Chapter 27, part 2.

"Congratulations once again, Major," the President said, shaking her hand. "And thank you for what you've done to protect our nation. I have to say, that mission report read like fiction."

"Yes, sir, thank you," she replied with a polite smile. "It felt quite unreal at times, too."

"No doubt, but things like that aren't really out of ordinary for you, now, are they?" He winked at her and she knew he was referring to her foray into the future.

"Unfortunately not," she confirmed and then looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Fernandez, the other Distinguished Flying Cross's recipient's widow. "Sometimes we pay the price for all the excitement in blood," she added, her voice quiet.

The President nodded solemnly. "Indeed. I am in constant awe of all the sacrifices people in the Program keep making, over and over again. The awards seem hardly sufficient to recognize such valor."

"No award can compensate for the loss of life," Alice agreed. "But it is not for the awards that we do what we do. Honestly, sir, if you ask anyone in the Program, you won't find a single person who isn't entirely committed to their work. Even those who never go off-world—cooks and stewards and accountants and all the mass of support staff at the SGC and in Groom Lake—they are all completely dedicated because they know the stakes."

"Of course. Still, I can barely imagine how it feels to walk the surface of another planet, much less be on the frontline of a space battle," he noted. "You do that every day."

"More like every third day or so," she replied with a wry smile. "I spend more time in a lab than off-world."

"You say it like that's not another thing to wonder at." He shook his head. "I know that Stargate Command and Atlantis have lots of talent around, but it seems like you've got it all—you're a scientist, a team leader, a pilot, and now even an undercover agent!"

Yeah, the only thing I don't have is my life in any kind of order, she thought sarcastically, but instead just smiled tiredly. At that moment, a man in a business suit approached them and whispered something to the President's ear.

"I'm told my time is up," he announced. "I'm very sorry that I can't talk with you more, Major, but you know it well—duty calls. I'm glad I could find the time to present this award to you and Mrs. Fernandez myself, though. It was a pleasure to meet you, as always."

"The pleasure was all mine, sir," she answered, they shook hands once again and then he walked away and out of the room.

"That seemed like an established relationship," a familiar voice said from behind her. "Not the first time you've met him, I gather?"

Alice rolled her eyes, turning around. Of course she'd be here.

"Good afternoon, Aga," Alice said with a sigh.

"Afternoon," the journalist replied with a grin. "Just checking in on you, Major. Any news on our deal?"

"They're still deliberating." Alice shrugged. "I told you, it's politicians and diplomats, not the easiest crowd to convince. You have to be patient."

"I can be patient when I know I'm not being yanked around." Aga raised her eyebrows significantly.

"I'm not yanking you around, I just don't have any influence on their timeline," Alice explained. "You'll have the answer soon, I promise."

Aga nodded, apparently mollified. "I was surprised when I got a Google alert on you last week," she said, changing the subject. "You usually try so hard to remain in the shadows, I was shocked that you would publish anything under your own name, but then I realized it was a research paper in Science. I even tried to read it, but I didn't understand much," she admitted.

Alice smirked. "Yeah, it's got a very specific target audience. Though I really tried to dumb it down."

Aga chuckled. "Point taken, Major—I may not be as smart as you are, but I am certainly more stubborn."

God knows that's true, Alice thought with amusement, but didn't interrupt.

"I reached out to some contacts I have over at the MIT, and they told me your research, if proven correct in further studies, could revolutionize the way we think of and create AI. I think I know where that knowledge might be coming from, though." Her eyes glinted with mirth as she said it.

Alice raised her eyebrows. "I don't know what you think, but if you're suggesting that I hadn't done my research—"

"Have you, though?"

"Please." Alice rolled her eyes. "That's six years of my life."

"Well—"

"Despite what you might think, you don't know everything," Alice cut her off, irked.

Aga raised her hands peacefully. "Alright, alright, I believe you." Then she cocked her head to the side and added with an air of wistfulness: "I really wish you'd let me do a profile on you."

"No." Alice's eyebrows bent into a frown. "We've talked about it. I don't need publicity."

"I wouldn't say your name. Just—"

"No."

"You know, technically I don't need your permission."

Alice sighed, exasperated. "Aga, please."

The journalist opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it and a moment later Alice felt someone approach her from behind and stand next to her. She looked that way and gave out another heavy sigh.

"General," she said flatly.

"Good afternoon, Major," Simon said, his voice generically polite. He was wearing a dress uniform, same as her, though of course his was khaki, not blue. He was holding a file in his hands. "Who's your friend?"

"Aga Foster, New York Times," the journalist said with a bright smile before Alice could say anything. "You must be General Boyd, the Major's uncle."

He frowned. "A reporter? Are you doing a story on the Major's award?"

"No, she's not," Alice said in an authoritative tone. "In fact, she was just leaving."

"Was I?" Aga asked, amused.

"Yes. Goodbye, Aga. I will let you know once I've got the response on the deal."

"Sure, sure. Either way, I'll be in touch. Oh, and by the way—congratulations on the award. My sources say it's very much deserved." Aga winked to her, nodded at Simon and walked away.

Alice let out a long breath. It was good to get rid of Aga, but talking to Simon was a poor alternative.

"So what's the story with her?" He asked as soon as the journalist was out of earshot.

"Classified," Alice replied curtly and then fell silent, looking at him levelly. He seemed displeased with her demeanor, but held off on any comments.

"Congratulations on your award," he said.

She knew it was an olive branch, but she was still too pissed off to accept it. "Thank you, sir," she responded blandly.

His lips thinned, but he made an effort to remain calm. She could see it cost him a lot.

"This is not a social visit," he told her, his voice betraying his tenseness even more than his face. "You are an engineer with combat experience and that is exactly the kind of combination of skills I need right now."

In spite of her anger, it piqued her interest. Why would a glorified shopping assistant (which was how she thought about his job in the Strategic Procurement department) need an engineer with combat experience?

Because she didn't respond, he cleared his throat and continued: "A couple weeks ago I've been contacted by a person claiming to have advanced weapons designs to sell to the Armed Forces that would make a big difference not only to our effectiveness in the field, but also to our reputation on the international arena. I initially dismissed it—I get a lot of pitches that claim to be the solution to our problems and other such bullshit, but this guy wouldn't go away and told me I'd regret it if I rejected his offer. He said he would just sell to another country, maybe even one of our enemies. I decided to take the meeting and I have to say, I was very impressed with what he told me. What I cannot do is ascertain how much of it is bullshit for show, and how much the real deal."

"You have your own experts." She shrugged nonchalantly, though it intrigued her. "Why don't you go to them?"

He pursed his lips again, but his answer was, once again, rather calm. "I have my reasons. Do you want to check it out, or not?"

She grimaced. "You haven't actually told me what it is," she reminded him.

He didn't reply, but instead handed her the folder he was holding in his hand.

Inside, there were just a few pages with schematics of a gun similar to a P90. They looked unfinished, though.

"My contact told me they would give me the whole thing once there was a contract in place," he added, as if he could read her mind.

She had to wet her lips because they became dry as she looked at the designs. They were eerily familiar. "And who's your contact?"

"That I will keep to myself, thank you very much," he replied coldly.

She told herself to be calm. This time, she could not blow up with rage.

"So, what do you think?" He asked.

"I think it merits further study," she said cautiously. "I'd like a live presentation of its capabilities."

He nodded. "That's what I said to my contact. He's arranging a showcase. I would like you to come with."

She didn't raise her eyes from the file. "When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll change my flight," she agreed. "Can I take this with me, study it a bit more?" She waved the folder, finally looking up at him.

"Don't show it to anyone else," he said gravely. "That's an order."

"Yes, sir," she responded innocently, knowing she would be showing this to O'Neill in no less than five minutes.

"I'll call you with the details. You should come in civvies," he added.

"Yes, sir," she repeated. "Anything else?"

His nostrils flared with indignation at her return to cold professionalism, but he restrained himself again. "No. That's all. Goodnight, Alice."

"General." She nodded goodbye and walked away without another look.

The day was fair and the sun was shining, but it was cold, barely high thirties, it seemed. Alice was wearing leggings under her jeans, a puffer jacket and a knitted hat. She didn't have a scarf because it could muffle the sound on the recording device hidden beneath her shirt.

She tried to get some information from Simon as they drove away from the center and into the more disreputable parts of the city, but he wasn't talkative. He probably found her sudden loquacity a little suspicious, but she couldn't care less. After all was said and done, they would question him at length, and she could go back to quietly despising him from afar. But first, a job needed to be done.

They stopped behind a run-down warehouse and Alice couldn't help but smirk at that. It just seemed like a scene from a bad action movie, them being driven out into nowhere, her wearing a wire, their NID shadow invisible but, no doubt, present somewhere close… only Simon seemed oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all.

A man in black clothing came out to greet them.

"General! How good to see you again!" He said, shaking Simon's hand. "Sorry for all this cloak and dagger, but we couldn't arrange the showcase somewhere where we could be seen by third parties, now, could we?"

"Whatever, Michael. Let's just get this over with. It's cold out here." Simon affected a disinterested air, but she knew him better than that. His eyes glowed happily, and she knew he was expecting to be praised for procuring this great new weapon that could upset the balance of power all over the world. Oh, how he was going to be disappointed… it gave her perverse satisfaction to think about it.

"And who's your lovely companion?"

"Oh, this is my niece, Alice. She's an engineer so I permitted myself to bring her with me to assess the viability of this weapon for long-term deployment," Simon said dismissively, exactly as Alice had predicted he would.

"Oh, good! Let's get going, then!" Michael made an inviting gesture and they entered the warehouse. There were three more guys inside, just standing there over what seemed like metal crates, stacked one onto another. Their driver stayed outside, probably as a sentry. It wouldn't matter.

Michael waved at his people and they stepped back so that he could open one of the crates. It was packed with foam that held a single weapon inside: a P90, at first glance. He took it out and showed to Simon and Alice.

"It looks and handles like your standard FN P90. Uses standard 5.7×28mm bullets, with selective fire, as well. But flick a switch there—" he demonstrated it, a bit clumsily "—and suddenly it's a long-distance electroshock weapon. But wait, you might think, we already have tasers and they're no use in a combat situation—but this is not like your typical taser!" He was giving them the spiel very fluidly, as if he'd learned it by heart in hopes of impressing them—or perhaps it wasn't his first time doing so. "There are no wires, no contact necessary. Effective range is around a hundred yards, with maximum range closer to eight hundred. Yes, you've heard well, eight hundred yards!" He repeated gleefully, seeing Simon's eyebrows raised in disbelief. "And it has a serious kick, too. Just one shot is enough to knock out just about anyone and for hours. Can you imagine? Going to battle with this baby, being able to neutralize opponents without killing them—can you imagine what a treasure trove this could prove in terms of potential intel? You can't question a dead man, but a stunned man… and think about what sort of impact it would have on international diplomacy, if we could perform complex infantry missions without killing a single person! The world would love us. And this technology could be easily adapted to use by the police forces. Imagine that! No more police-involved shootings with fatalities! You could shoot first and ask questions later! Oh, did I mention it is also completely safe?"

Simon shook his head. "That I find hard to believe. It is, essentially, an electric shock, after all. It might be less than lethal in most cases, but still…"

"Oh, but I assure you—we've done extensive tests!" Michael grinned. "In fact, I'm willing to show you right here, right now. Kyle, wanna go to sleep?"

One of his men grimaced. "Does it have to be me?" He grumbled.

"Don't complain, just sit yo' ass down," Michael ordered and Kyle, still mumbling under his nose, obeyed. He sat down directly on the ground, leaning on the stack of crates with his back.

Simon looked over at Alice, his eyebrows up again, but she merely shrugged. And then Michael lifted the weapon and shot at Kyle. A flash of bluish light went out of the barrel and connected with Kyle's chest. He slackened against the crates.

"See?" Michael said gaily. "I told you. He's perfectly fine." He waved at another one of his men, who approached Kyle and checked his pulse and breathing.

"Vitals are strong," he confirmed.

"Let me see," Simon said authoritatively and stepped over to Kyle himself. "Huh. Seems like he's okay. This was quite a sight, I have to admit, but it still doesn't mean it's safe for just about anyone."

"Of course, once you purchase the design, you can do as much testing as you want," Michael replied slyly. "But they're going to confirm my words, I assure you."

Simon shook his head. "I don't like buying a pig in a poke. We will need to have a thorough look at the prototype first, before we finalize the purchase."

"Oh, General, that would be just unwise from our side. If you have a thorough look, you could potentially try to reproduce the technology without us, and where would we be?"

"This isn't how things work in a civilized world," Simon replied haughtily. Alice thought she'd heard quite enough.

"Before you go off fully on this negotiating tangent, may I have a closer look?" She interrupted them.

Michael smiled oily. "Do you know how to handle guns? This is still a working weapon, very dangerous."

"I'll be fine," she assured him and extended her arms towards him. He hesitated for another moment, but then put the gun into her hands.

She lifted it up to her eyes, examining the black metal.

"It's a bit heavier than your standard P90, but we're working on reducing the weight," Michael told her.

"Yeah? And how are you planning to do that?" She asked, one of her eyebrows rising up.

"If General Boyd decides to buy this design, we will tell you." Michael winked at her.

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I would do? I would change the composition of the materials to a trinium alloy, it would make it lighter and more durable at the same time," she said lightly, looking at Michael's face. He seemed confused. "Have you heard of that?"

"Uh, I can't say that I have. But I leave that stuff to our scientists."

"And who they might be? Maybe I know them?" She asked with a bright smile.

He seemed wary, now. Apparently he didn't like her questions—or her odd attitude. "Of course, I cannot give you that information at this time."

"That's okay. I know who they are," she told him. He frowned, but it was Simon who spoke.

"What do you mean? What are you talking about, Alice?"

She didn't reply to his questions. "See that little scratch on the barrel over here?" She asked instead, pointing at a tiny scrape in the metal. "You know how it happened?" She pulled the gun back, putting it comfortably in her right hand. "Because I do. The prototype slipped out of my hands and bounced off the edge of my table. The damn thing fired autonomously right at me, I woke up an hour later on the floor of my lab."

Michael took a step back, his eyes flickering to his men, silently signaling them to be cautious.

"That's a very curious coincidence, right?" She asked nonchalantly. "In fact, it's almost as if you've stolen my prototype and were unlucky enough to try to sell it back to me."

Michael plunged his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, but he was too slow. Alice had the weapon in her hand. She didn't even have to flick the switch—it was still set to stun.

Three quick shots later, Michael and his two men joined Kyle on the floor with graceless thumps.

"What the—" Simon asked, baffled.

"Agent Barrett, you can come in, it's clear," she said, ignoring her uncle. A second later there was a sound of the door opening and at least a dozen men in black uniforms rushed in, guns in hand.

"Alice, what the hell!" Simon demanded. His voice betrayed a combination of confusion and mounting anger.

Alice ignored him again, instead nodding to the NID agent who approached her.

"We've neutralized the one outside," he told her. "There doesn't appear to be anyone else in the vicinity. I expected there'd be more of them."

"They didn't seem too well-organized," Alice agreed. "We know this prototype was the only one they stole, so what's in the crates, I wonder?"

"Let's see." Barrett waved at one of his men to open the boxes. Alice turned to get closer, but she was stopped with a hand on her shoulder.

"Alice, I swear to God, if you don't explain yourself right this second…!" Simon threatened in a furious tone, though his voice was quiet.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, isn't it obvious? This was a sting operation," she told him with a heavy sigh. "I recognized the designs you gave me immediately. I created this weapon—and it is heavily classified, which meant we've sprung a leak somewhere. This operation was the first step to getting to the bottom of it. Second step will be to question them—and you."

"Question me?!" His cheeks colored with rage. "You think you can question me?"

She restrained another eye-roll. "This isn't my operation. Agent Barrett of the NID is in the lead." She waved at the man who, in his black business suit, looked rather incongruous among his uniformed men. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to see what's in those crates."

She pivoted around on her heel and walked away before Simon had a chance to react.

Simon was fuming. He sat in the chair, looking uncomfortable, and his nostrils kept flaring. He was tapping his fingers on the surface of the table in front of him, and kept throwing furious looks at the door. He didn't seem to be aware of the camera, though.

Alice watched him straighten out with a forbidding expression when Barrett entered the room. The NID agent didn't even get to utter a word of greeting before Simon cut him off.

"This is unacceptable!" He said, his voice raised to near-shouting level. "I've been waiting here two hours! Do you know who I am?!"

Barrett was unimpressed. "Brigadier General Simon Boyd, United States Army, Deputy Director for Strategic Procurement at the Joint Chiefs of Staff's Strategy, Plans and Policy directorate. Yes, I know who you are, sir. I apologize for the wait, but we had to secure the evidence and identify the perpetrators."

Simon huffed. "And who are you?"

"Special Agent Malcolm Barrett, National Intelligence Department." He took a seat across from Simon, putting a folder on the table. "Before we go on, I should inform you that this interview is being recorded." He pointed upwards at the camera.

"I didn't consent to that!" Simon protested, quarrelsome as ever.

"We don't need your consent, sir," Barrett informed him calmly. "And may I remind you that you are under orders to cooperate with the investigation?"

"Am I accused of something?"

"Not yet," the agent threw and watched Simon redden with indignation. "If it's determined, during the course of this probe, that you have engaged in any illicit behavior related to the matter at hand, of course, there will be consequences. However, at this point in the investigation, there is nothing pointing at that."

"And there won't be! I did nothing wrong!"

Barrett must have felt tired with the preamble because he opened his folder and looked into it.

"I need to ask you some questions," he announced. "When and how were you first contacted by one Michael Murphy?"

"What about my questions?" Simon demanded instead. "I want to know what's going on!"

"Is he always like this?" O'Neill asked Alice.

She smiled crookedly. "Sometimes he's worse," she told him.

"Sir, please just answer the question," Barrett requested calmly. "This will go a whole lot faster if you just cooperate."

"Does that mean you're not gonna tell me anything?"

"Should I go in there?" O'Neill looked at her.

She shrugged. "He just needs to let it out. In the end, he'll follow your earlier order. I think."

"Sir, I am not the one to make that decision. I am here to get to the truth," Barrett explained, and Alice admired his composure. She'd already have thrown something at Simon.

"He'd better," O'Neill muttered under his breath and then added louder: "How do you stand him?"

Simon huffed, puffed, but had to admit defeat. "Fine, then. What was the question?"

She grimaced. "I don't. Not lately, anyway. He's always gotten on my nerves, but I have no more patience for him nowadays."

"When and how did you first come in contact with Michael Murphy?" Barrett repeated.

"Looks like you were right," O'Neill remarked.

"Two weeks ago I received an e-mail from a man claiming to represent an organization that deals with technologically advanced weapons and equipment. He called it future-proofed warfare. In my position, I get a ton of e-mails from people claiming to have the thing we need to beat the Taliban, to squash North Korea, outpace Russia and China, et cetera, et cetera. But this guy attached the schematics—they were incomplete, not enough to reproduce the technology, but enough to make me curious."

"So you took the bait," Barrett noted. "Got a meeting with Michael?"

Simon shook his head. "That wasn't Michael. Michael was the one who came to the meeting, but the guy who first contacted me was named Pavel Chenkov. He set up the meeting with Michael."

Alice blinked quickly. "Chenkov?" She repeated.

"What about him?" O'Neill asked, looking at her sideways.

"And you took the meeting," Barrett prompted.

Alice shook her head. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. Or was it?

"Yeah. He showed me the full spec of this stun-gun at the meeting, but just for a moment—I'm not a technical guy, I have people for that, so there was no way I would be able to reproduce it from that one glance."

"So that's why you approached Major Boyd, because she is a technical person?"

"Yes," Simon answered curtly.

Alice stood up so suddenly, she knocked over her chair.

"Jesus, Boyd! You wanna give me a heart attack?" O'Neill rose, too, watching her grab the chair and put it back up.

"Sorry, sir. I need to ask Simon one question," she said distractedly.

"Can you describe the entire conversation with Michael that first time?" Barrett asked in the meantime, but Alice didn't hear Simon's response, because she was out of the room and speeding down the corridor. She wrenched the door open and nearly stumbled inside.

"Alice!" Simon said loudly, seeing her. "Will you please…"

"Why did you ask me?" She interrupted him.

"What?"

"You have a whole directorate full of people, engineers aplenty, including some with combat experience, I'm sure," she breathed. "But you came and asked me. It wasn't an olive branch, it's too big for that. Why me?"

His brow furrowed and he looked displeased. "Well, if you must know, I noticed there was something written in the corner of the designs Michael showed me at that first meeting… wait, how do you know what we were talking about? Are you watching the feed?!"

"Yes," she confirmed shamelessly. "Alongside General O'Neill. What was it, what was written there?"

He looked even less pleased, his lips pursed for the moment, but the mention of an influential lieutenant general watching was enough to entice him to cooperate. "It read Property of Homeworld Command. And I remembered you using that term once—in the Pentagon, at my promotion."

Alice nodded grimly, though she felt somewhat impressed. For once in his life Simon actually put two and two together.

"So you thought you'd get me to come along and perhaps I would tell you more?"

"The thought crossed my mind," he admitted brazenly. "I don't like being in the dark."

"There was an incident at the Pentagon several years ago," Alice told Barrett, who was looking at her with his eyebrows raised. "A couple mercs landed a cloaked cargo ship in the courtyard and tried to get to the Homeworld Command. They were after a long-range communication device, killed three people. Me and my brother just happened to be there for Simon's promotion ceremony. We took care of the mercs, but unfortunately Simon's heard some things he shouldn't have. He'd been ordered to keep quiet and stop inquiring about it, but, well. He's found other ways of following up, apparently." She rolled her eyes.

"Interesting." Barrett nodded. "Do you think it's a coincidence that these people targeted your uncle?"

"I don't know," she answered pensively. "He is the procurement guy, so it makes sense to contact him. But there is one more thing that I think we should check. You said the first person who e-mailed you was named Pavel Chenkov, right?"

"Yes," Simon confirmed sourly. "So?"

"Chenkov was the name of an engineer aboard the Prometheus," she explained, addressing Barrett again. "He died when the ship exploded over Tegalus. His first name was Ivan, not Pavel, though—but Pavel is just a Russian version of Paul."

Barrett blinked. "You think he's connected to our elusive Paul Emerson?"

"Well, it could be just coincidence. But Emerson—the original Paul Emerson—was murdered on the Odyssey."

The agent nodded. "Worth checking out. I'll get someone to review General Boyd's e-mail, maybe we can trace it back—unless you want to have a crack at it?"

"NO!" Simon protested loudly, standing up.

Alice smirked, but shook her head. "As much as it would tickle me to snoop around his messages—I don't think it would be appropriate, seeing as we're related."

"This is illegal!" Simon argued.

"Oh, we'll make it legal, don't worry," Barrett told him. "We're only interested in your dealings with this Chenkov guy, and Michael Murphy and his henchmen, of course."

"But—" Simon stopped himself because the door to the interview room opened and General O'Neill came through.

"They found Treen. He's dead," he said. "Looks like Murphy's friends decided to tie up loose ends when they learned of our operation."

"Poor bastard," Barrett murmured.

Alice shook her head. Treen was a civilian contractor working at the Area 51. They traced the theft of the X-801 prototype to him, but couldn't find him—he wasn't at his home, nor at work, nor anywhere they looked. Now it turned out that the bad guys got to him first. Well, nobody ever said that cooperating with criminals was safe.

"Are you done here?" O'Neill asked the agent.

"Yeah, just about."

"Wait a minute," Simon cut in, his voice only slightly less rude now that he was addressing a superior officer. "General, I think I deserve at least some explanation!"

O'Neill sighed. "Fine. Major, will you fill your uncle in?"

Alice grimaced. "Sir, would you mind asking someone else?"

Simon threw her an incensed look. "So, what, now you don't even want to talk to me?!"

"I'll talk to you after I hear you apologize for how you've treated Jake and for keeping the truth about our father from us for six years," she hissed, instantly furious. She caught O'Neill's raised eyebrow and questioning glance and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She then addressed him directly. "Sir, can I be dismissed?"

"Sure," he agreed, looking mildly curious. "Good work, Major."

"Thank you, sir," she replied and, without one look at Simon, she left the room.