I'd first set eyes on Cheyenne Mountain on Easter morning in 1998, fresh off the boat as they'd say. Through all the twists and turns my life had taken, I could never have imagined the directions it would go in the next decade and a half. Looking back, I can hardly imagine the person I was then: slightly softening raw anger, gut-wrenching guilt and soul-rending grief, all combined into a slightly shorter-than-average red-headed dynamo determined to make a solid break from the past and embrace all things American.
The guard had come over to see what I was up to. "Brightman – you're not on the list of authorized personnel. Move on." It took me a minute to realize he was talking to me, Doctor or Lieutenant Brightman still sounding foreign to my ears. I went back to my barracks at Peterson before my hospital rounds started that evening. Not Kelly. I might still be Kaitlin, but I wasn't a Kelly anymore, and could never be again.
Even the faintest traces of my Belfast brogue had been wiped clean by a London speech therapist, though I always had to stop before speaking and consider how to say the words correctly. This apparently gave me an appearance of giving consideration to my words, and I was allowed to see more . . . . interesting . . . . cases at Peterson. One of these put me in contact with Jack O'Neill, who was impressed by my quick and creative thinking to save one of his teammates. I had no idea what that interaction would bring about.
Two months later found me inside those highly-guarded walls and bunkers, in fatigues and far beneath the ground watching what looked like a pillar of turbulent water wend its way towards me, and then settle back into an improbable-seeming vertical puddle inside a ring of stone. I had been chosen as an Alpha team member, being evacuated to another planet through something that seemed like a cross between science fiction and someone's idea of a practical joke of gigantic proportions. The scientists and people of great import around me shuffled and talked, but I had been taught to be a good soldier, and not only by the U.S. Air Force. If they told me I had to walk through that puddle and end up on another planet, that's what I would do.
I worked with dear Janet on occasion, consulting on difficult cases that needed a unique perspective and bonding over high-heel shopping (like me, she was on the short end of average). I was heartbroken when she was killed in the line of duty, though I know there was no other way she'd want to go other than saving lives. Though I was overwhelmed with grief over losing one of the few dear friends I'd been able to confide my past in, I did my best to take her place as the SGC's Chief Medical Officer until the change in command brought General Landry and his daughter Caroline to the SGC. I was glad of it, not caring for the scrutiny that being in charge tended to bring.
I'd even used an ancient communication device, consisting of a pair of stones and powered devices, to provide medical care to the crew of the Destiny. The ship fair fascinated me – this hulk of groaning metal and aging parts had been around longer than our recorded history, longer than any strife on our planet between ethnic groups. I'd been called in the first time through the stones to remove a tracking device implanted by "the blue aliens" on Dr. Rush's heart. It was my first time switching bodies with someone, and my host was both taller and more slender than I, with a slight shake to her hands that drove me half-mad, though it would not be noticed by most. I had one of the steadiest hands at the SGC with a scalpel, and I was performing surgery on a man being kept unconscious by an alien venom I'd not had the opportunity to study yet. To top it off, my words felt even more foreign in her mouth and it took an effort to keep an American accent.
A few months later found me on the Destiny again, trying desperately to save TJ and her baby as well as the Lucian Alliance leader whose life or death held so many more in the balance. The tragedy that came out of that broke my heart, leaving it shattered like the whiskey bottle I threw in my on-base quarters back at the SGC, shattered like my very soul had been in the past. At least Ms. Wray's hands were steadier.
Though I'd garnered the respect of many people both at Peterson and in the Mountain, I kept mostly to myself, spending my down time working on additional degrees, spinning, knitting and weaving; no matter how much I'd have wanted to forget my heritage after the Good Friday Accords, I found that I couldn't escape all of it. I'd added PhD's in biochemistry, organic chemistry and physiology to my M.D. and master's degree in material science and engineering in a desperate attempt to forget the past and my nightmares. The irony of it was that I was now considered one of the leading experts in alien physiology and alien/human biochemical interactions – a healer rather than a murderer.
I was considering this latest accomplishment the first time I saw Nicky Earthside. Nicky, or Rush as he preferred people address him, was wandering down the SGC corridors on his first mandatory visit home after he had dialed the Destiny and sent himself and nearly a hundred other souls across the universe. He'd made several other rather short and business-related visits back since they had reached the Destiny, but after the issues with Dr. Perry's consciousness trapping him in a simulation, he'd been required to take time off Earth-side. I ran across him – actually Sergeant Stuttman, from appearances – with his nose in a scientific journal and muttering about the theories they'd already disproved, if they could only be published.
I was familiar with the good sergeant, and as I knew him to be good with mechanical systems but shite with anything theoretical, I realized he must have traded consciousnesses with someone. Coming up along side him, I glanced over. After the first few mix-ups, someone had thoughtfully set up velcro name patches reading "Hello! I'm _" to help make the transition easier. "Dr. Rush?" I queried, making sure I did actually have the right person. He looked up, a bit distracted.
"Huh – Um, yes. Doctor . . . " he drifted off a moment while he found my nametag. "Oh, Dr. Brightman! Sorry, not used to seeing you looking . . . . Well, I guess like yourself." He gave a brief flash of a self-depreciating grin that settled back down into a thoughtful look. "Can I help you?"
"Just though I'd see who was here – I've never known the good sergeant to be terribly interested in theoretical physics, after all." He gave a short bark of a laugh at that. "I suppose if you're hungry and not interested in doing much visiting off base, you could join me for dinner, give me the benefit of some intelligent conversation and catch me up on the scuttlebutt about Destiny."
"I was actually looking for the cafeteria in this rabbit's warren of a facility," he laughed, his thick brogue reminding me of home. "Though the food's never been much more than a grudging acknowledgment of the body's need for nutrients in any cafeteria, I must say."
I smiled at that; the SGC cafeteria, though better than most military bases, was still cafeteria food. "There's a lovely English pub just opened up in Pueblo, of all places, that I was keen to give a go this evening." Damn. There was something disarming about the good doctor from Glasgow that had gotten past my usual restraint in speech, perhaps the fact that he didn't mince words and could get right to the point, something not seen with most of the civilians I'd worked with in the States. Had he noticed?
He blinked, pausing for a half a second. "Certainly sounds better than here – let me get a pass filled out and we can be on our way then." Once his paperwork was completed, we headed out. He admired my Mercedes, though not in the drooling way that most men did, going on about gears and horsepower. He simply said, "Nice car, does it drive well?" and let it go. I smiled at that.
"Gets along well enough, and put together well enough to not rattle apart." There was little for chit-chat on the way to the restaurant, mainly sticking to what had been happening on the Destiny. He seemed somewhat surprised that I could follow some of his dialogue, only needing to clarify the general idea of what a particular component would do before I caught the gist of what he was talking about. Once we reached the restaurant, we discussed – in only the most vague of terms – what problems could be solved on the Destiny, brainstorming better ways to test food supplies and alien organisms with what was already available on board over Guinness and dessert.
I remember him looking oddly at me after I'd returned him to the base. "Ye must have had a grandparent from the old country," he said, studying me with a slightly perplexed look on his face. "It's not often, but there's something to your speech that sounds a touch Gaelic." '
I froze, trying to not let my panic show on my face. "My grandda was from Belfast, around World War Two," I said. It wasn't really lying, it was just that the rest of my family, including me, was also from there, and that fact getting out could put my life in jeopardy if the wrong people found out.
He gave a half a grin, nodding. "Sure, that must be it. Say, I know you signed out for the day and probably want to get home, but I wouldn't mind continuing our conversation, now that we won't need to mince words, ye ken?" He had an almost half-hopeful look on his face that made it hard to say no. Nodding my acquiescence, we rambled through the hallways to my on-base quarters, sitting quietly at the table and enjoying a dram or two of single-malt whiskey I kept in my quarters for "medicinal purposes".
I could appreciate the quality of the alcohol, a sharp edge with a smokey flavor that tasted to me of peat fires and cottages in the heather. I wasn't the only one, either, as Rush let the amber liquid roll around his mouth, savoring every iota of flavor. "Beats the hell out of the degreaser that Brody puts out of his still and tries to call liquor," he muttered, eyes closed. I grinned at that, having had a swig of the still's offerings after completing medical checkups one day.
We talked for what seemed like hours on a number of topics: additional thoughts on the Destiny's mission, the mechanics behind what made the chair work and possible alternatives to traditional medicines they might be able to use on board. Eventually the knock on the door came, summoning him back to the stones.
He looked at me with something akin to regret, and I could see the thoughts swirling about in his mind. "It's been a far more lovely evening that I could have imagined when I was picking up the stone, lass, and I think it's been mostly the company. Might I look you up next time I'm Earth-side?" I could see the nervousness in his eyes, though how much of it was from asking the question and how much of it had to do with Dr. Perry's betrayal in trapping him in the ship's systems I didn't know. I smiled gently and nodded my assent.
"I'd like that," I murmured, meeting his eyes. They were hazel in person, I knew, and suddenly found myself wishing I could look into his own eyes, that we didn't have the layer of Sgt. Stuttman between us. We left with the guard, to wend his way back to the stones room to end the connection. At this thought, I impulsively rushed forward, encircling him in an embrace.
"Take care of yourself and those idiots on Destiny with you," I whispered in his ear, feeling first his shock at the embrace, a brief snort of amusement, and then relaxing into my hold, tightening his arms around me. After a moment, he stepped back, sat in the chair, and with a final, considering look at me, severed the connection that held him to the Earth, and leaving Sgt. Stuttman with a slightly confused look on his face as to why he tasted of fine whiskey.