welcome varied enormously. They had the cheek to tweak the noses of the Goa'uld system lords, and not just once. It makes knowing them to be an interesting experience, one that many races find…
…stressful.
They come from a minor ball of rock orbiting a G-class star, far out in a spiral arm of the Milkyway galaxy. It's not prime real estate by any stretch of the imagination.
Their ethical development is curious, encompassing a number of varying and contradictory views. In some ways they are admirable, and in others, well…
Under the circumstances, their paranoia is understandable, especially given that an earlier version of their genome was subdued by the Goa'uld, used as slaves and also as hosts for their procreation. It is not a situation that the humans intend allowing to occur again and that attitude tends to colour their interaction with other races. They labour under the aegis bequeathed to them by that situation.
In addition to that fundamental antipathy to others, they make a conceptual error, believing them selves to be a single entity. They are not. In reality they are, all of them, a symbiont, a mix made from a large organism that can only survive by the action of an army of bacteria and viral organisms. Without them they cannot function. We need to remember that, it is crucial to the events we must discuss.
Let us consider the nature of the human. We shall chose one for illustration…
*
Janet Fraiser woke to the sound of her bedside telephone. It had the sort of ring tone that was guaranteed to wake you up, the ones that only a hated aunt could possibly wish on you, but only if she was in one of her worst moods. It drilled into Janet's head like it was an electronic pile driver intent on a spot of cranial surgery. She cursed the world; told it to go away and leave her alone and then curled up in the bed with the intention of getting back to sleep.
By then it was all too late of course, the raucous noise had done its job and she was wide-awake. A few unsavoury thoughts passed through her head and we won't bother to take any notice of them. Her eyes still felt horrible and her tongue tasted just awful, and now she was fully alert and able to savour the gloriously awful waking experience in its entirety.
She is so lucky.
An annoyingly breathless wheeze from her air conditioning was the only sound in her bedroom, for which she was thankful. She dragged breath between gritted teeth, filling her lungs with air - rich with a chemical dictionary full of unsavoury additives. Her lungs threatened to cough the mess straight back up. She rolled onto her side and peered myopically at the phone.
The caller ID display said 'General Hammond' in little tiny cheery liquid crystal letters.
She pulled her sheet over her head and hid. It didn't help. The phone was still there and it wouldn't shut up. She pushed the sheet back off her head and faced the day, one eye at a time admittedly. Unfortunately, the day faced her right back and it looked no better to her eyes (one at a time rather than concurrently) than it did seconds earlier.
The digital clock beside the phone gave the time as five thirty two. Their little Light Emitting Diodes glared at her in the dim light of her bedroom. It was barely light outside. She could tell that by the fact that her blinds were askew.
"Oh damn," she croaked with considerable feeling. She grabbed the headset off the phone, fumbled with it clumsily and then dropped it onto the floor. It hit one of the nobs on her bedside table on the way down, making a deafening racket in the otherwise quiet room. "Typical," she muttered.
She fumbled around, blind because her eyes were still refusing to stay open, with her hands, scraping around on the floor for a moment, trying to find where the headset had gone; finally resorting to pulling it in like a fish on the end of the spiral would cord. After an age, she managed to place the thing against her ear.
"What is it?" she snapped into the phone. She regretted the tone as soon as it came out.
"Good morning Doctor Fraiser," General Hammond said with altogether too much intensity in his voice. "Look I'm sorry to wake you, but we have a messy one," his explanation came through the tinny little speaker in the phone and drilled into her head almost as bad as the phone's ring tone had done only seconds earlier. "I'll pick you up on the way though."
She vowed to stop drinking, never ever again, ever. "Argh," she said out loud. God, being a doctor was a great life, she thought. She got to wake up to a hang over, and got invited to the scene of a military incident, all at the same time. Two horrible experiences for the price of one, oh yeah! Perhaps they could package the experience, sell tickets. Come one, come all for the experience of a lifetime…
Well at least Cassie wasn't home. Her step/foster daughter had stayed the night at Janet's mother's home while Janet stayed home last night and partied. Cassie was an alien child, but she seemed to be settling in to her domestic situation reasonably well. The dog helped of course. It was one of those odd moments when she could swear that Jack O'Neill was human, that time when he gave her that dog. Then of course a few minutes later he would prove once again and conclusively that he was not human at all, just vaguely human shaped.
"Yeah OK," she almost groaned into the phone. She unwound enough so her head could prop on the pillow and she blinked rapidly half a dozen times. Her eyes cleared enough to see across the room, just for a second and then gummed up again when she blinked the next time. Clear, clogged, clear, clogged, then sore. She screwed her eyes shut. "How long do I have?" she asked the phone.
"Fifteen," the phantom voice said into her head. "I can't leave it any longer."
"Done," she groaned. She dropped the phone back into the cradle, but it bounced off and landed on the floor again. She waited a moment while she worked up the enthusiasm to haul it into the boat once again. It took a remarkably long time.
Janet almost gave in to the temptation to roll over and go back to sleep before her eyes sprang open with a shake of her head. "Wake up dopey," she said out loud.
She rubbed her eyes in a misguided attempt to clear them; it only made them bleary all over again, and she climbed sluggishly from the bed. The remote for the blinds was sitting on the bedside table, she patted her hand around until she found it and then aimed it vaguely in the direction where she thought the window had been during the previous night. The blind moved, she could tell by the noise, allowing the window to become visible once again. It made no difference when the blind released its opacity, it was just as dark outside as it was inside. She fumbled around and found the switch for her bedside lamp and turned it on. It sprang into vivid, vibrant and vulgar life. Now she could sort of see where she was going, if she could just get her eyes open, so she padded over to look out the window at this brand new day.
She stood beside the curtain, blinking in the rude light of the new day that came to her by peeking at her from across the street. The rising sun silhouetted the house across the road. Showing the maturity of her years, she stuck her tongue out at the world.
It poked its tongue right back at her.
She blinked back a few sudden tears and stumbled away from the window, not drunkenly exactly because that was the state she had achieved hours earlier, just uncoordinated.
She closed her eyes and turned to face the wreckage of her bedroom. Clothes that she had worn at last night's sort-of-party were scattered all over the floor. All hers, she noted regretfully. Girl's night of fun and she slept alone for twenty-ninth time in a row. Not that she missed out on offers. She caught her reflection in the mirror; she was small, slender, auburn-haired with expressive eyes in a heart shaped package. It was a good face, she was happy to wear it.
She poked her tongue out at the reflection that looked five years older than she did when she went to bed the previous night, then ran her hand through morning hair, making it differently messy. With a wristy flourish, she tossed her nightshirt over her head, and threw it onto the bed, before padding barefoot and naked into the bathroom. A well-deserved shower waited. We can only assume that was the case of course. In the interests of our PG-13 rating, all we saw was a glimpse of the discarded night dress and a pair of bare feet striding purposefully into the bathroom. It wouldn't do for us to take any more interest in Janet Fraiser at this point.
We will look away until she completes the cycle of washing-drying-selection-of-and-donning-of-underwear thing out of the way.
The numerals on her clock change, and again and again; finally coming to rest on 5:41 before we can look away. Only now we are OK. Janet was still frantically drying her hair and fussed about with a random selection of bits and pieces that she had half used and then scattered throughout the bottom of her vanity cupboard and also still trying desperately to be ready before General Hammond reached her home, when the security alert sounded.
Dressed in a mismatched brassier and panties, she toyed briefly with the idea of answering the door as she was, and grinned to her self happily.
That might cause General Hammond a moment's disconcert. He was always so in-charge; sometimes she entertained little ideas to break his reserve. They were all impulsive and perverse ideas she was sure, but they were fun to entertain.
The skirt that she had selected for the day was draped over the end of her bed and the blouse was hanging on the back of a chair in her kitchen. She looked from one to the other in confusion for a moment, debating which would be best to put on to greet the door. Hide her legs or her torso? Decisions, decisions…
She thew the skirt on and then was about to put the blouse on as well when she realised that her hair was still wet and the blouse was silk and she did not want that to get even a little bit wet and… argh!
She looked quickly around her little home and decided that the mess wasn't too embarrassing. The remains of last nights dinner was still on the table, and the last of a few empty bottles of red wine that she had shared with Kristin and Leonora sat on the bench top, like a pair of useless palace guards. Otherwise the neat little home was clean and relatively tidy…
Well, clean then…
Perhaps...
So long as no one looked in the laundry or the bedroom, that was... or in the cupboards or…
Funny how the human mind works, she thought. She was sure all the stuff that she now saw scattered all over the house was sitting in it's rightful places just a few seconds ago. Where did all that crap come from?
And better yet, where the hell could it possibly go?
OK, start somewhere, she decided hurriedly.
She picked up the wine bottle and was about to toss it into the garbage bin when the door re-announced General's approach. The sound of her doorbell drifted to her from the entry hall. She spun around suddenly, caught on the hop by the sound, and realised that her allotted fifteen minutes were already up.
Oh what the hell, she decided. He was going to find out what she was like one day.
Besides, Janet had seen the top of Colonel O'Neill's desk, and of course there was Colonel Makepeace's idea of paper work to consider as well…
She padded barefooted across to the door and acknowledged the doorbell's insistent plea for acknowledgment. The door sprung open impatiently.
She turned away immediately after the General appeared - loomed? - in the doorframe. He filled the doorway, sort of, being almost as wide as the doorway without being any where near as tall as the opening that the door swung away to reveal.
We should take the time to examine General Hammond for a moment. He is a good example of the alpha male. It is a concept that is based on a pecking order established within the society of primates and represents the primary male primate, the one who gives the orders and decides the policy. The status comes from recognition of experience, knowledge and a healthy dose of attitude. Having now established his position within the society that we are viewing, let us consider the physical manifestation of the man. General Hammond was a wide man, but well under two metres tall, so he filled the width of the doorway.
He stopped the light from the hall like a total eclipse of the maw. OK, so it wasn't poetic. His cropped hair ringed an otherwise bald head, decorated by surprisingly even features. Janet noted that he was dressed in a neat dress uniform and he filled it with a barrel like bulk that could only be developed over the years by a combination of early physical training followed by years of piloting a desk. During that time he had consumed one too many Pentagon lunches, and dinners and afters and…
"Sorry to get you out of bed like that," he apologised softly. He had one of those radio announcer voices, deep and resonant like it was coming from the rear set of your car's speakers, the ones that use the trunk of a car to gain better bass response.
"Hang on while I finish dressing," she told him. She realised that she was still carrying the empty wine bottle. Oh, what he must think, half dressed, looking a mess and carrying a wine bottle around at 5:48am. Arrgh. She tossed the empty bottle away.
"No problem," he answered easily.
Janet waved vaguely at one of the lounge chairs and General Hammond took the hint. From that vantage-point he had only limited visibility through her bedroom door, and none in the bathroom. Good, she wanted the opportunity to tidy up before letting any thing become visible through either of those doors.
She stepped quickly into the bathroom, to cover her own confusion.
Her hair was almost dry. She flicked it about so that it draped loosely past her ears. The drier landed back in the little nook built into the bathroom wall before she stepped back into her living room.
Where had she had left the blouse she intended wearing? Oh there it is, draped over the back of one of her kitchen chairs. She picked it up and was about to push her arm through the sleeve when she noticed a small stain on the collar.
Oh no, she thought. Not all of the red wine had been consumed last night, and a brand new spot glowered at her from the collar of the blouse. It must have discharged from the bottle when she spun on her heel after the door's summons announced General's approach. It would soak out from the collar eventually, but…
"Damn," she cursed and went in search of something else to wear. "I could be a couple of minutes."
"We're not missing much," General declared. He looked at his watch. That is a way of contradicting his own statement.
"OK," She sprayed something that was supposed to lift stains out in the wash onto the red spot and then hung the blouse by the hem from a cord strung above her bath before she marched back into the bedroom. The wardrobe door slid aside. She dragged a smock dress from the wardrobe and looked at it carefully. It would have to do. She nodded, pulled the skirt from around her hips, threw it carelessly onto the bed.
Perhaps I should start to tidy now, she thought, and hung it back in the wardrobe.
Feeling very virtuous, despite wearing just a tiny white lace bra and even tinier pink lace panties she carried the smock past the door that led into the living room while she shrugged her arms and shoulders into it. It settled over her torso and then adjusted itself to fit to her body shape, by a combination of gravity and little pleats and darts.
She checked her reflection in the mirror and was satisfied. Sort of? Maybe she should do something about the hair.
Maybe?
Not?
"Can you see any shoes in there?" she called to General Hammond. He made a show of looking for them, while she turned back through the door searched around the bedroom. A vision came to her. She suddenly remembered kicking them under her bed and strode across her bedroom to rummage around for them.
"Found them," she called.
"Ah good," General answered absently.
"Which team was it?" she called through the bedroom door. She sat on the bed and pulled the shoes onto her feet.
"SG-1."
"Oh," she moaned. It would be them.
She ruffled her hair. Her reflection was suitably bohemian; she grimaced and made for the living room.
"Ready to go?" she asked. In reflection in the hall mirror she ensured that the smock had settled nicely and her shoes gave her legs a graceful line.
For a doctor that was a pretty shallow piece of thinking but that was the way of cultural conditioning. She was a western-society-female; that's how they are brought up to behave. No amount of logic will overcome that early conditioning.
She locked the door behind her.
*
The gate guards waved the giant black car through like it was a plague carrier, jumping out of the way as though they expected the infection might shorten their life span. Inside the behemoth, Janet Frasier marvelled at the behaviour of the gate guards; these were the same men who had consistently hindered her entry with an infuriating combination of supercilious bureaucracy and obsequious manners. She watched them prove that they were capable of simply saluting and then leap aside. All it took was the appearance of the man who authorised their pay-checks.
She was wrong of course. It had nothing to do with authority. It was far more fundamental than that. She was probably unaware that the reason for the attention she received from the gate guards was a far more simple and fundamental matter. The gate guards were just making sure they got a good look at her legs through the window of her car. The suits she usually wore beneath her lab coat were always tight, tailored to a figure that was eye-catching (provided you were the appropriately cultured and biologically wired male human) and they were also definitely not designed to be worn while driving. They rode up while she was seated in her car and exposed a lot of thigh. It is a peculiar conundrum. Should she wear trousers she would enjoy the spectacle of watching men surreptitiously checking out her butt when she walked past. There is no hope for the human male, and she is uncertain whether she would really change them if she had the power.
After passing the guard post, their car rolled through the concrete hemi-circular portal mouth and in to the artificially lit cavern beneath the Rocky Mountains.
General Hammond seemed not to notice the change in scenery. He was still talking at a mile a minute through the pick-up of his car phone.
"What have we got?" Hammond demanded of the microphone. The little ear peace buzzed some sort of answer to him. To Janet it sounded like an argument between a pair of irate blow flies.
General Hammond said "Uh huh," a lot and also "give me that again," occasionally, but mostly he just listened.
"Look we're almost there," he said finally. "We'll be ready for a briefing in…" he stopped in mid instruction and checked his watch. "Look, book the conference room for fifteen minutes from now. Yeah I knew that. I don't care, toss them out. Have Makepeace meet me, and…" he turned to Janet Frasier, "How soon can you give me a yes, no, prognosis? Ten minutes? Good. OK, there'll be Doctor Frasier as well. Have Teal'c ready to debrief."
He slipped the phone back into the little receptacle in which it would hide in until the next emergency. The car ground to a halt outside an elevator. General Hammond leapt from the passenger compartment almost before the giant black car came to rest, bouncing out of the door like a Doberman Pincer on steroids. One who had decided to set off after a burglar, and fact that he waved a big gun was on no consequence. General Hammond had about the same degree of fixation as well. He had things to do, people to chew out and desks to thump. Life doesn't get much better than that.
"Teal'c brought them through," he explained to Janet Fraiser while she extricated herself from the car. She seemed to he having trouble with the seat belt tangling in her jacket. "The rest of the team are lapsing into and out of consciousness. It's a weird situation. Get the details from your medtechs, but I have to tell you, what I heard seems very strange." He paused to gather his wits and his words into some sort of order.
General Hammond's aide met him at the entrance to the elevator. They stepped inside and selected a button. The lift lowered itself into the bowels of the earth.
"Teal'c seems to be OK, but Jack, Daniel and Sam are in pretty bad shape," Hammond concluded.
"From what I can make out," the aide took up the story for Janet Fraiser's benefit, "there was something unusual going on over there, something new, possibly bad." He turned back to General Hammond. "Teal'c hasn't said much, preferring to wait for your arrival, sir so that he can tell the story in one go I suppose. I didn't tell you this before, but they brought back a body. Teal'c thought an autopsy might be a good idea."
"Did he say why?"
"Just something about confirming Major Carter's theory."
The door opened into a corridor of grey concrete and metal. The three of them stepped out of the elevator and into the corridor. A man in the Marine uniform met them. Major insignia embossing his shoulders.
"Where are they now?" General Hammond asked, "The infirmary," a quick nod, "and Doctor Fraiser…?"
She knew a cue when she heard one. "I'm on my way," she offered.
"Let me know as soon as you know anything. SG-1 or the body. I want to be informed about any and all developments. Our debriefing will be in ten. Can you be there for that as well? Get the Med staff to work on this as a priority."
"OK," Janet said and disappeared.
Hammond turned back to the Major who had been looking after the night watch. "Bring Teal'c through to the conference room. It's time to debrief."
*
The debriefing team went about their coffee pouring ritual and found a variety of places to seat them selves.
General hammond inhaled the bouquet that wafted from his cup and sighed. It was his first for the day, after being roused so unceremoniously by the night watch.
Teal'c stepped into the room and took his seat. He features heavily in the events that have unfolded so we should spend a moment to consider him.
Physically, Teal'c is a bulky dark hued man, with a shaven head and a sour expression. He has the overtly bulbous lipped look that bad plastic surgeons might one day slip up and leave on the face of Angelina Jollie or Pamela Anderson when either of them gets her collagen injections updated. He has a gold tattoo in the middle of his forehead. It is a badge of dishonour, telling people (well those who have sufficient security clearance to actually meet him, or those who have an unfortunate affinity for Teal'c plight) about the fact that he is a Jaffa. He has a Goa'uld larvae inside his body. It is symbiotically bound into his nervous system, taking nourishment, and not much else from him any more. A forest of micro-filaments interface the Goa'uld larvae with every function of his nervous system. Teal'c doesn't want it there, because the Goa'uld have a different view on self determination than the opinion held by their hosts, and Teal'c tries extremely hard to aid the medical staff supporting the SGC command in research into the manner of de-Goa'uld-ing Jaffas.
As you could probably imagine, Teal'c and his symbiont do not get on at all well. You might even describe their relationship as dysfunctional.
The goa'uld waits inside him and in that dull and dreary environment, it rages at it's own incarceration. We know all about their philosophy, they have published their manifesto in large deeds writ across the stargate network. They was born to rule, to make the decisions, to act like a god and generally make life miserable for those around them for their own ends… Needless to say the one that is lying captive within the confines of Teal'c's nervous system is not happy to be stuck inside a Jaffa who has control of his own body. The Goa'uld has gone quietly nuts in the sensory deprivation chamber that is the inside of Teal'c's body. Their disputes would make a story all by them selves.
One day human medical science (or blindly fumbling witch-doctor-y, depending on your viewpoint on these matters) is going to find a way to get the thing out from inside Teal'c. And Teal'c is going to party big time when it's gone.
Once upon a time his fantasy of being free of the monster had amounted to wearing a happy expression. He might even have smiled. Later he entertained a desire to dance. He imagined the scene during any quiet moment. There it is on the floor, a thing like a tiny dragon, writhe-ing around on the tiles. First comes one booted foot, then the other and the first is back again, and the second repeats it's dramatic entrance. The little dragon becomes little road kill, a scaly mat with vivid red highlights, stomped to death like an elongated and antisocial cockroach. And still the desecration goes on until the tiles are stained red and there is a terrible job awaiting the cleaners after the party is over. But lately even that vision has not satisfied. Lately he has entertained visions of barbeques. His invited guests would eat steak, and the dogs would eat snake. The only variations on the fantasy were in the preparation. He debated the merits of puree, versus cremation. Both have their attractions. It is a fantasy that Teal'c entertains whenever he has a quiet moment. You can tell when he has one of those by the dreamy smile that crosses his otherwise impassive face.
Teal'c tends to extended silences and has an ingrained ability to stand in one place and stare straight ahead like a statue. The lack-of-activity is known as 'guarding' the universe over and is, with out a doubt, the greatest waste of talent that you could possibly imagine. I mean look at what you have. There, in that shaven pated skull, is one of the most sophisticated, self programming, biological neural-net wet-ware, parallel processors that the universe has ever seen. It was created with the capacity to interface through a series of articulated peripherals that combine manipulative functions with tactile feedback to allow the biological processor to grasp the universe by the throat and wring the life out of it. The Goa'uld recognised the essential kick-ass nature of the organism, it's capacity for universal manipulation and conceptualisation, that's why they chose it as their preferred host, and what do they do with it? They find ways to stand in the one spot and let it lie idle for long periods of time for the sole purpose of guarding things that never get stolen.
While the coffee consumption ritual proceeded around him, Teal'c looked toward Janet Frasier, hoping to find out more about the health (or perhaps otherwise) status of his team.
She was deeply immersed in a conversation with her second in command, a dialogue facilitated by that wonder of human technology, the interoffice mobile phone hand set. (The reverence and esteem in which humans hold this device is best illustrated by their behaviour when one of them demands their attention. No matter what else is happening around them in that room, they must answer it. They might be in the process of dealing with something of vital importance, or it might be even a life-threatening situation, and still they entertain the overwhelming urge to respond to the thing's plaintive cry for attention, and answer the call. Try it some time. Next time you find a room full of humans, see how they squirm if there is an unanswered telephone.)
Teal'c raised one eyebrow as a means of inquiry. Janet Fraiser's frown passed briefly. No communications were achieved by that exchange of expressions, but it was a worthwhile attempt at non-verbal communication. With a few years of practise, Teal'c may be able to communicate with pre-schoolers on a non-verbal basis.
General Hammond took a seat, placed a pile of file folders on the table in front of him and called the meeting to order. "Doctor Frasier," he commanded. "You first please…"
He took a sip from his cup and waited.
Janet Fraiser placed her phone on the table beside her and folded her hands in front of her. She leant this behaviour during her time at school, having made her way through that establishment before the more enlightened times that see guns and metal detectors being part of the natural habitat of the educationally motivated. "Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter appear to be stable," she began. "Their vital signs are all weak, and they are still in critical condition, but I see no cause for immediate concern. We are maintaining constant supervision though. Daniel Jackson's condition is still being investigated."
"Do you know what's wrong?"
"Not yet. We're still running tests." She stared up at him with those big gamine eyes of hers. She really does look too young to hold down such a responsible position, so she tried really hard to be serious.
"So you have no idea why this should have affected them and not Teal'c yet?" he demanded.
"I'll know the answer to that in an hour or so," she conceded.
"That soon?" General Hammond nodded; he almost smiled. "That is the best news I've had since this whole mess blew up."
"Thank you, sir."
"The autopsy on the body that Teal'c brought back?"
"Not begun yet," a hint of a smile almost crept onto her face, but she brought it to heel with a quick vision of the consequences of not-taking-this-business-seriously. "It's not as though the cause of death is all that difficult to determine."
"How important is the autopsy?" General Hammond asked Teal'c.
"I would say that was essential to understanding what happened during our last mission," Teal'c offered.
"Doctor Fraiser…"
"I'll get some one to look at that right away," she picked up the phone hand set and stepped away from the table so that she could place the call without disturbing the meeting.
General Hammond watched her for a moment before resuming his attention on the people he had gathered together. "Now we just need to find out what went on over there," General Hammond told everyone, and then he turned to face the burly Jaffa, "From the beginning Teal'c…"