Jack sat on the dock, staring out over his pond even as his fingers turned the USB key over and over in his lap. He'd thought the cabin might help – seclusion always helped him put his thoughts in order – but maybe it had been a bad idea.
A letter.
She'd written him a letter, like that made it okay. Like it could mitigate the fact that she'd gone off and gotten herself killed and left him alone.
Not even a letter. A file, intangible and impermanent and cold. He didn't want her goodbyes in twelve-point Times New Roman. He didn't want to say goodbye at all, but she'd ripped a hole in his chest the size of Texas, and no two-inch USB drive was going to fix that.
Damn her. And damn her digital file. His fingers curled around the memory stick as he debated throwing it as far out into the pond as he could. Her neatly typed farewells could disappear with her.
But he had to know. He had to read the words and try to hear her voice. He had to know if she'd written all the things he'd never been allowed to say. Forcing his fingers to relax, Jack picked the laptop up off the decking beside him, plugged in the drive, and double-clicked on .
General, the salutation read. And the document below that was about two lines long.
Stricken, furious, Jack slammed the laptop shut.
~/~
The scar Korolev had left on the planet was massive. It was a block wide and miles long, and the ATVs carefully meandered down the bank from the forest to the stripped earth. There were two people on the horizon waving at them, and the rescuers kicked their vehicles into high gear, kicking dirt up behind them.
"Boy, are we glad to see you guys," Lieutenant Avery yelled as the group rolled to a halt.
Beside him, Major Kozlov was smart enough to wait until the engines kicked off and the quiet returned. "The wounded are in the infirmary and the mess. It was the only intact space large enough to house them."
That was all the medical personnel needed to hear; they followed the Russian officer toward an earthen ramp up to a gaping hole in the side of the ship. As they moved away, Daniel saw it – a field of mounds in the dirt, small metal objects resting on top. It was a cemetery. They'd dug graves. Dozens of them, with their occupant's dog tags as identification. Acid rose in Daniel's stomach at the thought that his friend, his sister, might have been thrown in a hole in the dirt on an alien planet without so much as a real marker. Some of the mounds were still dark – recently dug – and a single sheet beyond covered someone awaiting interment.
"Daniel Jackson," Teal'c prompted quietly.
He couldn't answer. Hope and adrenaline had been driving him from the moment he'd gotten the phone call. It had never occurred to him that there would be so many dead. The thought that Sam might be among them – that he might lose her all over again – was beyond terrifying.
"She will be inside," his teammate promised.
But what if she wasn't?
"Come on, Jackson," Mitchell prompted, ducking into the ship. Sucking in a breath, Daniel followed. The lower decks had collapsed in on themselves in the crash, and they carefully clambered up the wreckage in lieu of stairs or ladders, avoiding loose cabling and pits in the floors. Entire sections of emergency lighting didn't function.
They reached the mess hall first, dimly lit but intact. Just like in the cemetery, people were arranged in rows on the ground. The lucky ones had sheets or blankets. Some were conscious; some weren't. The medical personnel fanned out to triage and Daniel knew he should help, but he couldn't. Not yet. He headed down the first row, scanning faces, desperately searching for his teammate.
"Daniel."
That voice. The archaeologist's heart leapt with hope, and he turned, eyes scanning until he found her. Her face was pale beneath healing bruises and scrapes, and her left leg was crudely splinted, elevated on a stack of fruit boxes covered in uniform shirts. But she was alive. With a lopsided smile, Sam asked weakly, "Miss me?"