WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2006
1200 HOURS - EARLY EVENING
"Mmm, this is really good," Martin Pasanen said, gesturing at the trout on his plate. "How did you get this?"
"Oh, we manage," Kevin Hsu answered. "You can thank Abby for that."
Three inquisitive pairs of eyes turned in her direction. They were all in the Hsus' apartment; being a married couple, Kevin and Abby had a bit more space than most of the others at Tau'ri Alpha. They'd invited all of Alpha One to join them for a home-cooked dinner, along with Kevin's longtime friend, Dr. Marko Balasevic, now on Alpha Seven. For Davenport, Pasanen, and Balasevic, it was a welcome change from commissary food. For Fletcher, it was normal by now. She was allergic to wheat, and got headaches after eating too much soy; eggs and milk were only good if she stuck to the "organic" brands, as the chemicals and hormones in most commercial types could drive her to painful spasms. With her own health and sanity in mind, she avoided the commissary as much as she could, and she'd had dinner with the Hsus every day of the last week.
Abby Powers-Hsu grinned. "It's all Sergeant Davis back on Earth, actually. We got him to throw our groceries in with the supply shipment every week."
"My compliments to the che... the chevron guy," Davenport deadpanned, to the amusement of all.
Balasevic, himself a competent amateur chef, chewed thoughtfully, trying to identify the flavors and seasonings on the fish. "Hmm," he finally said. "What spices did you use?"
"Thyme, tarragon, and, uh, this herb that Kat and I found in the woods on the last combat exercise," Kevin Hsu said, taking a jar from the kitchen counter. He passed it to Balasevic. It contained several sprigs of a dark green plant that didn't look like any familiar Earth herb. The Croatian physicist pulled one out and examined it, sniffing at it thoughtfully.
"Actually more like had our faces shoved into it," Kat added bluntly. "Mike Quisenberry's pretty heavy-handed about getting people under cover." Pasanen nodded in sympathy as Hsu grimaced. The Marine from Alpha 5, another SGC veteran, thoroughly deserved the nickname of "Sledgehammer Man" that his teammates had bestowed upon him.
"Do we know it's safe?" Davenport asked in a moment of uncharacteristic caution. "I thought the medical staff was against eating the local plant life."
"I am medical staff," Abby replied without hesitation.
"So that's how it is... monopolizing the supply, I take it?" Davenport winked at her.
"Not really, we just thought we'd get a head start on publishing the first interplanetary cookbook," Kevin quipped.
"Try the greens, they're local too," Fletcher piped up cheerfully, jabbing a fork into said greens. "And fresh. I cut them myself, a couple hours ago." Even cooked down, they were recognizable as one of the small shrubs that grew all around the edge of the forest.
"So that's why you were in such a hurry to leave the shooting range. Didn't seem like you," Davenport observed. He'd run into her in the afternoon at the shooting range, where she'd been known to spend three or four hours at a stretch. Today, she had fired only about a dozen shots before leaving.
"Actually, I was quite done there." Fletcher shoved her fork into a pile of food, as if for emphasis. Her CO didn't doubt it at all. He'd looked at her scores a few times, and on a good day her pistol shooting was better than anything he'd seen outside the Olympic Games.
"You know, I haven't ever seen you shoot a P90 on the range... adapting OK to that?" Davenport was well aware that few regular units used the P90, and had been fully prepared to give Fletcher a few weeks to get accustomed to her new weapon.
"A-a P90? I'm, uh, working on it."
"If you need any help, come talk to me, okay?"
"Sure." Fletcher nodded, and left the question at that.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, the topic of conversation had shifted. Balasevic was indulging yet another of his intellectual hobbies: written language. The latest sample had come from Dr. Julio Lopez, the young hotshot linguist on the new SG-1 team, on a reconnaisance mission to a Goa'uld-occupied world. Inscriptions there used an alphabet that none of the team had seen - which turned out to be a syllabary invented in Surinam in the 20th century.
Even though Kevin Hsu's work now involved linguistics, he knew he could get around the no-work rule by claiming that this project wasn't his. Besides, the whole point of that had been to keep himself and Abby, both physicians by trade, from spending too much time talking about medicine. Before joining the Stargate program, Kevin's involvement in linguistics had been purely amateur, and Abby had been at least somewhat interested, so... why not?
"Most of the inscriptions seemed to easily predate the Ndjuka script on Earth," Hsu said. "And if the locals are descended from Zulus... Surinam's nowhere near Zululand."
Balasevic considered the problem carefully. "Ah, but it makes perfect sense," he replied after a while. "Atumisi claimed divine inspiration, which conveniently solves that problem. Almost too conveniently, though."
"Any chance of talking to Julio tonight?" Hsu asked.
"I don't think so, SG-1 is still off-world."
"They've been out for more than a week!"
"Ferretti's always been like that," Davenport interjected. "Gotta hand it to him. I don't know how he keeps his teams in the field for so long. Goes off on a recon, and comes back in two weeks with enough intel to fill the Encyclopedia Britannica."
"When are they due in?"
"Late tonight, I think. SGC time. Right about when we get up in the morning here."
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2006
1700 HOURS - AFTER MIDNIGHT
Phil Davenport whistled softly as he ambled along the path to the lake. Things were falling into place at last. The iris was about to arrive, meaning the base would soon be fully operational. It was about time. Already, his team had already made half a dozen trips through the Stargate to friendly worlds, where they had trained with the Tok'ra, the Free Jaffa, and units of the Kelownan military. But Davenport was bored now - he and Pasanen had been around the Stargate program forever and a half, and dealing with all the new allies was old hat to them.
And yet somehow he had a nagging feeling that his team wasn't entirely ready. He knew Pasanen well enough, but the sniper was still having trouble adjusting to the 21-hour day. Hsu had still never been under fire before. And Fletcher... something was wrong with her. She seemed high-strung lately, almost constantly afraid she'd make a mistake.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of gunshots, one after another. Startled for a moment, he quickly pulled himself back together. The reports were coming from the direction of the shooting range. Perhaps whoever was training there might be worth talking to.
It was Fletcher. She was standing at the far side of the darkened room, firing round after round at the targets from what turned out to be a P90. On the floor, at her feet, was a ten-pound dumbell. Davenport stepped quietly toward her and placed himself where he could see both Fletcher and the targets. Not entirely surprisingly, she was doing extremely badly.
"Fletcher?" he said softly as she paused to reload.
The girl literally jumped as she looked around and saw him in the room. "S.. sir," she stammered. "Wh-what are you doing here?"
"I was going to ask you the same question," Davenport answered matter-of-factly. "It's not that often that one runs into someone, well, shooting in the dark."
"It's more realistic, sir," Fletcher explained, wanting to believe that was the only reason but knowing full well that it wasn't.
Davenport walked over to at the lieutenant. She was wearing a tank top, which revealed big, ugly bruises on her right shoulder. "How long have you been here anyway?"
"About three hours, including the weight room." Fletcher chambered a round, took aim, and fired. She winced visibly as her weapon's recoil drove the stock into her bruised shoulder.
"There is such a thing as overtraining, you know..." Davenport started.
Fletcher fired another round. Her shoulder throbbed with pain. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?" she said through gritted teeth.
What she meant by that, Davenport could only guess. He guessed. "I never said you had to use the P90, just that it's standard for SG teams."
"Why all the nagging about it then?" The lieutenant looked annoyed, but also a bit relieved. She aimed downrange again, but hesitated there, her finger still on the trigger. Davenport let a slight frown break his poker face. Fletcher's shooting posture and grip on her gun were terrible. Whether it was usual, or a result of her exhaustion and bruises, he couldn't tell.
"You never said anything about having problems."
"And what, exactly, do you mean by problems?"
"Why the hell else would you be here for four hours straight late at night? If it's for your health, I want a word with the doctor that prescribed it."
So much for that try, Fletcher thought. It had been a flimsy excuse from the start, of course. "Fine, fine," she finally said, exasperated. "I can't hold this thing steady, it's just too short to brace like a rifle and I don't have the muscles to shoot freehand."
Davenport was taken aback. It wasn't that she'd edged her way into this assignment without many of the abilities that most soldiers took for granted. He'd known from the first day that he probably couldn't ever expect much physical strength from Fletcher. Her previous unit, a Reserve engineer battalion, had rarely carried rifles, let alone fired them, which was probably the only reason she'd managed to stay in it for so long. She'd even admitted that she probably wouldn't pass a standard fitness test right now. But then he really couldn't fault her for lack of effort - she practically lived in the gym, the poor girl, and ate something like five solid meals a day, but she never gained any weight, and it was increasingly clear that she was never going to look anything other than small and fragile. Fletcher obviously wasn't here because of her combat ability, her Bronze Star notwithstanding.
Fletcher continued, "I'm sorry, maybe if I trained more..."
"You're already overtraining."
"B-but..." The young lieutenant looked on the verge of tears. Davenport knelt beside her and started to put an arm around her. She shook him off, and her voice hardened. "Don't patronize me," she said angrily. "If I'm not good enough, just tell me right now. It won't be the first time I've heard it."
Davenport bit his lip. "Lieutenant, I know you were Reserve and all, but you don't have to prove yourself. I've seen your pistol scores, and the only one who's better... is Pasanen. If you'd just asked me if you could carry sidearms only, I would have said yes. I still think you can learn the P90, but we'll have to work on your mechanics some time. Just not tonight. Having you injured before our first mission isn't exactly about to help us."
"So why were you getting on me earlier tonight?"
Davenport sighed. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot. I guess I shouldn't have asked in front of everyone. I just wanted a clear picture of where we all stood. We're operational as soon as the last iris parts get in, you know. And that's tomorrow assuming nothing goes wrong." He went into a back room and returned with a bag of ice. Without a further word he pressed it to Fletcher's shoulder. She tried at first to push him away, but only halfheartedly. "No more shooting tonight, and that's an order," he said firmly. "And go see a doctor in the morning."