19: Interview

Jonas Quinn was not against getting his hands dirty. He had done plenty of less-than clean work over the years, although he did have a problem with getting the dirty jobs for the simple fact his colleagues were unwilling to do them. In this case, McKay had seen fit to have Jonas go sticking his gloved hands inside a dead Herald's chest cavity, all while he stood back and behind a transparent shield.

"You should be able to feel it," McKay said, and Jonas rolled his eyes. They were inside the main laboratory deep within Stargate Command, a large drab concrete space that had been packed with scientific instruments, as well as an entire sealed chamber in one corner in which anything potentially radioactive could be stored and observed. Fluorescent fittings in the high ceiling cast the place under a stark white glow, and with the depth at which they were underground it was often very easy to lose all track of time.

Jonas stood by a gurney in the centre, upon which the naked and headless corpse of the Herald from Bedrosia was splayed. Jonas wore a respirator and face shield, his uniform covered with a white disposable suit. His gloved hands dug around inside a hole that had been cut into the dead Herald's dark, thick flesh, specifically in the centre of the chest just below where the rib bones started. McKay was outfitted similarly.

"I can feel a lot of things," Jonas said, and one hand came around what was presumably the heart or the Herald's analogue of one. "I think I've got the heart."

"No, no, it's a little more to the right of that," McKay said. "Up and to the right, I mean." His eyes looked down at the computer display before him, upon which a computerised layout of the Herald's physiology was being shown. Just about every medical scan imaginable had been performed on the body, offering a semi-accurate map of the Herald's insides. There were parts in there that seemed similar to some human organs, yet there were others that were unidentifiable. The DNA tests run on the body had come up with a mishmash of genetic material that suggested distinct artificial engineering, rather than some natural evolution. That would have explained some of the similar human-like organs within the creature. Had the head been intact, they might have been able to learn more.

"You said it's round?"

"Roundish, not perfectly round." McKay looked up then, seeing Jonas had turned his head to him. The doctor frowned, his patience running thin as it so often did. "You'll know it when you find it."

Jonas sighed, before he plunged his hands deeper. Thankfully, the gloves were fitted directly over the sleeves of the protective plastic he wore, so the dark and viscous blue-black blood coming out of the Herald's chest was not actually touching his exposed skin.

Prior to fitting on the respirator, he had been able to catch a whiff of the Herald's scent, or rather the scent of a slowly decomposing Herald. He had smelled death before, had come across his fair share of dead bodies. And yet, none of them had smelled quite as foul as this Herald once he had been cut open. The Herald was very clearly a 'he', if what was at its crotch was anything to go by. This, in turn, presented a number of questions: if this creature was genetically engineered, did it even need to procreate? Would it not be grown in some sort of artificial environment instead? On that thought, the 'Heralds' did seem to fit some sort of low-level leadership role, which suggested an advanced level of genetic manipulation. The 'foot soldiers' John and SG-1 had encountered on Bedrosia had likely been grown, yet they could not be sure of that. They could not be sure of much of anything, really, hence why the work Jonas and McKay did now was so important.

Finally, Jonas' hand found what McKay spoke of. He wrapped his gloved fingers around it and pulled, doing so with increasing effort from the way the organ in question threatened to bounce back if he let go. It was still attached to its surrounding tissue, and with gritted teeth Jonas pulled harder. He felt something give, like an elastic band being stretched to the point of breaking, and he almost stumbled as the thing in his gloved hands came loose. He caught himself, his hands slick with black slime. In his right hand he grasped a small, ovular object that was similarly coated in the foul-smelling slick, small strands of dark flesh hanging off of it. The ovular-shaped organ was only about two inches across, yet from within there seemed to emanate a dull glow. It might have been a natural bioluminescence. Jonas was no biologist, but bioluminescence would seem useless for an internal organ.

"Get yourself cleaned up," McKay ordered. Jonas did not need to be told twice. He already had a small plastic bag ready, and he dropped the strange organ inside of it before he zip-locked it shut. A small valve on the outside of the bag allowed any air trapped within to be released, essentially vacuum sealing the organ within. As soon as it was bagged, McKay stepped out from around his transparent shield. His face screwed up when he caught the scent of the Herald's foul-smelling blood.

Jonas moved over to the sink at the wall, where the automatic dispensers squirted out a sizeable amount of anti-bacterial wash. He coated the soiled gloves and sleeves with it before he ran them under the water, spending a good minute trying to wash away as much of the muck as he possibly could. Behind him, McKay, picked up the sealed bag and held it up to the light, his features scrunching up in careful thought as he examined the unusual organ.

"So, what is it?" Jonas asked him, as he turned away from the sink and took a few steps towards McKay.

"I have a few theories," McKay replied. "This creature, this 'Herald', is of a leadership caste of sorts, right?"

"Right…"

"So, it stands to reason they have some form of connection to whoever's pulling their strings. I suspect this might have something to do with it."

This was the first time Jonas had heard this theory. He quirked an eyebrow, his interest piqued.

"Is it some sort of communications device?"

"In a way. It was tied into the spinal column, direct into the nervous system. I detected the strongest amount of Arcturan energy from within it." That was the name he had taken to using to describe the energy source this new enemy operated on, as it was much the same as the energy he had tapped into with Project Arcturus back in the Pegasus galaxy. At that time, he had destroyed most of a solar system attempting to tap into it. The notion that these foes had controlled it to such an extent they could literally implant it into their own bodies was a worrisome one, and the implications were all too clear within Jonas' mind.

"You mean to say…"

"That these things are a whole lot more advanced than we are," McKay finished, his expression grim. "This thing here could be a ticking time-bomb if we're not careful. I'll have it sent to our off-world lab as soon as possible."

"You're only mentioning that now?" Jonas' eyes widened slightly. "I just had that thing in my hands."

"And nothing happened, Jonas. We're both still here." He moved to a bench nearby, upon which was an open metal case labelled with more than one warning sticker. He stuck the bag and its gooey item within.

"Why would they put something so unstable into their own officer caste?" McKay asked. This struck Jonas as a rhetorical question, so he did not answer. McKay frowned, before he rolled his eyes. "That's because they wouldn't, Jonas. Whatever they've done, they've mastered this form of energy to an extent it can be organically contained. Almost as if they've taken with them a piece from whatever dimension they came from, a connection to their home world even."

"Can it help us beat them?"

"Maybe." McKay sounded uncertain. "It's the only avenue I've got right now." He did indeed sound grim, the implication behind his words clear: they had little else to use against their enemies, save outright force. And somehow that did not seem likely to be enough. They had lost entire ships, even Atlantis itself, and still they were very much in the dark as to what they were dealing with. They needed a breakthrough, and they needed it soon.

"I'm sure you'll be fine." Natalia was supportive, as she so often was, Aithris loitered in the corridor outside of a meeting room some ways down from the usual briefing room. He was in proper uniform, sans his favoured jacket, since it was likely to provide a better impression.

Natalia reached over and adjusted his collar, offering him a smile as he did so. Aithris was reminded of his mother, reminded of the way she had doted on him when he had been a child. Given the rarity of Nomad children being born, it was no wonder her mother had practically hovered over him when he had been young. And then there had been his father, Vakron, who had trained him from as soon as he could pick up a quarterstaff. He had seen fit to shape his only child into a fighter before putting him forward for Elite Guard training as soon as he was old enough.

His home, for the past three years, had been here in the SGC more often than not. He would visit his mother on New Sanctuary whenever he could, and more recently Natalia had sometimes come with him. At the end of the day, however, he saw his future here with the humans of Earth. He could do more here, fight the battle against the evil he had sworn many years ago to fight until his dying breath. There were so few of his kind left now that it only seemed reasonable that he fight for those that remained. He was a warrior at heart, politicking had not been his thing. That was part of the reason he had left the home world originally, disgusted at the non-intervention policy of the ruling council.

His search for allies had borne fruit when he had stumbled upon SG-1, and his departure from home had proven wise given the fact that their Overseer had been working with the ancient enemy. And more recently, a revelation from one of the Heralds themselves: the Nomad species was in fact a creation of theirs, or rather their superiors. A race of genetically engineered soldiers who had, at some point in time, broken free of their conditioning and revolted against their masters. Hence why they had become 'Nomads', fleeing into the far reaches of the galaxy aboard whatever ships they could find. And then, eventually they had settled upon a world called Varalan that had been destroyed seven-hundred years ago. The settlement on Sanctuary had followed centuries later, and now even that world had been obliterated by their ancient foes (and their apparent creators). Nothing was going well for his kind, so to Aithris it provided all the more reason to fight, even die if need be.

Yet looking at Natalia now, he knew he could not give his life away so easily. He loved her, although he was not one to say it out loud then and there. They both knew the precariousness brought on by their affair, the complications that could arise seeing as how they were both on the team and were both routinely plunged into critical, life-threatening situations. If the time came in which he had to choose between the mission or Natalia, would he really be able to make that choice? It worried him deeply, and no doubt Natalia shared similar uncertainties. So far, they had been lucky with their tryst. Colonel Sheppard, if he knew of it, seemed to do his best to ignore it. Elsie was amused by it, whereas Daniel presumably knew and was simply accepting of it. If it came to the General's attention, however, then he was unlikely to approve.

"You look great," Natalia said, as she took a step back to look him over. "As always, Aith."

Aithris gave her a smile, a gesture he had found he was using far more often, particularly whenever Natalia was around.

"It's about time. You should head in." She motioned for the door nearby. Aithris nodded, before he took the few remaining steps to the door itself. There, he knocked upon it a few times. A man's voice called out for him to come in, and so Aithris turned the handle and strode into the sparse meeting room beyond.

There were two people in this room. The space contained little in the way of furniture, with a one-way mirror at the left-hand wall. An observation room was on the other side, and Aithris had no idea who might have been in there. As for those within the room itself, one was a man he recognized, one who was dressed in a perfectly pressed black suit. He had to be in his forties, with a bushy moustache and shaved head. He sat at the far end of a simple grey, rectangular table. The second occupant was a young woman dressed in a drab green uniform. It bore no insignia, nothing that suggested rank or whatever branch of the military she happened to be part of. Her dark hair was tied back in a small bun and before her was a laptop computer, as well as a small camera that was pointed towards the table and plugged into the computer itself.

Aithris closed the door behind him. He had to pause for a moment, if only because this was unlike previous such interviews. When he had first become a resident of the SGC, he had been questioned many times over, often in rooms just like this one. As soon as he had become an official member of SG-1, he had been interviewed by the IOA. There had been a long, narrow table at one end of the room upon which four, even five individuals were seated. Woolsey had even been there, and he had defended Aithris with a vehemence that had surprised the Nomad. It had been more than six months since that last interview, and so this one now seemed more akin to his earlier interrogations than an interview conducted by the IOA committee. Richard Woolsey was nowhere in sight, and unlike him the man seated at the table ahead did not display any level of amiability or outright warmth. His expression was firm, his eyes set in a severe manner.

"Aithris, take a seat." His voice carried a slight Southern lilt.

Aithris did as he was told. The cheap metal fold-up chair audibly squeaked when he sat down in it. The woman at the corner table tapped something into her computer. Aithris glanced at her, before he set his gaze upon the man before him. He searched his memory for a name, convinced he had seen this man somewhere before.

"Thomas Banachek," the man said suddenly. "We might have met in passing." He had a thick file before him, and as he spoke he opened it up. Aithris could see that it was a file on him, complete with photographs and images taken through medical scans amongst the various typed documents.

"I have been given a consultancy position on the IOA, as part of a new initiative that is in its early planning stages," Banachek stated. "This offers me a number of certain privileges. They include performing my own interviews with SGC personnel. You might say I'm looking to get a feel for the kinds of people who work here, those brave individuals who put their lives on the line to protect this planet and even the galaxy as a whole."

"You're not really with the IOA, then?" Aithris asked him. He kept his expression relatively neutral, quirking a brow-ridge ever so slightly when he asked the question.

"I am, and then again I'm not. Technically, I'm more of an employee of Homeworld Command. However, my role includes some amount of crossover."

Aithris could not help but smirk then. Banachek seemed to notice this, some curiosity creasing his own brow.

"You're using IOA credentials to get in here, but you work for a rival organization," Aithris said. "I see it clear as day, Mister Banachek."

Now it was Banachek's turn to smile. He emitted a quiet chuckle, nodding his head whilst he did so.

"Your records do note that you are very perceptive," Banachek said, and he looked once more down at the documents before him. The woman at the corner desk continued typing, presumably making a note of all that was being said. "And Homeworld Command is hardly a 'rival' organization. It was, in fact, the overarching body for the SGC and its off shoots."

"Not so much anymore, though?" Aithris had read all he could on the situation within the SGC as soon as he had become a member of one of its teams. He had soaked the information in like a sponge, as he so often did. He recalled it all now with ease: "Stargate Command operates independently, from what I understand. A rearranging of priorities after the incident with the mimetic aliens and what they did at Area 51."

"You're well-informed, Aithris."

"You can never be too well-informed."

Again, Banachek gave a small smile.

"There are some in Washington who would disagree."

"I can imagine." Aithris leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak further. "The governments of Earth do very much enjoy keeping their populations in the dark as to what is really going on. That said, my people were not much better. One could argue that it was the secrets they kept that destroyed them in the end." He met the human's gaze, his expression a little more scrutinising than it had been seconds before. "What do you think, Mister Banachek? Do the people of Earth deserve to know what is really going on? The full story, that is and not the dressed-up agency-approved version?"

"Exactly what are you trying to say, Aithris?" Now Banachek frowned again, uncertainty evident in his gaze. Aithris just gave a light shrug, a gesture he had picked up from his human compatriots.

"Nothing, Mister Banachek. Just thinking out loud."

Banachek nodded, even though he did not appear too pleased. Aithris narrowed his eyes, remembering at that moment a particularly interesting piece of Banachek's history.

"Were you not the man in charge of Anchorpoint Station?" He asked him. "You organized the commissioning ceremony. All of Earth's ships, moved into one place. All those government officials."

"I did not make those plans."

Aithris had known this, as had John and the others. The secretive cabal in league with the ancient Void Demons had arranged all of that, a means to cripple Earth's defences before they started their galactic crusade. Banachek was simply a man following orders, likely oblivious to the true intent behind them and just who was really giving them.

"That may be true, but from what I've seen of how these government agencies work, it would seem you would be the perfect person to blame. What is it you humans say? The 'fall guy'?"

Banachek's expression soured further. Aithris, again, offered him a shrug.

"My apologies, Mister Banachek. I am simply thinking out loud." He glanced over at the woman at the corner table. This time she looked up, and Aithris met her eyes and gave her a wink. She looked away quickly. If he was not mistaken, her cheeks had turned a slight shade of red.

"Now, Aithris, will you allow me to commence this interview proper?" Banachek's tone was level, despite his obvious annoyance.

"What do you want to know?"

"Firstly, these implants of yours. Nanotechnology, from what the reports say. They grant you accelerated healing, enhanced coordination and generally greater endurance than any normal individual of your species. And your species alone already has an edge over the average human in those attributes."

"What about all that?"

"Nothing, Aithris. Simply stating what has already been established. The question is whether or not there are any of your kind left capable of sharing that technology."

Aithris shook his head slowly. He had expected as much, and he had gone through this business with the interrogators back when he had first been brought to Earth.

"It should all be in the reports. The technology is incompatible with human physiology. What I have inside me cannot be removed, not easily. Doing so would probably kill me." He narrowed his violet-hued eyes then, regarding Banachek with something bordering a scowl. "Unless, of course, you've finally decided to have me dissected?"

"Nothing quite so radical," Banachek replied. "I'm simply trying to determine just what benefits you might bring to the people of Earth, beyond your abilities as a soldier." He flicked through a few more pages of the document before him. "What of your mother?"

"What about her?" Now Aithris' mood soured. His change in demeanour must have been obvious, since Banachek appeared to perk up in response.

"She has the ability to see into the future. And, from what we know so far, some of those visions have come true. The thing is, you didn't inherit this trait. Any idea why?"

"Why?" Aithris could hardly believe what he was hearing. After so long spent fighting for these people, they had now sent one of their lackeys to pry into his personal life. "What do you mean, why? Genetics is a lottery in many ways. My mother's abilities are a result of a brain abnormality that might come up in one in a billion subjects. Neither of her parents had such a trait, and it seems I did not inherit it. How it came to be is anyone's guess." He paused, doing all he could to keep his rising anger controlled. It had been some time since he had been genuinely angry. When he had learned of Overseer Torrant's betrayal on Sanctuary, he had been furious and hurt. Aithris was trained well enough that it was not often he let his emotions get the better of him, but this Thomas Banachek was trying his patience.

"You know that ability is more of a curse than a blessing?" Aithris added. "Her visions haunt her; they keep her awake at night. Would you sleep soundly if you knew the exact circumstances of your own death?"

Banachek did not reply. He simply watched Aithris carefully, presumably making some kind of assessment of the Nomad's character. The woman in the corner continued typing.

"I have fought beside the people of Earth for more than two years. I thought we were past this form of interrogation."

"This is no interrogation, Aithris. Sometimes these things need to be done to ensure that we're all on the same page." It was a canned response, and Banachek did not sound terribly convincing whilst he delivered it. "You're a special case and there is still so much we don't really know about you and your people." He flipped over a few more pages in his documents, before he pulled out one page and slid it across the table towards Aithris.

"Take a read of that, Aithris, and tell me what you think." Banachek clasped his hands in front of him, his face more curious than anything else. With some trepidation, Aithris took the page in his hands and began to read. It was an internal memo, intended for Banachek's office at Homeworld Command. It had been sent about a month after the destruction of Anchorpoint Station, Atlantis and several of Earth's starships. There was no identification for the sender. Aithris scowled as he read it, yet within him alarm bells sounded. How could anyone else have known this?

"A number of prominent officials, bankers and corporate CEOs died over a period of four months following the attack that saw Anchorpoint station and Atlantis destroyed. Car accidents, fires, even a gas explosion took out these people." Banachek spoke succinctly, yet Aithris could see that there was a level of smugness apparent that he was trying to hide. "That came from an office of one such person. Attached was a plethora of some of the stargate programs dirty secrets. This includes something about your species that I suspect few of your kind were aware of."

"You think this is genuine?" Aithris put the page down and frowned.

"I think, or rather I'm very sure that there was a conspiracy in place that manipulated the stargate program, Homeworld Command and various individuals such as myself. As you said, I am nothing but a 'fall guy'. I do have friends in Washington, so the fallout on my part was not as bad as it could be. I suspect you were part of the reason this conspiracy seems to have disappeared, along with those who were part of it. Nonetheless, at least one of those involved at the higher levels thought this information would be of some use."

"Conspiracy, Banachek?" Aithris did his best to sound disbelieving. In truth, he and Colonel Sheppard had hunted down and assassinated those involved, helped along by information pulled out of Atlantis' computers. After all, the ancient city-ship had served as the headquarters for the man in charge of that far-reaching conspiracy.

"If you're involved, then I congratulate you. You did the world a service bringing it to an end. Thing is, I know the truth about you and your people. If this were to find its way into the hands of say, General Janssen or the IOA, then you might find yourself under suspicion."

"And who has told you this? Who is making these claims?" Aithris slid the paper back towards Banachek. "They are spurious at best."

"Yet they come from the office of a prominent banker, who died three months ago in mysterious circumstances. It's almost as if someone had a list and they simply worked their way down, crossing off each name in turn. And this someone had access to the means to infiltrate high security locations without being detected."

"You just said they were car accidents and gas explosions that killed these people."

"So it appears. I've been in this game long enough to know it isn't always so clear-cut. Question everything, even what I have shown you today. Nonetheless, I am inclined to believe the claims made. They would make a lot of sense, at least in my view."

Aithris was feeling increasingly uneasy. He relaxed into his chair, doing his best to conceal his uncertainties.

"How so?"

"If your people were created by these 'Void Demons', as your people call them, or the 'Scourge' as the Calsharans have known them by, then that would suggest a level of genetic engineering. That may even explain the sophisticated nanotechnology your people have at their disposal. By breaking free of your masters and forging your own lives, you are no longer receiving routine 'maintenance' from them. Your genetic code is spiralling into sterility, and with each new generation fewer and fewer of your kind are born. Now, if your old masters were to welcome you back into the fold, they may be willing to correct that problem."

"You think we would join them, after they almost annihilated us?" Now some anger did creep into his voice, sounding off clear as day. Banachek gave a small, satisfied smirk, having received the response he had no doubt been hoping to get.

"I wouldn't know. It seems unlikely, but the possibility remains. And your own Overseer did in fact align himself with them, didn't he?"

"That was before they destroyed Sanctuary." Aithris spoke bluntly, his patience for this man having evaporated. He suspected that Banachek was working his own angle here, and that this whole get-together was more for his benefit than for the benefit of the IOA or any such organization.

"Do your friends know this truth about your people?" Banachek asked, and he tapped the page before him with one finger for emphasis. "Does Colonel Sheppard know? Doctor Jackson?" He paused again then, before he narrowed his eyes into a much firmer frown. "Or does your very close and intimate friend, Staff Sergeant Natalia Tarasovna, know about it?"

Aithris froze. He locked eyes with Banachek, anger surging deep within him. For the moment, the Nomad kept his expression neutral, but the urge to lash out and strike the man across the table from him was becoming far too great to ignore.

"What do you mean by that?" Aithris asked, his voice the very picture of careful control.

"I have my means of uncovering every last little bit of dirt I can get on anyone I want, Aithris. A bit of added deduction makes things very clear." There was perhaps more to it than that. Aithris made a mental note to thoroughly search his mother's home on New Sanctuary for surveillance devices, seeing as how those homes had been built with materials and entire sections prefabricated by SGC personnel as part of an aid effort. God only knew what a man such as Banachek was capable of, and it would not surprise Aithris if he had the entire Nomad population on New Sanctuary under some level of surveillance.

Before anything further could be added by either of them, the door of the meeting room swung open. Richard Woolsey, dressed in his usual black suit and tie arrangement, strode in with his ageing features creased into an uncharacteristic scowl. Banachek looked up, irritation crossing his own face when he saw who was intruding.

"What do you think you're doing here, Tom?" Woolsey did not bother to close the door behind him. Aithris spotted two airmen waiting just outside in the hallway, standing ready to move. "This is no interview."

"Get out of here, Woolsey." Banachek barely offered the man a second glance. He instead began gathering up the papers he had spread before him.

"No, you get out of here." Woolsey stopped by the table, his eyes fixed firmly upon Banachek. "I got an interesting call from a friend in the IOA. Turns out the interviews I was informed about were not sanctioned by the usual committee members, and after a bit of digging I was able to ascertain what was really going on. You used your own credentials to arrange the whole thing, using the IOA as cover."

Banachek did look up at him then, and Woolsey locked eyes with the man with the kind of mean-spirted gaze that would have even given Aithris pause.

"I know you've got your own game here," Woolsey said. "But as long as I'm around, I won't stand for it. Being the official IOA liaison to the SGC, I can have someone removed if I suspect them as interfering with an IOA-backed operation. You're harassing SGC personnel, and the SGC falls under the organization's umbrella. I suggest you and your assistant leave, now, otherwise I will have you removed." He motioned towards the doorway. Both airmen had stepped inside. Their presence was warning enough. Banachek rose from his chair, offered Woolsey another scowl, and then shovelled his paperwork into his briefcase. His assistant was already scrambling to pack up her computer and camera. Woolsey was quick to intercept her, pulling the camera and computer out of her hands.

"I'll take those, thank you very much." Woolsey gave the woman a small smile, the kind that was not entirely friendly. She looked to him with uncertainty, before she turned to Banachek. The other man was about to protest, only for Woolsey to once again lock him with hard glare. "This is evidence, which will be necessary for the internal investigation I intend on beginning before this day is over."

Banachek appeared to be once more on the verge of protest, before he caught himself and simply shook his head. He shot Woolsey the kind of greasy, contempt-filled gaze often reserved for one's worst enemies. He also gave Aithris something similar as he stormed out of the room, followed by his young assistant. Their footsteps echoed down the concrete hallway, gradually fading. And once they had faded enough, Woolsey turned to Aithris and met his somewhat confused look with a much warmer one of his own.

"My apologies, Aithris," Woolsey said. He tucked the laptop under one arm. "You've unfortunately fallen into a political power game. That man is a rogue element, yet he has serious support in Washington. They may be trying to reorganize the stargate program and its affiliates, presumably into something they can control."

"You know this for a fact?" Aithris asked him.

"Not quite. I suspect it, of course. Evidence for these things is hard to come by. But I've been at this sort of thing long enough to see through the lies." He lifted the laptop, tapping it with one hand. "Whatever's on here will be destroyed."

"What about the internal investigation?"

Woolsey shook his head. He appeared disappointed.

"I'll certainly begin one, but it's not likely to get anywhere. Not for many months, and not when it's about a man such as Banachek. He has all the right security clearances, and my authority to have him removed from the SGC is slim at best. He will be back, I suspect, and I may not be able to do much when that happens." His mouth adopted a wry, if uncertain, smirk. "Don't worry, though. Whatever happens, you have my support. I will not see us alienate one of our best team members."

Aithris felt some small measure of relief at the remark. Woolsey, to him, was a man of contradictions. He had all the appearance of a pen-pushing bureaucrat and seemed to have a role that involved just that, yet he had gone out of his way more than once to support SG-1 and others working within Stargate Command. He had a history here, and he received respect even from people such as Colonel Sheppard. And Sheppard was the kind of man who usually disliked people similar to Woolsey. The man had gained that respect during his stint as the commander of the Atlantis expedition, and it seemed that field experience had broadened his mind by a significant degree.

"You're free to get on with your duties, Aithris," Woolsey said, and he glanced at his watch. "Almost lunchtime. I don't know about you, but I could do with a sandwich."

"I don't wish to become part of anyone's political games," Aithris said, and he rose from his chair. His mood had soured a great deal, and an otherwise ordinary day had turned into one to forget. He briefly toyed with the notion of tracking Banachek down and killing him, but it was an idea he quelled immediately. Banachek, from what he had seen, was not in league with anything evil. The man was simply using his connections to get information he otherwise should not have been permitted to acquire. If Woolsey was right, then Banachek had some lofty goals in mind. And if Banachek ever got his way, it could put a serious impairment upon the SGC's capability to fight the great enemy. There was an added sense of urgency to Aithris' mission here, that is to fight that ancient evil and end it once and for all.

"Come on, Aithris, I'd love to hear all about the mission to Chulak." Woolsey started for the door, gesturing for Aithris to follow. "Hearing it from you is always more interesting than reading some dry report."