Beauty In The Broken

Firing

"Do we have a key yet?"

"I'm working on it, Sir." Doubled over on his chair, Baker dug through the manuals and materials stored beneath the control panels. His voice was muffled, even though he'd angled his words back over his shoulder. "I'm just trying to find the right book."

"Tell me again why you can't just look it up on the Web." Janet leaned in towards Sam. "Surely that would be faster than this."

"It's one of our security protocols." Sam gestured towards the array of monitors on the main control panel. "The dialing computers, and all of the computers on this level, are kept separate from any outgoing lines."

Nodding, the doctor quickly absorbed that, coming to the correct conclusion. "So that nobody can hack into the base systems."

"I sent Sergeant Price off to find a computer that was able to access the internet, but so far, we haven't heard from him." The General turned, scanning his crew with a little shake of his head. "I am mightily surprised that nobody here is proficient in Morse Code."

"I haven't used Code since I was in the Boy Scouts." With a hapless shrug, the guard near the door shifted his hold on his weapon. "Even then, I didn't know much."

"And all I remember is SOS." Billings, the staff sergeant on duty, worked on a pad of paper, noting the dots and dashes pinging off the back of the iris. "Whoever's sending this message is seriously old school."

"Old school, is it?" Hammond snorted. "We learned it in Basic Training. But I never once used it. That was left to commos, signalmen, and dittybops."

"A special ops guy I know learned it in SERE school." The sergeant flipped the page on his yellow legal pad, clicking the top of his pen impatiently as he waited for the next series of plinks to start. "Although I'm not sure where knowing Morse Code would help in surviving, evading, resisting, or escaping anything."

Unless that person was the Colonel. Surviving was something Jack O'Neill knew how to do.

Sam sucked in a deep breath, staring at the monitor, where more impacts had begun to register in measured bursts within the screen's graphics. Slowly, she clenched her fingers into tight fists before releasing them and forcing herself to relax.

Think, Sam. Think.

Think past the worry, and the panic, and the turmoil in your gut. Ignore the hellishly galling chatter. Think. Get past the exhaustion. Focus on what you know, not the fear currently eating at you.

Think.

Morse Code? Old school was right. Sam hadn't even learned it in flight school or OTS, let alone boot camp.

The closest she'd ever come to Morse Code had been the year Mark got a set of walkie-talkies for his birthday. There had been a sticker on the radios with the patterns of dits and dashes for each letter and number, and they'd enthusiastically endeavored to learn them. That determination had lasted a day or so before they'd given up and just talked to each other on the damned things.

But Jack? He'd been through SERE school and special ops training. Hell—he'd probably even had a set of walkie-talkies of his own when he was a kid—no doubt with the same sticker. And, like she and Mark, he'd probably given up on learning code, too. Still—he had an uncanny ability to pull random bits of useful information out of thin air when he needed it. And if Morse Code was all he had—he'd find a way to remember it.

Squeezing her eyes closed, Sam allowed her mind to wander a little—searching for patterns within what she already knew.

You have at least some of the information you need, Sam. Nearly a week overdue. MALP and drone efforts failed. No radio. No GDO. Impacts against the iris. Coded message. What can you infer from that? Make connections.

Connections. Well? For starters, the method of the communication itself told her three things.

First—the mission had, indeed, gone completely wrong. Second—the 'walkie-talkies' in this scenario weren't working—radio transmissions from their end had gone nowhere, and they weren't receiving any from the planet. And third—her husband was the most stubbornly resourceful individual alive.

Think, Carter.

Pebbles, probably. Gravel tossed through the 'Gate. No radio. Why? Lost? Broken? Or some sort of planetary interference? Later, Sam.

No radio meant no GDO signal. He'd know that the impacts would register on their sensors, but wouldn't alarm them like weapons fire or energy bursts. A constant shower of rocks coming through the 'Gate would both keep the wormhole active and relay his message. But what was he trying to say?

Around her, the control room bustled with energy, the techs working with a singular purpose while she simply stood in the midst of it all. She should be doing something—she could see surreptitious glances being tossed her way, a mixture of expectation and skepticism. It was a look she was used to. The one that told her that everyone was expecting her to step in with a miracle.

A miracle. As if she could just wish one out of thin air.

Closing her eyes, Sam covered her face with her palm—trying to block out the extraneous noise.

Think, Sam.

Beside her, Janet shifted, her heels sliding against the concrete floor. "Is there any way I can help, Sir?"

"Do you know Morse Code?" A bit of sarcasm tinged the words. Even the normally unflappable General was feeling the stress.

"Sadly, no." Despite it all, her voice carried a hinted smile. "But I could get you some coffee or assist with whatever else needs doing."

"I have a feeling that we may need you later, Doctor Fraiser. My guess is that there will be injuries to deal with." Hammond's tone grew more serious. Cautious, even, as if he hadn't wanted to broach the subject. "You should probably head back to the infirmary and prepare for what might be a very long afternoon."

"Yes, Sir." Janet nodded, then placed her hand on Sam's arm. Lowering her voice, she spoke directly into Sam's ear. "You'll be okay?"

Glancing sideways, Sam flashed a quick, if wan, smile at her friend. "I'll be fine."

"You need to eat something. More than a bite of cupcake." She sounded more Mom than Doctor. Soothing, yet insistent. "You're looking green around the gills again."

Sam tried not to roll her eyes, but couldn't quite quell the sickly tickle at the back of her throat. When she answered, she was grateful at how easily the lie emerged, if a little embarrassed at the terse quality of her tone. "I'm fine, Janet."

Janet's dark eyes narrowed, her lips pursing tight as she studied Sam. After a tense beat, she let out a stiff exhale. "Do you have your babysitter's number anywhere? I could at least contact her to let her know you might be late."

"It's on a post-it note on my computer monitor in my lab."

"I'll call her and tell her you'll be late." Janet's fingers pressed into Sam's arm. "I can also arrange for Cassie to go over and babysit Jake should the need arise."

"I'd appreciate that."

"While I'm at it, maybe I'll use your computer to look up Morse Code."

"Good. That would be good."

Janet hesitated, her expression careful. "Sam?"

"What now?" She'd snapped, her tone more than a little sharp. For the first time since arriving in the control room, Sam looked directly at her friend—saw the genuine concern in her dark eyes. Sam inhaled, blowing out slowly as she gentled her answer. "I'm sorry, Janet. What?"

"You'll figure this out."

"I hope so." Pressing her lips together, Sam nodded. "Thank you."

With a last squeeze on Sam's arm, Janet backed towards the entryway, pausing for a beat to take another look in Sam's direction before disappearing into the corridor.

"Do we have any HAMs in here?" The General's voice rose over the hubbub, threading its way through Sam's thoughts. "Proficiency in Morse Code used to be necessary to obtain a HAM radio license."

"I'm a HAM, Sir." One of the white-coated civilian analysts raised a hand. "But I didn't have to learn Morse. That requirement was removed nearly a decade ago for the technician class rating."

"More's the pity, Doctor Hawes." Hammond's frown deepened. "How are we doing on time, Sergeant Billings?"

"Eleven and a half minutes on the wormhole, General." The staff sergeant pointed at the mission clock with the pen in his hand. "Going on nine. We have roughly twenty-six minutes left before the wormhole shuts itself off."

Groaning, the General squared his shoulders as he glared at the overhead displays. "Get a move on, people."

"Found it!" Baker scooted his chair backwards and away from the control array. Heaving himself upright, he raised the giant notebook in his hand. With a grimace, he brushed at the heavy layer of dust with his hand. "Geez. This thing's ancient. It's probably been here since this complex was still a missile silo."

"Ancient?" Hammond's tone carried a hint of dry sarcasm. "I was assigned to this facility back when I was a lieutenant, son. My guess is that was long before you were born."

"Yes, Sir." Baker's eyes flew wide. "No offense intended, Sir."

"None taken." With a curt nod, Hammond looked back up at the monitor. "Find the Code chart and get to work. Doctor Hawes—you help Lieutenant Baker with the translation while Billings continues to note the impacts as they occur."

Baker dropped the voluminous manual on the top of the control desk, running his finger along the tabs until he found the right one. Insinuating his fingers between the pages, he flipped the book open to the correct section and located the chart. "Got it!"

Hawes looked down at the paper where Billings had been noting the impacts. "Okay. We've got long, short. Short, short, short."

"Okay."

"Long, long, long." Hawes waited for Baker to find the correct letter before giving him the next set. "Short, short, short, short."

"Okay." He ran his finger along the code chart, pausing every few moments to scratch down a letter. "Huh."

It was not a promising sound.

"What do you have so far, Baker?" The General stepped forward to peer at the page.

"That first section could be the letters N and S." Baker shook his head. "Either that, or the number six."

"And the second?"

"The letters O and H."

N, S, O, H? Or a random number six in there—maybe. Sam scowled. What the hell?

"Keep at it, Lieutenant." Carter stepped closer, craning her head to see the translation. "We probably need to transcribe an entire sequence in order to see the pattern."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Major Carter." Hammond tilted his head towards her, nudging her with his elbow. "When you were still on SG-1, did you have any team codes? Something peculiar to only your unit?"

"No, Sir." Sam ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head. "We maintained standard communications practices."

"Do those letters mean anything in particular to you?" The General ran his tongue across his lips, hesitating briefly before continuing. "Given the fact that your relationship with Colonel O'Neill has changed recently, you might see something beyond what we do."

Given that she was now married to him. Given what had passed between them lately, what with memory stamps and babies and suddenly becoming a family. She could feel the color creep up her throat as heat flooded her cheeks. "No, Sir."

"I just thought that, with their apparent lack of radio communications and the general situation, perhaps Jack thought that a more personal message might convey more information. That you might understand something that the rest of us wouldn't."

"No, Sir." Sam shook her head, briefly worrying at her top lip with her teeth before forging ahead. "The Colonel probably doesn't even think I'm in the Mountain today."

"Surely he'd expect you to be here as long as he was missing."

"Not necessarily."

"Oh?"

"My team at Area Fifty-one is on stand down until New Year's, Sir." Folding her arms across her midsection, she rebalanced forward on her toes. "Our usual childcare provider is on vacation, and I'm sure he expects me to be home with Jake."

For the briefest of beats, the General studied her expression—her face, her bearing—his keen eyes seeing far more than she'd wanted to divulge. He narrowed his eyes, turning away and crossing his arms across his barrel chest. "I'm pretty sure that he knows you'd be here. If the situation were reversed, he'd be here waiting for you. He'd be chomping at the bit to help in any way that he could."

Sam looked down towards her feet. Her boots were as clean as they'd ever been—shiny and black. Only a few months ago, she'd spent time each week scraping alien mud and dirt off those boots in order to bring them back into code. Now? She hadn't had to clean them off in weeks. Being Earth-bound had its benefits.

Being home only to wait and wonder and worry was not one of them.

Sliding her toe back and forth along the concrete floor, she pressed her lips tightly together. Being the one left behind had been harder than she'd anticipated. It had been like drifting through a waking nightmare, her feet only just skimming solid ground—unbalanced, off kilter. Not knowing what was happening to the people she loved on another planet—hell, in another part of the galaxy—had left her achingly numb. Not being able to help fix whatever had gone wrong was a special kind of agony.

At least when she'd been offworld with the team, she'd been focused on getting back home. She'd been useful—able to put her skills to work at solving whatever problems had arisen. Sitting around waiting for them to return, not knowing what was happening, or if they were even still alive, had felt interminable. No wonder she'd been so exhausted. No wonder every muscle—every nerve—of her body ached. The nausea—her gut in a constant state of upheaval—her lack of appetite—it all made sense.

Still, knowing the why didn't make bearing the what any easier.

"I just wish I were there helping, Sir." Sam spoke past the tightness in her chest—past the acid that had risen to burn at the back of her throat. She'd pushed herself close enough to the edge during this ordeal that she was losing her ability to control her emotions, now. An insult compounding the injury.

"I know, Sam." Hammond's tone softened. "Believe me. There have been many, many times when I've wished the same thing. But I also know that you're a valuable resource here, and I know that you'll be able to implement your considerable skill set to help bring SG-1 home."

"I hope so, Sir." Sam clenched her jaw, pressing her lips tightly as she struggled to maintain her equilibrium. As she fought to regain her focus.

"General Hammond? Ma'am?" Baker turned half-way in his chair, motioning towards the paper in front of him. "This doesn't make any sense."

The General stepped forward. "What do you mean?"

"If SG-1 is trying to send us a message, it's one that's impossible to understand."

"Oh?"

"We're assuming that the length of time between the impacts differentiates the dits from the dashes. That's how Morse works." Baker pointed up at the monitor where the contacts registered on the iris like points on a wave graph. "It appears that he's sending messages, but separating each individual grouping of impacts with an SOS."

Sam stepped closer, looking down at the page. Billings had noted the hits as dits and dashes—circles for the short dots and lines for the longer dashes. He'd isolated each SOS by circling that sequence, leaving extended trains of plinks in between.

"I've recorded every time there was a pause in the impacts. We assumed that the pauses indicated the beginning of a new letter."

"That makes sense, Lieutenant."

"Only, we've decoded the entire first section, and it makes no sense."

"After the first SOS, it says N, S, O, H, O, S, O, N, S." Baker's eyebrows rose as he passed a look between the General and Sam. "Should I continue? The rest is pretty much the same."

"Are you sure that you're interpreting the dots and dashes correctly?"

"Yes? No? Who the hell knows?" Hawes' eyes flew wide, his white-coated shoulders raising in a helpless kind of gesture. "It's someone throwing rocks against the iris. This isn't anything remotely scientific. We're guessing here."

Sam reached for the paper, turning it until she could read the translation. Along one side of the page ran the dots and dashes recorded by Billings. Down the other side marched a seemingly random line of letters decoded by Hawes and Baker. None of which added up to words, let alone a message.

"And you don't see any pattern in this?" The General's tone rang with frustration. "Nothing that would help us?"

"No, Sir." Rough. The words felt like sand in her mouth.

She'd wanted to believe it would be straightforward. Find the chart, crack the code. Jack wouldn't make this any more difficult than he had to. He wanted to come home—was trying to communicate. He had to think that someone would receive this—that someone would understand. He wouldn't make this that difficult.

In the background, a fresh round of impacts began. SOS, followed by the tiny, seemingly insignificant plinks at the back of the Iris. She could see the hits register on the monitor overhead. Could hear the actual rocks connect with the titanium panels through the microphones in the 'Gateroom. They were faint, but audible even above the activity in the Control Room. Like someone tapping at a door.

Tapping.

Tapping at a door.

Oh, for the love—she'd jumped to the difficult when she should have been looking for the simple.

"It's Tap Code."

"Major?"

"Tap Code." Sam pointed at the page. "A long dash followed by four dits. It means one thing in Morse Code, but another thing entirely in Tap Code."

"Ma'am?"

"Prisoners of war developed a code so they could communicate with each other through the walls of their cells. It's graph-based. Five rows, with five letters in each row, and C and K sharing a space." Grabbing the pen from Doctor Hawes, Sam ripped a page out of the back of the outdated manual, flipping it over to draw a box on the back. With several careful movements of her pen, she created the grid—five rows and five columns—then filled it in with letters. "The first tap tells you the row, and the second set of taps tells you which column the letter is in."

Pointing at the graph with her right hand, she drummed out the code with the tip of the pen.

Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"See?" She handed the pen back to Hawes. "It's the number six in Morse Code—or, separated into two different sets of code, it's N and S. But in Tap Code, it's the letter D."

"But—" Hawes ran his fingers through his hair, scratching at the back of his neck as he processed it all. "But what about the SOS messages? Those are in Morse. Why would the Colonel use two different codes in the same transmission?"

"Because he's separating the words with the SOS in Morse." Sam ran her finger down the page again, pausing on the places where Billings had circled the easily identifiable distress signals. "But the actual message is being sent in Tap Code."

"Why?"

"SOS is instantly recognizable. Everyone knows it. He's hoping that we'll figure out that the SOS is like a paragraph break or a new page."

"Are you sure, Major?"

"I'm sure, Sir." Sam straightened, meeting the General's eyes. "I'm absolutely certain of it."

Hammond exhaled heavily, shaking his head in wonder. "Well, I'll be damned."

Baker slid the ripped page towards him, arranging it on the desk top next to the page with the impact record. "So, what we were interpreting as dashes are actually denoting the row of this chart, while the taps immediately following them are the columns."

"See?" Sam pointed. "The next set of impacts is three taps, then four. That would make it the letter O. Third row, fourth column. The next one is third row, third column. N."

"And the last set would be a T." Hawes sat back in his seat. "The first word is 'don't'."

Tap Code. Tap Code.

Sam squeezed her eyes closed as she rifled through her memory. Tap Code. The system was ubiquitous throughout the military. Something that most members of the Armed Forces learned at some point in their training. Sam herself had learned Tap Code during both basic training and OTS. It was far more likely to be taught than Morse Code—common enough that—

Damn it. That was it.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant. I need that terminal." Sam waited as Baker vacated the seat before plunking herself down and scooting into position. For a beat, she simply sat there, pulling up memories from so many years before—back when she'd been stationed in DC, before she'd ever stepped foot through the 'Gate. Back when she'd spent long, tedious hours in a room with a group of other scientists trying to figure out how to control this incredible piece of alien technology.

Her fingers flew on the keyboard as she searched the database, as she recalled bits of dialing sequence code and command key structures. Search parameters. Indexes.

"Major Carter?" The General's tone sounded more gentle than before. "What's going on?"

"I think I might have something, Sir."

"Oh?"

"When I was working on programming the dialing computer in DC, the Pentagon insisted that we include encryption codes which could be used in case of emergencies." She found the correct directory and then started scrolling through it until she'd located the file she wanted. Clicking it open, she backtracked until she found the source code. "There's a subroutine in the original dialing code that we wrote that might help us decode Jack's message more quickly."

"Fine." Hammond urged her onward with a nod. "In the meantime, Baker and Hawes—you two keep working on deciphering the old fashioned way. Billings—continue recording the impacts as best you can."

"Yes, Sir."

"Where are we on time?"

"Fifteen minutes gone, Sir."

"Major Carter?"

"Working on it, Sir." She squinted at the monitor, lost in the letters and numbers scrolling up the screen.

This was easy—coding. Technology. Work. For the first time in what seemed like days, her mind felt clear. The gnawing ache in her gut abated somewhat as she clicked away on the keyboard. Chewing on her lip, she listened as the computer whirred, watched the cursor pulsing on the screen while the drive ran through the vast amounts of archived data.

"Lieutenant? What have you got so far?"

"It looks like the Major's right." Baker's finger paused on the page. "The next word is 'open'."

"'Iris'." The civilian analyst looked up from their work. "'Don't open iris'. And then we get another SOS."

"We're starting on the next set." Baker moved his finger along the page, shaking his head as he searched the code. "This is going to take a while, Sir."

Too long. She glanced up at the clock. Seventeen minutes, now. With a few commands on the keyboard, Sam refined the search parameters, and pressed 'enter'. Scooting over to another terminal, she pulled up the impact report data file and copied it, then prepared to combine it with the encryption program that was loading on the other screen.

"I'm almost there." Sam used the mouse to drag and drop the file into the new merged decoder. "Once I get this programming finished, all I'll have to do is recompile this section of the dialing computer code."

"Will that shut down the 'Gate?"

"Not likely, Sir." Sam thrummed her fingertips on the mousepad until the merged file finished loading. "It's not like a hard restart. It's like re-running the code within the new parameters I've set. We'd lose the connection with a hard reset, but that's not what I need to do."

"Are you certain?"

"Sir!" Hawes stood, motioning towards the pages he'd been working on. "We've got another phrase. It says ''Gate down."

"'Gate down?'

Hawes frowned, looking down at the paper. "And then the word 'Edora'."

"Edora?"

Edora?

Sam's hands stilled on the keyboard, the word thundering through her head. Edora. Edora, where a meteor had taken out the 'Gate, burying it so deeply within the ground that it had been rendered inoperative. It had taken a few establishing event horizons to create a pocket large enough for Teal'c to 'Gate through, and even then, he'd nearly died waiting for Jack to hear his radio transmissions.

But SG-1 didn't appear to have radio capabilities, and the MALP and the drone they'd sent had failed to reveal anything about the situation on the other planet. Except—

"Baker?"

"Yes, Major?"

"When we sent the drone. Did we archive the footage we received?"

"Of course."

"Pull it up."

"Major Carter?" The General stepped towards her, stopping just behind her chair. "What are you thinking?"

"Edora, Sir." Sam scooted her chair over to the other computer, watching as the footage from the failed drone flight loaded onto the screen.

Three pictures—still black and white photos that she'd dismissed previously as useless. Leaning in, she studied the pictures more closely. Clouds. Gray clouds billowing in a darkening sky.

"It's the sky, Major." Billings leaned in to point at the monitor. "We analyzed the footage and the stills. It's just—sky."

Sam chewed on her lip, staring at the stills. Just sky. Clouds. Just the sky. But no horizon. No landmarks. Literally, she was looking at just the sky.

"We have another phrase, Major." Baker swiveled around. "It says, 'DHD gone'."

Gone? Gone? Pulling her attention from the photographs, Sam frowned at the Lieutenant. Gone how? The DHD had been there when SG-1 had embarked on the mission. Both the previous excursion to the planet and the MALP had confirmed it. And it had been fully operational—SG-6 had 'Gated home just fine when they'd first scouted out the planet.

Connections, Sam. Make the damned connections.

Don't open iris. Gate down. Edora. DHD gone. Clouds with no other objects. And that omnipresent sick feeling that she hadn't been able to shake no matter how much meditation or optimism she'd tried.

"Gone? Where did it go?" Hammond wasn't expecting an actual answer, that much was obvious by the way he immediately pointed at the Lieutenant. "Keep translating, Lieutenant. How are things coming on your end, Major Carter?"

"General." Sam swiveled half-way around in her chair until she could meet Hammond's eye. She had to clear her throat to speak. "I think that the 'Gate on that planet is on its back."

"What? How?"

"It could have been anything. Meteor strike. Earthquake. Flash flood. Mudslide." Her throat closed around the words—she forced herself to stop thinking about the possibilities. "It doesn't matter. But I think that's why we lost the MALP and the drone. The MALP could only make it part-way through the 'Gate before it fell back through the event horizon and was destroyed."

The General followed her logic to the next step. "And the drone wouldn't have been able to get the lift it needed since it was heading straight upwards. Essentially, it stalled in midair."

"Subsequently crashing back through the puddle." Sam shook her head. "If they don't have a DHD, then this is their one chance at communication. They can't dial out again."

"Because the DHD also provides the power source. The 'Gate reserves enough energy for one more dial out, but after that, it's depleted."

"So, it's vital that we get the entire message so that we can launch a rescue from our end." Sam frowned up at the monitor, where impacts were still registering—albeit more slowly—on the back of the iris."How much of it have we transcribed, Lieutenant?"

Baker flipped through the papers on the table top in front of him. "Ten percent. Maybe twenty."

"Major?" The General—his tone more insistent. "How long would it take for your program to decipher the messages?"

"Moments, Sir."

"Is there any chance at all that we will lose this wormhole if we run your new computer code?"

Sam captured her top lip between her teeth as she worried through probabilities and statistics in her head. "It's possible, Sir, but not likely."

"Is it worth the risk?"

Scenarios burst through Sam's head like swarms of fireflies. The quicker they got the information, the more quickly they could launch a rescue. More time in preparation meant less room for error or waste. On the other hand, shutting off the 'Gate even a few moments early might mean the loss of vital information.

Around her, the activity in the Control Room abated as personnel paused their work to shift their attention between the Major and the General. The air had changed—morphing from frantic deduction into something resembling determined resolve. And a charged sort of expectation hovered over it all—as if any moment, decisions would start being made.

"I think it is, Sir." Sam glanced back up at the clock on the overhead monitor. Twenty-three minutes gone, now. Hissing a breath inward, she looked back towards the General. "I'm sure of it."

It only took a moment for his blue eyes to turn steely. After a single nod, he said, "Then do it."

She hesitated for only a millisecond, her the pad of her middle finger skimming the top of the key—what if, Sam? What if you're wrong? What if you lose the connection?

But incongruously—ridiculously—his voice whispered in her ear. A quiet intimacy shared as they'd been surrounded by cribs and dressers and rocking chairs while Jake slept cuddled against his chest.

What if it's amazing?

She closed her eyes on a prayer—a plea to whomever might be listening to make things work right. Just this once. Then, she opened her lids, focusing again on the screen in front of her, her finger hovering over the 'enter' key.

Click.

Sam watched as the cursor stalled—as everything at her terminal stopped whirring. For the briefest of moments, the monitor went blank as the program reset, only to blaze back into gear as code began marching down the screen. On the next monitor over, the rejiggered section of the dialing computer froze—the cursor gone, the glass black—before suddenly blinking back to life and spilling letters down the screen in a steady stream.

"We've got it, Sir!" Billings set down his yellow legal pad and scooted his chair over towards the terminal. "First one says, 'Bledsoe down'."

"And then, all I see is B B B?" Baker passed a questioning look over at Sam. "What's that mean?"

"I didn't take the time to code out the SOS signals." Leaning back in her chair, Sam tilted her head to watch as the phrases appeared on the screen. "Apparently, the computer is reading those as row one, column two."

Nodding, Baker smiled a bit. "Otherwise known as the letter B."

"There's more, Ma'am."

Broken leg.

B. B. B.

Hurt back.

B. B. B.

Radios dead.

B. B. B.

Ash all over.

B. B. B.

Need naquadah generator.

B. B. B.

Stretcher.
B. B. B.

Rope.

B. B. B.

Climb gear.

B. B. B.
Medical kit.

B. B. B.

Happy Birthday Sam.

Billings squinted up at the monitor before swiveling his chair to look at the Major. "Happy Birthday?"

Happy birthday Sam.

The message read aloud felt like a punch in her gut. She clenched her teeth as she sought equilibrium. "It's today."

"Your birthday's today?" Billings' brows rose. "For real?"

Tears, now. Son of a bitch. With a curt nod, Sam blinked, fighting to control the sudden rush of feeling that threatened to overtake her. She was a fighter pilot, damn it, an officer in the United States Air Force. She'd always been able to keep a tight rein on her emotions.

At least—until she'd met Jack O'Neill and he'd burrowed his way through her defenses. Until the past year, when armbands, forced confessions, and mind stamps had left her feeling as if she were losing her mind. And then she'd sat and watched herself die and gained a child. Her life had been turned upside down—so changed that she barely recognized it or herself.

When had she become this person? This person who cried at a Happy Birthday? This person who needed another person so badly that she couldn't sleep or eat for missing him. This woman who found herself looking forward to leaving her lab every evening so that she could get home to a little boy with huge brown eyes and a laugh that filled her soul.

And a husband—her husband. This man who would throw pebbles across a galaxy to let her know he hadn't forgotten about her.

Happy birthday.

Damn it, Jack. Just—damn it.

"And we're back to the beginning, Sir." Baker pointed up at where the decryptions kept scrolling up on the monitor. "'Don't open iris. 'Gate fell. Ash all over.'"

"I'm sure he's just trying to keep the wormhole open long enough for us to figure out the code, Sergeant." But hell if her tone hadn't wobbled. Sam swallowed, making a production out of finding a pen and stealing the young non-com's yellow pad. When she could finally trust her voice again, she glanced over at him. "What's on his list?"

"Naquadah generator, medical kit, rope, and a stretcher." Billings stood, watching as she scribbled down the items. "I'll go get started on getting it all together."

"Take Doctor Hawes with you." She gestured towards the civilian technician. "And get word to Doctor Fraiser that we'll need a medical team here as soon as possible."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Make sure she has the equipment ready for possible burns, smoke inhalation, and hypoxia due to adverse breathing conditions."

"Ma'am?"

Sam angled a pointed look at him. "'Ash all over'."

"Ah. Yes, Ma'am." His words followed him out the door.

"Well done, Major." The General had come up behind Sam's chair. His fingers touched her shoulder—gently, fatherly—lingering for a moment before he lifted his hand away. "We'll have them home in no time."

—-OOOOOOO—-

"This is the weirdest thing we've ever done."

Never had Janet Fraiser spoken truer words.

The incoming connection had been lost at just after twenty-six minutes on the mission clock—a minute or so after the last of the pebbles had plinked against the back of the iris. The team—sparse as it was on base at the moment—had made remarkable time in gathering the necessary items.

It hadn't even been an hour since the puddle had flared out, and they'd already initiated the rescue.

They'd rigged the generator to a stick. Not just a regular stick—but the longest stick they'd been able to find. Years ago, some enterprising member of the maintenance staff had requisitioned multiple fourteen-foot-long poles specially created for changing bulbs in chandeliers in order to deal with the base's high-set can lights. One guy's aggravation at having to haul around a ladder had paid off in an oddly profound way.

Sam had ordered them all brought to the 'Gate room, along with copious quantities of duct tape. A single pole wouldn't have had the strength to carry the weight of the generator, but three of them lashed together with rope and then wrapped with duct tape did. The ropes, harnesses, and stretcher had only required a single pole apiece, but the medical kit and block and tackle setups had also required the jury-rigged super poles.

They'd sent through the generator first, balancing a ladder on the ramp and then gingerly maneuvering the loaded poles across the top step of it and through the event horizon. Not through the middle—but at the nine o'clock position if the 'Gate were a clock, angled sharply outward so that the gear emerged over the edge of the 'Gate on the other side.

Sam had watched as the crew had fed each item through the puddle, toying with Jack's ring on the chain of her dog tags as if it were a talisman or a charm. Science had gotten them this far in this operation—now things were up to fate. Or Faith. Faith that they'd sent the right gear. That it was going to be adequate for the task ahead. That her hastily dictated instructions on how to interface the naquadah generator with the downed 'Gate would make sense to the exhausted, struggling team.

Their outgoing wormhole had closed up more than twenty minutes ago. There was nothing to do now but wait.

So far? Nothing.

Sam clenched her teeth, concentrating on the 'Gate in front of her. There hadn't been any point in closing the iris again—she'd included that information on the note. The SGC was open and waiting for the team to return.

Damned waiting.

Sam lifted her hand to her lips, chewing absently on a hangnail. Fidgeting wasn't helping. Neither was the knowledge that Janet was watching her—casting surreptitious glances at her from the corner of her eye. Once things had been in place, Sam had retreated to the sidelines, moving to stand near Janet and the medical teams near the wide side entrances. Lowering her hand, Sam turned her wrist to look at her watch. Twenty-eight minutes, now.

Work, damn it.

"So, they're going to rappel through the 'Gate?"

"Kind of." Leaning back against the wall, Sam kicked her heel against the concrete there. The surface was cool and smooth—and comforting in a strange way. Something solid to hold her up when it felt like everything was teetering. "Wormhole physics dictates that you exit the wormhole at the same velocity that you enter it. I'm theorizing that law also applies to directionality and orientation."

"So, the 'Gate is lying on its back on the planet. If they just jumped into it as if it were a pool—"

"They'd come flying out through the middle of the event horizon on this side before they were affected by gravity. After that, they'd fall straight down eight feet or so and crash land on the ramp."

"Ouch."

"Especially since Bledsoe is injured."

"That's why you sent through the ropes and pulley gear."

"So that they can slowly lower him on the stretcher through the puddle on their side, and we'll catch him on ours. After that, the others will use the ropes to bring themselves through, and we'll catch them, too."

"We included a cervical collar in the med kit." Janet. "Along with a brace for the broken leg. My teams are ready for whatever else might be needed."

"Good." Glancing up and to the left, she found Hammond in the Control Room. His expression was implacable as he glared down at the inert Stargate, his blue eyes keen and sharp. Turning back around, Sam looked down—at the ground, the waiting airmen, at the garbage can sitting under the fire extinguisher—at anything that might occupy her mind other than worry. "My guess is that they'll evacuate him first."

"If this works."

"It'll work."

Because any other result was unthinkable.

As if on cue, the 'Gate awoke, the ring gliding into motion. Automatically, the klaxons cut through the quiet, accompanied by the strobing emergency lighting.

"Offworld activation! Incoming traveler!"

Sam moved along the wall, stepping towards the corner to get out of the way so that the med teams could take their places. The ring whirled—nimbly pivoting from one chevron to the next. Noise burgeoned around her—the emergency alerts, the smooth slide of the stone of the 'Gate, the quick shouts of the airmen as they gained their positions. Deafening—and yet indistinct—as if she were hearing through layers and layers of fluff.

Three chevrons engaged.

Five.

Six—

The final chevron locked into place, and then the giant wave whooshed outward, bathing the room in its bright cerulean light.

"All available airmen. Take your stations!" Hammond's voice echoed through the room as people surged to their stations around her. Six soldiers carried the ladders up the ramp, positioning them as Sam had ordered, while Janet and her medical teams wheeled gurneys and supplies through the giant door.

She should help. She should do something—but she felt pinned in place—her feet too heavy to move—her body numb to anything but the fear and festering doubt eating at her insides.

For a time, the event horizon shimmered—glistening and beautiful, but empty.

Come on, Jack. Come home.

Sam's fingers found his ring again, tucked beneath her shirt. Dragging the chain free, she clutched the ring in her palm, reveling in the feel of the skin-warmed gold and the cooler shape of her own dog tags digging into her flesh. Come on, Jack.

A ripple upset the event horizon up near the apex of the ring—a bit of metal—then another—canvas—then feet. Shouting instructions to each other, the men on the tops of the ladders intercepted the stretcher, carefully guiding it clear of the puddle and easing it downward. Awkwardly, they righted the heavy burden, hefting it until Bledsoe was secure and they could descend the ladders with the patient between them. Four airmen balanced the stretcher as the other two worked at disentangling the suspension ropes.

"Over here!" Janet took charge of the patient as soon as Bledsoe was within range, immediately checking his wound and assessing his condition. As soon as his stretcher was secured on the gurney, the primary med team was pushing the injured man through the wide side door and into the corridor.

Feet next—seemingly floating disembodied in mid-air just beyond the rippling blue. Dirty boots, then legs—then the rest of Daniel emerged as the team below secured him and pulled him down to the ladders. As soon as he was steady on the rungs, he tugged on the ropes, and lengths of cording snaked through the wormhole to slither down his body to rest onto the ramp. He was dirty, but seemed intact other than scratches on his face and a large rip up the back of his shirt.

A senior medic intercepted him as he hit the metal grating, making a rapid examination as Daniel divested himself of his harness.

"Jack's coming next!" Escaping the medic, Daniel angled his thumb back towards the 'Gate as he made his way down the ramp. Tugging the bandana from his head, he used it to gesture back up at the 'Gate. "And then Teal'c will come through."

And sure enough—more boots teased at the blue wall at the uppermost curve of the 'Gate. Sam held her breath as first the toes—then the heels—of Jack's boots emerged. She took in the ripped and bedraggled pant legs, the dark blotches of what appeared to be dried blood on the brown BDU fabric. The bandage on his thigh—unnaturally white against the thick dirt covering the rest of him. His expression was hard and intent as he rappelled down through the blue.

Sam forced herself to breathe as Jack's entire body swung clear of the puddle, watching in fraught silence as the teams at the ladders caught him—pulling him the rest of the way through. They stabilized him as he descended in front of the wormhole, guiding him towards the ladders and out of the undulating event horizon.

He was beyond filthy. Covered in dirt and what looked like gray powder. Even his hair was caked with the stuff. Besides the ripped pants, his t-shirt had a gaping hole in one side, and one sleeve of his overshirt was little more than tatters. Dried blood was everywhere—on his cheek, his thigh, his hands, and smeared along his cheek up into the hair behind his ear.

He didn't look for her—still completely focused on the mission. Turning back towards the 'Gate, he worked at the ropes and carabiners around his waist and thighs. He was limping, but animated, shouting orders as he kicked free of his harness and gear.

"He's sending the packs!" Jack pointed upwards, to where a heavy bundle peeked through the puddle. "Get clear, people!"

The airmen scrambled towards the rails of the embarkation ramp, barely getting out of the way before two large rucksacks hurtled through the puddle, hitting the ramp and tumbling down towards the cement floor. As soon as they'd skidded to a stop, another pair of feet drove through the puddle, and Teal'c swung downward, jumping through the wormhole and landing unerringly on the ramp, directly between the two ladders.

"Shut it off!" Jack yelled up towards the Control Room. "We're all through!"

"Yes, Sir." Baker's voice crackled through the intercom. "Disengaging wormhole."

The medical team designated for the Colonel swarmed the ramp, making quick initial assessments of his leg and face, but Jack ignored them, moving in Teal'c's direction.

"You okay, T?"

"I am fine, O'Neill." Teal'c appeared to have fared the best of them all—although his BDUs were as soiled as the others'. Still, he wasn't bloody or bandaged, and hadn't sustained any obvious injuries. Shrugging the pack off his back, he handed it to a waiting technician. "In this pack, you will find the naquadah generator. Perhaps you would be so kind as to return it to Major Carter."

"You can give it to her yourself, Teal'c." The young sergeant took the pack, but nodded towards the corner where she stood. His eyes met Sam's briefly before going back to Jack and Teal'c. "She's right there, Sir."

"She's here?" For the first time, Jack became still. Inhaling deeply, he sent his fingers through his hair—dislodging some of the mess. He turned slowly, gingerly, favoring his injured left leg as he pivoted on his right heel until he found her—until he met her eyes.

Relief flooded through her. He was home—and upright. Injured, but not seriously. Not dead. They were all alive and ornery and as well as could be expected. As well as could be hoped. Still, Sam felt rooted to her spot—planted there not by fear—but by uncertainty.

She should remain professional, right? Continue on as they'd been. No overt displays of emotion. No public affection. That's what they'd decided, right? No use behaving in such a way as to get the tongues wagging again—the gossip mongers whispering. Get him checked out by medical. Get him cleaned up. She could take him home and inspect him herself then—right?

Right?

But she wanted to run to him. To wrap her arms around him. To melt against him and feel him—to know—to know—that he was alive rather than just to see it. Even now, she didn't quite believe it—the dreams she'd had in which he was lost had felt so real. She was teetering again—on that precipice between what she knew she should do and what she wanted to do. What she needed to do with every single cell of her being.

He stepped down the ramp, limping heavily, waving off the medical staff yet again as they tried again to help him. Closer—closer still. His dark eyes focused on her as if she were the single thing that mattered in this or any other world. Unbelievably, he was smiling. Intimately—slow and deliberate and perfect—one corner of his lip curling upward only enough that his cheek hinted at that damned dimple he hated. That particular half-smile that he reserved only for her. The one that meant things.

And there went her gut again—wrenching itself into knots. Nausea engulfed her—coupled with the deep, abiding distress that she'd been living with since he'd walked through the 'Gate so many days before.

Distress that had been warranted—but of which she felt ashamed.

She'd almost lost him—Jake had almost lost his father. The mere thought of that—the visions she'd had of grief and anguish amidst her fear—it all came rushing back—coursing through her body and soul. Inundating her—incongruously inane when he was standing right in front of her. She could see the dreams drifting just outside her frame of vision even now—the constant search, the panic, the blood. The loss. The loss of him.

She inhaled—a vain attempt at finding calm—but she feared it was too late. This was too much. She needed to hold him just as much as she needed to protect herself from the pain—

He stopped a foot or so away from her—balancing awkwardly on his good leg as he reached out and touched her arm.

"Sam?"

"You're home." Stupid, Sam. What a stupid thing to say. Only—had she actually said it? She didn't remember. The world had turned hazy, indistinct. Even his face was wavering. The 'Gateroom floundered around her—spinning—spinning. Squeezing her lids closed, she pressed her heels against her forehead, willing her brain to settle, but when she opened her eyes again, the entire place had gone woozy.

"Sam!"

She looked up at him—at his sunburned skin. Why was he yelling? Holy crap, he reeked. Dirt and blood and days without a shower. His clothes were stiff with filth—ash, it looked like—as well as dried bits of what appeared to be vegetation. And the smell—she clamped her lips shut against that damned bite of cupcake that threatened a resurgence.

Distant—so distant. Her head felt sloshy, her gut rebelling within her. Bile rose—thick and acrid—at the back of her throat. She was going to vomit.

No. Don't, Sam. Not here. Not now.

"Sam?"

His hands—she could feel them as he caught at her arms. Strong—rough—insistent as he tried to keep her upright. She knew she was falling, but couldn't do anything to stop it. She opened her mouth to speak, only to dry-heave instead.

"Sam!"

Damn it. Damn the blackness descending all around her. Damn her traitorous stomach and the sick fear that had plagued her for days on end. Damn the way her legs had gone noodley, her body flaccid, her strength gone. She couldn't stand—couldn't even feel the ground beneath her anymore. In her ears—a rushing—as if she were submerged in a river—as if she were drowning in a tide of weakness.

Jack—

She swore again—and again—the taste of the words bitter and crude—

Jack.

She tried to say his name once again—didn't she?—but failed—saw him call for someone else—felt hands, hands and arms around her. Dry-heaved again—sobbing, now, fighting for air. Seeking—and finding—his face once more—just before the darkness claimed her.