Three days later, Makepeace sat at his desk, staring at his computer and coming to terms with his new orders.
He had been indefinitely grounded. That hadn't been a surprise, since he himself had predicted that particular outcome. Fraiser and McKenzie had both recommended it, and Hammond had agreed. Makepeace was frustrated and angry, yet he understood their reasoning. How could he blame them for not trusting his state of mind, when he didn't even trust it himself? He'd have made the same call, had it been one of his men.
He hadn't expected to be shipped off to Area 51, though.
He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Varayimshaeta still sang in the dark corners of his head. His own mind had betrayed him, integrating the alien thoughts and memories so well with his own that he sometimes had trouble differentiating between them. They felt too familiar. The task was complicated by the fact that human beings had been substituted into the blank spots that Varayimshaeta's People should have occupied. Those memories he had to examine good and hard, picking them apart and analyzing them. Blue-gray dirt, the Zand-Faylakk road system, and emerald domes were the usual giveaways that the past events he remembered were not part of his own, Earth-born experience.
He couldn't help wondering if he was really the same person anymore. Small wonder McKenzie felt out of his depth and had opted to pass him on to the big guns.
He'd already had several sessions with McKenzie. The base shrink's strange expressions, so at odds with his soothing comments, had been warning enough that Makepeace's problems were out of McKenzie's league. It must be worse than Makepeace thought, for McKenzie to have come to his decision so quickly.
Then there was the tech angle. Part two of his new orders. Makepeace knew that the top brass had been very, very interested in all that apparently abandoned technology. All the circumstances told him so: the fact that Hammond had agreed to the extended mission on 3Y5-116 so quickly and easily, the alacrity with which he had provided all the survival gear Makepeace had requested for the survey. All done without question or delay. Additionally, Hammond had been ordered to reestablish contact with 3Y5-116, despite Makepeace's speculation that Varayimshaeta had destroyed its own planet. The control room techs had been dialing the address twice a day over the last two days—ever since SG-3's reports had been filed and forwarded. The Stargate never succeeded in making a connection.
Makepeace thought that was a blessing. He had no problems with obtaining technology for Earth. Until recently, he had approved whole-heartedly. The Goa'uld had to be stopped, before they did to Earth what they had done to Varayimshaeta's World. However, this last mission had taught him that some alien tech was a disaster waiting to happen. Varayimshaeta's had not been designed for humans, but for a truly alien species with a disturbingly non-human psychology. Earth would do better to stick to scavenging and trading for technology developed by humans and human-similar species. Makepeace had already said as much, several times, but no one wanted to hear that.
It was just as well 3Y5-116 was now "unreachable."
That wasn't going to stop the brass, though. No one wanted to believe that the planet was probably gone. Nor did they believe that there wasn't useful alien knowledge locked up in Makepeace's head. Even General Hammond had pressed him to look deeper into the new, alien places in his mind. Aside from Varayimshaeta's history lesson and a few odd bits of language and trivia, there was nothing. At least, nothing any weapons designers could use. On the flip side, the anthropology, linguistics, and archeology types—like Doctor Jackson and his cronies—were already requesting interviews.
Makepeace was leaving for Area 51 the next day. He might not be looking forward to his trip, but he also wasn't particularly sorry that he'd have to disappoint the prying scientists.
A knock on his door broke his train of thought. Just as well. "Come in," he called.
Lieutenant Johnson stepped into the office, his expression somber. "Ready to go, Colonel?"
Makepeace glanced at his desk clock. It was that late already? He'd lost track of time. As he got up, his gaze fell on the family photo on his desk, taken a few years earlier during happier times. The picture showed himself, standing to one side of his seated ex-wife Joanna. Her smile had always been incredible, he thought with a touch of melancholy. He had his arms around their daughters, Eleanor and Jillian, while Joanna held three-year-old Adam in her lap.
A vision floated through his head, of babies in gestation tanks, bathed in golden light.
Johnson said, "Sir?"
"I'm coming, Lieutenant." He pulled himself together and headed out into the corridor.
While Makepeace had been dealing with psychiatrists, physicians, scientists, and impatient superiors, all demanding answers to questions he didn't want to explore, Johnson had arranged a memorial service for the unnamed babies that Varayimshaeta had created from SG-3's genes. A private ceremony, just the four of them and the base chaplain, in the SGC's small chapel. Something to mark the passing of six tiny lives that should never have even existed. Something to ease four guilty, distressed, and angry souls.
Not too surprisingly, Johnson and Henderson had taken the news of their near deaths at their comrades' hands in stride. They admitted that they'd been expecting—even hoping—that Makepeace and Andrews would remember the pact they'd made at the destroyed train platform and honor it. They'd had no illusions about mercy from Sitala, and at the time there had been no other way out. They were all glad it hadn't come to that, and no one lost any sleep about that particular "might-have-been."
The babies, however, were another matter altogether. Lingering guilt and a sense of impotence haunted all four men.
Johnson was the most outwardly affected, and had taken to having long discussions with the base chaplain. Henderson had compartmentalized everything, and only discussed the fetuses in terms of biology and technology. Andrews was spending a lot of time at the rifle range.
Makepeace just tried to avoid thinking about the subject. It was fairly easy during the day, when he was preoccupied by demands for information while on duty. At night, when alien dreams and all-too-human nightmares threatened, he forced himself to concentrate on other things. Recreating obscure historical battles in his head, working out strategies for both sides that would result in alternate outcomes. His paperwork was all caught up and his house had never been cleaner. These methods worked. Usually.
It might seem somewhat pathological to an outsider like McKenzie, but the Marines were all coping in their own ways.
Makepeace and Johnson walked in taut silence. The chapel came into view. Another vision appeared in Makepeace's head, of Varayimshaeta's city dissolving and sinking into 3Y5-116's blue dust. He remembered the pain and accusation in Johnson's eyes when they'd had to leave the too-young fetuses behind, and said quietly, "Daryl, I am sorry about the babies."
Johnson stopped and regarded him with a solemn expression.
"We did what we had to do," Makepeace said. "There wasn't any other way."
"I know." Johnson heaved a weary sigh. "Doctor Fraiser confirmed Henderson's assessment after we described the babies to her. They were too young. It's just hard."
"Yeah." Makepeace wished they'd never stumbled upon the gestation chamber. He stared down, not meeting Johnson's eyes.
Johnson shifted from foot to foot. "Colonel," he said, sounding uncomfortable. Makepeace looked up. Johnson blurted out, "I would've made the same decision—about them—if I'd been in your place. That's hard for me to deal with."
Forgiveness, of a sort, and understanding. Makepeace briefly closed his eyes. "I know," he said, echoing Johnson's earlier words. "It takes time. We all need some space, I think." He did, especially. To deal with everything that had happened, all the decisions he had made, not just to mourn the doomed babies. Makepeace was almost glad he was going to Area 51 tomorrow. He might not like the reasons, but he could appreciate the distance it afforded.
Johnson nodded.
Makepeace opened the unadorned metal door. Inside, Henderson and Andrews were standing by the small, non-denominational altar, waiting along with the chaplain.
He said quietly, "Let's go," and together the two men entered the chapel.
*** the end ***
July, 2006