Chapter One: A Very Good Place to Start
My amazing love story that spans two galaxies begins when I met my boss in the most mundane way possible. You'd think it would start with my husband, but no, the story really starts with the boss, because if I'd never met my boss, I wouldn't have gotten my weird classified day job, and if I'd never gotten my weird classified day job, I would have never been reassigned and met the husband. So really, my boss ended up being a fantastic friend, almost my older brother, and he's the reason that my life was so wondrous.
My boss is kind of hard to explain. He's unique and yet at the same time a stereotype, a classic example of an absent-minded professor, too smart for his own good. He forgets the little day-to-day details – like he forgets which coffee cup is new, and by "new" I mean not left there since last week. Seriously, my first week I saw him sip a styrofoam cup that had evaporation rings inside – he noticed, which I took as a good sign of his sanity, and I'll never not laugh at the expression on his disgusted face.
But the big details, the man doesn't forget. He is a legend, my boss.
Well. A very highly classified legend.
And he's the reason that I met my husband and my life changed so wondrously. So you'll forgive me if I wax eloquently about him nostalgically, and brag a bit, because he's also become like my older brother.
He's the man that solved the riddle of the Stargate, the riddle that hundreds of the world's top scientific minds couldn't see after studying it for decades. He plunged into the wormhole on the first go. He stayed on the other side, married, and returned to save the planet. He and his best friend, the unlikely combination of absent-minded linguistic genius and Air Force colonel, had literally saved the planet countless times from alien threats. In fact, they counted an alien as one of their best friends too.
Of course, I didn't know this at the time I met him. I was just one of the billions of innocent lives on the planet Earth, going about my business as if I knew everything, as if I had everything figured out, as if I was certain there was no such thing as extra-terrestrial life, let along weird snake-like parasites that enjoyed taking you over and making you do horrible things, or little tiny robots hell-bent on destruction, or life-sucking aliens from another galaxy who considered humans nothing more than livestock. Or, you know, that the famous Roswell grey alien was from a race called the Asgards and they've been benevolently watching over us for centuries.
No, I was completely oblivious to all that and just bee-bopped my way through college, earned a triple major in Classical Studies, Latin, and Archaeology from the University of Wyoming, went to Italy eager to ply my trade and found out I didn't really like Italian archaeology that much. But here I was with very specialized degrees in the classic world.
Since I had no interest in medicine, at my dad Tom's suggestion, I applied to get a Masters in Library Science. He figured a brain as big as mine (his words, not mine) ought to be helpful to scholars. So we did a little research and settled on Colorado University in Boulder. I dug in, and graduated in two years with an end degree in my field – I would have gone on to get a doctorate at that point, but no need in libraries unless you go super specialist, and I was already up to my eyeballs in college loans. And then after I graduated from Colorado, I kind of had a "now what" moment. I was 25, with a lot of degrees, and a lot of debt.
I was hired in the public library system in Colorado Springs, and excitedly I went to work. My dad and a couple of the hands drove down to help me move, of course, and settle in to a little one bedroom apartment near work. Six months later, my life would change irrevocably, my entire conception of the universe would stand on end, and I would experience the magic, the wonder and the joy of discovery, working for some of the best minds as they explored the galaxy. But how I got to that wonderment started in one of the most mundane ways imaginable, and at one of the most mundane of places.
It all starts at the Coffee Barn.
*** SGA ***
Four months after I had moved to Colorado Springs, I was admittedly a bit bored at work but knew I had to get some experience and work my way up to a university library system. I mean a girl had to start somewhere, right? I parked my little Jeep in the parking lot of the library and walked across the street to the Coffee Barn for breakfast. And it was there, in the Coffee Barn, the second most momentous thing in my life happened to me.
A very skeptical man in a suit was in front of me in line, debating loudly with his friend about the existence of aliens. I rolled my eyes, unable to help it. Sure, I was a bit of a skeptic too (if I ever fought with my father about something it was whether there was a god), but still, you can't prove that something doesn't exist. You have to prove it exists. It's basic science – it's not even basic science, it's simply logic. Seriously, if that was the case, then a lot of things we take for granted can't possibly exist.
I might be getting a bit semantic and philosophical – sorry. That happens.
Anyway, the man moved off, and I stepped up in line, but heard a derisive snort behind me. There was another man there, of medium height and medium build, wearing wire rimmed glasses with a pair of jeans and a no-nonsense plain v-neck sweater. I smiled at him over my shoulder. "Personally," I said cheerfully, "I don't have time for someone who doesn't believe in aliens and unicorns."
He smiled at that, said "you have no idea how true that statement is," pushed his glasses up his nose, and we struck up a conversation, and he bought me my morning latte. He introduced himself as Daniel, and I introduced myself as Epiphany, and he got a funny look on his face, and I readied myself with one of several retorts I had in my quiver to answer the inevitable oh my god, did your mother hate you that I was sure would come out of his mouth. He said something I'd never heard before, however. "You must be Scottish?"
I blinked, and looked at him again. "Yes, actually."
He nodded, placing it. "Sorry, I'm a linguist. I love languages."
So we ended our little conversation and went our separate ways, and I thought nothing of the exchange, other than I thought he was cute if a bit serious, and better older brother material than romantic. Still, it would be nice to make a friend outside of work in a new city.
I shelved and catalogued and assisted in homework projects, and a few days later ran into Daniel again at the Coffee Barn. This time he was in a black t-shirt and green military cargo pants, dressed like he was in the Army right down to the nearly worn out combat boots. I looked at him, surprised. "I didn't realize you were military."
He looked at me oddly, his hands in his pants. "I'm not." He saw my eyebrows knit in confusion, shot me a confused look, and glanced down when my eyes did to observe his obviously military uniform. "Oh! Sorry, no, I'm a consultant."
"A linguist," I said, and I'm sure my tone conveyed my disbelief, "as a military consultant."
He smiled that typical Dr. Jackson smile. "You'd be surprised how handy a cultural anthropologist can be, Epiphany."
We chatted some more, as I was quite curious about how, exactly, a cultural anthropologist slash archaeologist slash linguist could be handy to the military. Unfortunately, I kept asking questions that he had trouble answering with anything other than "sorry, that's classified."
Still. I bid him good day at his classified job and headed off to my distinctly un-classified one.
We went on like this, trading comments every few days in line. A couple months after I met him, on a Saturday morning, I caught him reading a book in the corner of the Coffee Barn, his face a study of concentration so complete the world was shut out, and after I retrieved my latte, I glanced at the title and frowned. That was Latin, but – I mean, surely I hadn't lost the language in the two years since I studied it. "'Atlantis and the Sister Cities of the' – man, I'm out of practice already."
I had startled him. He swiftly clapped the book closed and slid it into his backpack almost as fast as a magician, and looked at me in a new light, almost suspicious, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to take me. His body language was rigid, on alert, in fight or flight mode, and later I realized his hand was still in his bag. "You speak –" His eyes darted around, clearly unwilling to say it out loud, hinting that I knew what he was talking about.
Of course, I should mention that I am completely oblivious to most social clues, and at the time, I just thought that he was looking at me oddly. As per usual, I completely missed the subtext, so I smiled with a small laugh. "I know, right, it's not everyday you meet someone with a degree in Latin, sorry, I startled you."
And his head cocked to the side, as if he'd never really looked at me, and he stood up quite abruptly, his book bag going with him in a smooth practiced motion and he moved powerfully but a bit awkwardly around the little table. "You speak Latin."
I nodded, pointed at myself. "Majored in Classical Studies and Latin."
And like that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the Coffee Barn. Nonplussed, I watched after him, surprised he left without saying goodbye. I saw he'd left his drink, picked it up, ran after him, but he was already in an ancient pick up truck and driving off quickly, all kinds of Air Force and military stickers in the back window. I watched him drive off, holding his half a drink, a bit stunned, really, bordering on irritated, if I'm honest.
"Since when is Latin so controversial," I muttered to myself and threw out his half-drunk latte.
That next Monday afternoon, I went to the bathroom and came back to a voice mail from someone claiming to be General George Hammond, asking if I would be interested in interviewing for a position at Norad. I snorted, rolled my eyes, and pressed 7 to delete the message, picked up the post-it note on which I'd scribbled the phone number, and chucked it out too.
Yes, I was fresh out of school, but if I had learned anything in two years of Masters school and six months in the public library system of Colorado Springs, it was that, contrary to the stereotypes of the uptight prudish spinster librarian with the sweater sets and the half moon reading glasses with the jeweled chain, we librarians were a pranky bunch. It got boring in libraries. And you know, to be a librarian you pretty much had to have a Masters degree, which meant that we were a smart pranky bunch who specialized in researching things and reading fictional novels, from which we got ideas – lots of idea. We could get tricky. And I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, and whoever "General Hammond" was could go suck an egg, I wasn't falling for it.
That next morning I didn't see Daniel at the Coffee Barn, which wasn't unusual, I'd see him about once a week, if that, and I ate lunch outside since it was an unusually awesome day. When I returned, there was another message from "General Hammond" along the same lines, which I again deleted as amateur hour straw grasping. I mean, really, who did they think they were dealing with here? I might be the FNG, but it took more than that to get me wound up.
The next day there was a call for me on my desk line downstairs, and I happened to be there to answer. "Good afternoon, Miss Logan, my name is Captain Carter, I'm calling from the Air Force Human Resources –"
I hung up on her. I'm not gonna lie. As if the Air Force had human resource departments. Puh-leeze! Send me a challenge, pranksters of the Colorado Springs Public Library! I wasn't falling for the military being interested in me!
That Friday I was running late, but I still had five minutes until I needed to clock in. I decided to risk it and dashed across the street, my backpack bouncing, and got in line, smiled at the barista, placed my order for a sugar free vanilla latte, and paid, moved to the side. I waved when I saw my new friend walk in. "Mornin' Daniel."
"Hey." He looked surprised to see me. "What are you doing here, I thought."
I wasn't yet experienced with Daniel's odd behavior quirks, so I waited impatiently for about half a second for him to finish his thought. "Yes?"
He frowned, confused, looked over his shoulder as if looking for someone to answer his questions. His head leaned forward in a quizzical motion that I would become very familiar with shortly. "Didn't you get a phone call?"
"Oh that." I waved my hand dismissively, rolling my eyes, and took my cup with a grin. "I can smell a prank like that a mile away, that was total amateur hour. Running late, see you later!"
You'll have noted my cluelessness again, of course – how could the guy from the Coffee Barn possibly know that I'd been receiving prank phone calls at work? Sometimes I even amaze myself.
I was on the front customer service desk that morning. Our library had been designed for free by a famous architect from the city, so it had a wide open plan, and fantastic windows. I could see outside three quarters of the library from the customer service desk, if I stood on my toes of course, and into the parking lot. It was one of those glorious days in Colorado – not too hot, not too cold, sunshiney and it just made you want to go outdoors.
So I might have been leaning on an elbow daydreaming when everyone – all the library workers and the patrons alike – saw the three long sleek black Suburban trucks pull up to the No Loading zone right out front of the library and park like they owned the place. I straightened immediately, startled, and had the inane thought that surely they'd send a memo around if we were expecting the President.
We all watched as a smartly dressed MP leapt out of the center truck and opened the door, snapping off a textbook salute. I stared, astonished, as a three star general stepped out and donned his hat, saluting back to the MP. And my jaw dropped inelegantly as a second person slid out of the truck – my new friend Daniel, in his jeans and his no-nonsense v-neck sweater.
