THURSDAY, JUNE 29, 2006
0100 HOURS - MIDMORNING
"You've got to start taking better care of yourself," Dr. Powers-Hsu said, frowning at Fletcher's bruises. Even eight hours after Davenport had ordered her off the shooting range, the pale skin of her shoulder and upper arm was covered with angry black and blue splotches.
"Yes, Mother," the teenager answered flippantly, steeling herself for the expected lecture on pain and not pushing oneself too far. She'd heard that one quite a few times before, from at least half a dozen different people, and fully expected to hear it again.
The doctor surprised her, though. "Kat," she said quietly, "did I ever tell you how much you reminded me of myself?"
"What do you mean?"
"I used to be obsessive about practicing things when I was a kid. Mostly playing the cello, and rifle shooting."
Fletcher blinked. "Rifle shooting?" Abby Powers-Hsu had, up until now, shown few signs of interest in guns.
"Yeah, rifle shooting." The doctor smiled. "I grew up in a little town in Alaska, right around the Arctic Circle. Most people that far north get some part of their food by hunting. They even teach traditional Inuit hunting techniques in school."
"Ah, that would do it. Not that much different from where I grew up, I guess." Fletcher didn't have to ask to know that Dr. Powers-Hsu was at least part-Inuit herself. She'd noticed some distinctly Native American facial features the first time they'd met, and had even meant to directly ask what tribe at some point.
But now it was Abby's turn to be surprised. She'd suspected that the young lieutenant had had similar experiences, but wondered just how close they'd turn out to be.
"Small-town New Mexico," the girl continued. "My parents were gun nuts, and when we moved there we ended up living in a little trailer in the desert about five miles out of town, where they could shoot all they wanted and just walk a couple miles away from the road if they felt like hunting."
"New Mexico," Dr. Powers-Hsu mused, pressing an ice pack to Fletcher's arm. "Mmm, wouldn't have guessed." Fletcher already came in with sunburns often enough here; her fair complexion would offer almost no protection against a blazing desert sun.
"Yeah, you wouldn't believe how fast I went through sunscreen."
"So... what I was going to say was I learned the hard way. I know you want to be as good at everything as you can be..."
Fletcher bit her lip and said nothing. It was coming now.
"...and that you'd rather not look incompetent in front of other people."
Now that was an odd twist. Fletcher sat up and listened.
"But you really should think about asking for help at some point. Pain doesn't only mean you're pushing yourself too hard. Sometimes it also means you're doing something wrong."
That was true. Hadn't Davenport said something last night about mechanics?
The doctor continued. "I always wanted to go out hunting with the boys when I was a kid, but I thought I'd just get laughed at if I couldn't do it as well as they did, so I practiced secretly in the yard. I actually used to get the same bruises from it."
"Oh, really? What happened then?"
"Dad found me. You wouldn't believe how scared I was when I suddenly heard his voice two feet behind me."
Talk about coincidences. Fletcher couldn't stifle a giggle.
"He showed me exactly where my mechanics were off. It was embarrassing, and pretty simple. On top of that, I got the whole lecture on how dangerous it was to sneak out alone."
"Awww, that's no fun..."
"He was pretty cool about it, though. No need to sneak out in the first place, he said, he would have taught me everything if I'd just asked. I even got my own rifle on my next birthday."
"Sweet."
"So... well... Phil came by about an hour ago and told me the whole story. I think I convinced him not to blab about it all over base. Meanwhile, if you're not comfortable with other people watching you practice, I suppose I could go over to the range with you tonight? Just let me know."
"Thanks, I think I'll take you up on that offer." That was unexpected. Fletcher left the infirmary much happier.
THURSDAY, JUNE 29, 2006
0300 HOURS - NOON
Phil Davenport and Martin Personen had their lunch in the commissary rudely interrupted by klaxons and flashing red lights.
"Incoming spacecraft," a voice announced. "Air defense personnel to stations."
"Incoming spacecraft?" Davenport asked no one in particular. "What the hell?" Leaving his half-eaten plate of food on the table, he scrambled out of the room after a group of airmen. Pasanen twirled his fork experimentally, took one last bite of pasta, and followed.
When they stepped outside, it was immediately obvious what was the matter. A Goa'uld tel'tac had just decloaked almost directly above the base, and was descending rapidly. A dozen missile turrets had already swiveled around to point at it, but it showed no sign of slowing down.
"Colonel Davenport!" a SF shouted as he saw the leader of Alpha One. "The General wants you in the command center!"
"One second," Davenport replied. He turned to Pasanen. "You're in charge here. Get some people to the tarmac, that's where they'll try to ring down." Already the tel'tac's descent was beginning to slow. As soon as Pasanen nodded his understanding, Davenport took off for the gatehouse at an all-out sprint.
He arrived in the cave to find it buzzing with activity, and stopped at the entrance, scanning the room for O'Neill's face. "Hey, Phil! Over here!" a female voice called from among the computer terminals. He looked in the direction of the voice and saw both O'Neill and Carter waving to try and get his attention. They were sitting at a communications console with Krogstad and Szeja.
Carter brought him up to date on what was happening. "We've been tracking them inbound for the last hour and a half," she said. "They're not responding to hails on any frequency, in English, Latin, Goa'uld, or Asgard."
"It's one tel'tac," Davenport said. "I have a feeling it's not the System Lords."
"Same here," Carter agreed, "but we can't take any chances." She switched on her microphone. "Acquire target," she ordered.
She was answered by a cascade of acknowledgements from each missile and gun emplacement. If the crew of the ship tried anything hostile, it would be blown to pieces in moments. But the tel'tac continued hovering, seemingly unaware that anything was happening below.
Meanwhile, on the tarmac, Pasanen found that the situation was already well in hand, as Davis had beaten him to the punch. A welcoming committee was already there, with a hodgepodge of firearms pointed in the approximate direction of the tel'tac. A fully-armed base security fireteam was augmented by people from everywhere. The blond head of Mike Quisenberry rose high above those around him; John Gardiner squinted at the spacecraft, the glare of the sun reflected from his glasses; even Abby Powers-Hsu, the doctor, was now running toward them from the infirmary with what looked like an old hunting rifle. Funny, he'd never have taken her for the gun nut type...
"That's gotta be the dumbest goddamn snakehead ever," muttered Capt. Viet Nguyen of Alpha 7, who had been nearby when the tel'tac arrived and was now aiming his pistol at the spot where someone would almost certainly ring down. "There's no way they don't see us down here, and they're not even moving."
The tel'tac began to descend again, slowly and with only the faintest whirr of its engines. More than two dozen pairs of hands gripped their weapons more tightly. It was now inside the range of the anti-aircraft guns that served as the base's secondary line of defense, and those guns were now trained on it from all sides. Suddenly, the tel'tac's cargo door began to slide open.
The radio crackled in the command center. "He's opening his cahgo hold," Kwame Davis' voice came over the air, Boston accent and all.
"Funny, never seen a snakehead do that," O'Neill answered quickly. "Hold fire for now, but use your best judgment."
"Yessir!"
The tension was palpable as people all over the base began to wonder what was about to happen.
Suddenly, O'Neill's radio crackled again. "White flag in the doorway, sir. It's... it's Daniel Jackson!"