Chapter 30, part 2.

"You know you were supposed to be here," Alice complained into her phone, looking around the large reception area, with crowds of people standing in little groups, talking and sipping from plastic cups.

"I know, I'm sorry," Hailey replied, sounding not a bit sorry. "I just have all this preparation for the wedding!"

That's your own fault for choosing such a date, Alice thought resentfully, but bit her tongue. It wasn't even a week since she got the invitation for the wedding and, knowing the reason for it, she understood the haste. Of course Hailey wanted to walk down the aisle before her pregnancy ruined her waistline. That it interfered with her own plans was just an annoying side effect.

"I don't particularly enjoy presenting someone else's research," she said instead. "I'm not an expert in wormhole physics."

"Oh, please. Anybody who works in the Program is light years away from the biggest expert out there, and you know it," the older major answered dismissively. "You'll be fine. Besides, getting a bit more understanding in that area might only be beneficial for you, seeing as that's what Tallis wants you do figure out."

"That's different—I already have all the answers to the Ninth Chevron mysteries, I just need to untangle the chaos of their pitiful research," Alice protested. "I wish Tallis just gave it to me so I could work on it here, but he doesn't trust me fully yet."

"Well, he's right about that, isn't he? Anyway, treat this as an exercise. And for goodness' sake, have some fun, will you?"

"This isn't exactly my idea of fun," Alice murmured, looking around at the throng all around her. That they were predominantly scientists, researchers, engineers and journalists from geeky magazines did not improve the situation in any significant manner.

"Stop complaining and just try," Hailey insisted. "I need to go for a dress fitting. That's gonna be fun—who the hell knows if it'll still fit in a month."

Alice rolled her eyes. "Goodbye, Jennifer." And, without waiting for acknowledgment, she ended the call.

Of course, just standing there with nothing to do was not going to cut it. As long as she was on the phone, nobody disturbed her out of politeness, but as soon as she became idle, someone would come up. So she dialed another number immediately.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Rattle speaking, how may I help you?"

"Hello, Sergeant, this is Major Boyd, authentication code Sierra-Romeo-Seven-Two-Golf. Can you get me General Carter, please?"

"Authentication confirmed, transferring now, ma'am," the man replied and put her on hold.

It only took a moment. "Alice," Carter breathed into the receiver. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Just checking in, ma'am," the major replied politely. "I thought maybe there was news."

"Well, you've got good timing. The intel was correct, but we got there too late—again," the general sounded as frustrated as Alice felt. "He knew we were coming and disappeared."

Motherfucker, Alice though. "That's unfortunate," she said. "This was, what, the third time?"

"If you count Saint Petersburg, yeah. He must have a rat somewhere in the organization, this time it was really an exemplary action and still he gave us a slip." Carter sighed. "Barrett promised me he will look into it. But Hodges can't escape every time. One day he'll make a mistake, and that's all we need."

"Yes, ma'am." Alice grimaced. They were on the hunt for Francis Hodges—a.k.a. Paul Emerson—for almost a month now, and although the intel she had gotten from Derby initially yielded promising results and they got closer to catching him, he still managed to weasel his way out—twice, now.

"How's the conference going?"

"I am half-convinced that scientists should not be presenting their own ideas," Alice replied honestly. "Most of them are terrible public speakers. We need a new job—professional mouthpiece for scientists."

Carter laughed. "You may be onto something there! When are you on?"

"Just after the break, so in—" Alice looked at her watch "—seven minutes. You know, ma'am, at least I can't be too bad by comparison."

"As usual, you give yourself too little credit, Major," the general opined, a bit condescendingly. "You'll do fine."

Alice sighed. "Yes, ma'am."

"Alright, carry on, Major. Good luck."

"Thank you, ma'am." She pressed the red receiver, cursing in her head again. Francis Hodges—what a slimy fucking worm! They'd been after him for ten months now—and nothing!

"Excuse me—are you Doctor Alice Boyd?" Someone said and Alice swore silently again, this time at her own stupidity. She got hung up on Hodges and forgot to pretend that she was busy. She took a deep breath and turned around. Three men stood there, dressed in dark pants and shirts without jackets or ties. She gave them a fake smile.

"Hello, yes, that's me. Can I help you?"

"Oh, no, we just wanted to meet you!" The youngest of them enthused, reaching out to shake her hand. He was in his late thirties, his hairline already receding, and had a friendly round face. "I'm Doctor Franz Holler, and these gentlemen are my colleagues, Doctors Arun Kumar and Jeffrey Simmons."

"We've read your paper in the Science," his colleague, a forty-something Indian man with a distinct accent, added, equally eager to shake with her. "Such a breakthrough!"

"And of course we've heard all about the hijack," the last one said, enveloping Alice's hand in both of his. He was taller than the other two and somewhere between them in age. "We're big fans!"

"Um, thank you," she replied, happy to get her hand back.

"I can't quite believe we get to meet the real BA 218 hero!" Holler gushed. "Such bravery! Such physical prowess! Such smarts!"

"How ever did you open the cockpit's door?" Simmons asked curiously. "That's what's been bothering me. They are made to withstand tampering."

Alice shrugged. "You can open any door when you know what you're doing."

"And clearly you do!" Kumar praised. "Is it true that you work on the American space weapons program?"

She affected a smile. "I work with satellites," she said vaguely. This was, of course, part of the cover. She was only allowed to give this weak-ass explanation that nobody would believe, and if somebody dug deeper they would discover this whole space arms race with China—and hopefully feel satisfied enough with that story to refrain from any further inquiry. So far it was working well.

"Oh, please, everyone knows that's bullshit," Simmons growled. "With your medals? I mean, a Prisoner of War?!"

"I'm afraid I can't comment on that," Alice kept up the fake smile. "And I'm afraid I should get going—my presentation starts in a couple minutes and I need to set up."

"Oh, of course!" Holler's eyes twinkled with curiosity. "Can't wait to hear it!"

"I'm only stepping in for a colleague today," she warned them. "Major Hailey had to change her plans at the last moment and asked me to deliver her presentation."

"Oh, of course—I'm sure she was recalled for some secret mission!" Simmons proclaimed with a knowing smile.

"Actually, she's got her wedding dress fitting today," Alice blurted out and had the satisfaction of seeing their confused expression. "Now, would you excuse me, gentlemen—" And she made an about-face and sped away from them and towards the lecture hall where she was supposed to make a presentation on the 'latest research into Einstein-Rosen bridge theory'—which meant a dumbed-down version of their earliest findings on wormhole physics.

The bar was dim and noisy, but it had little booths and Alice hid in one after getting her drink. She really didn't want anyone's company—there's already been way too much of that in the past two days. Thankfully, the conference was over—most of the participants have either already left or were leaving the next morning, and that last batch included Alice. Her flight was in the early morning, so she should be in Denver by noon and back at work by two in the afternoon. Later that day she had another meeting with Tallis to continue going over Olan's research on the ninth chevron dialing and she thought how nice it will be to be back among the swindlers, thieves and killers of the Alliance, compared to this social nightmare. It was no wonder, then, that she audibly groaned when a man came up to her table with a tall drink with a little umbrella in it. She recognized Doctor Simmons, one of those who had introduced themselves to her the day before.

"Doctor Boyd!" He said, in high spirits despite her clear objection to company. "I was looking for you! I'm glad I could find you! Mind if I join you?" And he sat down in her booth, not waiting for a response. "I just wanted to reiterate how amazing was your lecture yesterday, and all your contributions today!"

"Thanks," Alice replied succinctly, taking a sip of her gin and tonic.

Simmons wasn't deterred by her reticence. "I have to say, Doctor, it is not every day that I meet someone like you. Women of your beauty are rarely that brilliant!"

Alice raised one eyebrow. "You mustn't have talked to a lot of beautiful women, then," she countered coolly, but he didn't catch the hint.

"Well, certainly not as beautiful as you are," he agreed, lowering his voice in a way that Alice thought was supposed to be seductive. It was not.

"Are you trying to hit on me, Doctor Simmons?" She asked bluntly.

"Uh, well—I was trying to pass it under the radar…" For the first time, he seemed a little thrown.

"Then don't." Her voice was cutting. "I'm not interested."

He flushed red. "What, you think you are too good for me?"

Alice looked at him stoically. "Yes."

"Bitch!" He stood up and marched away, but he forgot his drink so he turned around, grabbed it, made a face to her, and finally left.

Alice sighed. What was wrong with her? He was undoubtedly a nice guy. There was no need to treat him like that. It was what Nova would've done… was she bleeding through into Alice's life? That wasn't something she could have ever predicted. Nova was so different from Alice, and until a little while ago, they were completely separate. But now it was the second time she had found the other woman affecting how Alice acted in her own life… Was that a good thing? A bad thing? Something to discuss with Doctor Green, perhaps.

She took another sip of her drink and suddenly became aware that she was hearing a familiar voice. A raspy baritone crooning from the speakers somewhere above them. She knew the song, too—but it wasn't one of the band's. A cover.

I long to see the sunlight in your hair

And tell you time and time again how much I care

Sometimes I feel my heart will overflow

Hello, I've just got to let you know

'Cause I wonder where you are and I wonder what you do

Are you somewhere feeling lonely or is someone loving you?

Tell me how to win your heart, for I haven't got a clue

But let me start by saying, I love you

She stood up suddenly, knocking her half-full glass over on the table. She ignored it, slipped out of the booth and made for the door. She couldn't listen to it. She couldn't. She got out of the bar and the song faded, but she could still hear the voice in her head, now singing that fragment on repeat. She reached the elevators in the lobby and pushed the button Up. It took excruciatingly long time, but she finally got out on her floor and sprinted towards her room.

Inside, she kicked off her shoes, dropped onto the bed and scrambled for her phone. She had to put on something else—some other music, something completely different. She found a Rammstein playlist on Spotify and turned up the volume. She was going to focus on the lyrics, trying to make sense of the German, not thinking about Aaron, about the song that was clearly meant for her, about how gut-wrenchingly sad he sounded in it… did he miss her? Was he lonely? Did he think of her in the darkest hours of the night?

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Boyd!" She castigated herself loudly, getting back to her feet to pace the room. This was ridiculous. The song shouldn't have touched her the way it did. It was another silly love declaration—and she still could only offer him friendship. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing.

She suddenly felt the air vent out of her and she sat back down on the bed heavily. She missed him. She missed her friend—that was it. Nothing had changed, except that time passed and she realized with new intensity that it was over. Twenty-seven years of friendship—just gone. How could that be? Did she make a mistake? Should she have allowed them to try and remain friends?

But how would that look like? She still caught Deanna sometimes looking at her longingly. Being close was no good, even with strict boundaries established. How much stronger would that hurt if it was Aaron?

She turned off the music. It was no use. Rammstein couldn't cover up what she was feeling. Nothing could. She missed him. She was sad that he was sad. All that remained was try to accept the reality and go on.

But she did hope the band's cover album wouldn't become too much of a best-seller.

"Would you like something to drink, Officer?" Alice's mom asked politely as they showed the policeman into the living room.

"Coffee would be great, thank you," he replied, sitting down in an armchair.

"Honey?" Eileen addressed Alice.

"Yeah, coffee'd be nice, thanks, mom."

"Coming right up." She disappeared in the hallway.

Alice took a seat on the couch.

"Thank you for agreeing to talk to us," the policeman, Officer Henry Dorsal, said.

"Thank you for coming on a holiday." Alice nodded.

"Yes, I understand that you no longer live in the area." It wasn't a question, but the look he threw her was questioning.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, you've read the article in The New York Times."

He blinked. "There's an article about you?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Did you do any prep before coming here?"

He looked flustered. "Well, not really, to be quite honest. My colleague is taking care of this case—your brother's background check, I mean—and he was supposed to come, but he caught the flu over the weekend and asked me to fill in, since you're only here for these three days."

"I see." She restrained the urge to roll her eyes again.

"Well, then? There's an article about you?" He prompted again.

She sighed. "A profile, yes. You heard about that attempted hijack a few months ago, on the flight to London?"

"Yeah, I remember—they were gonna kill the Queen, right?" He nodded. "What about it?"

"I stopped it and landed the plane."

His eyebrows moved all the way up and he looked her up and down, assessing. "You did?"

"Yes, I did," she confirmed, irked. "Why, you think a woman couldn't have done that?"

"No, I heard it was a woman—it's just that you don't look like someone capable of taking down anyone in hand-to-hand, much less four big guys."

"Just three—I shot the fourth one in the head," she corrected coldly, and had the satisfaction of watching his shocked expression. "I could take you in about twenty seconds," she added confidently, for once really sure of herself. The policeman was a big guy, but round and soft—at least compared to the servicemembers in the Program and the mercs in the Alliance, two groups she was hanging out most often with.

He cleared his throat. "Better not try. You—" He stopped because Alice's mom reappeared in the room, bearing a tray with two cups of coffee, creamer, sugar and a plate of homemade cookies. "Thank you, Mrs. Boyd."

"My pleasure. I'll leave you to it," Eileen replied and withdrew again.

They quietly picked up their coffees and both took their first sips before Dorsal continued.

"Those are some big claims."

She exhaled, telling herself to remain calm. "Is this Jake's background check, or mine?"

"I do have to establish your integrity first," he noted.

"It takes exactly ten seconds to google my name," she told him. "It's all over the web, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?"

"I don't enjoy the spotlight," she murmured, biting into a cookie. "You want my credentials?"

"Yes, please."

She stood up, walked out to the hallway, picked up her purse, took out her wallet and pulled out her Common Access Card from within, which she handed over to the policeman.

"Major Alice Boyd, United States Air Force," she recited. "My first job was flying fighter jets—F-16s—and then it got more exciting from there." She paused for effect. "I have a PhD in Computer Engineering, a Distinguished Flying Medal, two Bronze Stars, Air Medal, three Purple Hearts, a Prisoner of War medal, and the President called me a few days ago to tell me personally that I'll be getting an Airman's Medal for that plane hijacking action."

"That's, uhm, impressive," he admitted, a little reluctantly, and gave her back the CAC. "You got a call from the President? Of the United States?"

She shrugged. "Not for the first time, probably won't be the last," she told him dismissively, throwing her wallet onto the table. "He likes me."

"He likes you?"

"Yep." She smiled brazenly and left it at that.

"So what is it that you do for the Air Force, now?" He prompted after a second.

"I work with satellites."

"You work with satellites? That's what's more exciting than fighter jets?" He looked at her with disbelief.

She restrained the urge to roll her eyes again. "It's not a lie. Just… part of the truth. The part I'm allowed to say." He didn't look like he got it, so she sighed and added: "Most of my job is heavily classified—and so was Jake's. And that's the only reason I agreed to talk to you now."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"I'm probably the only person you can get ahold of who knows what Jake did during his military career. Or, at least, the last eight years or so," she explained, telling herself to be patient. She didn't want to do anything to make it more difficult for her brother.

"I see. Okay, might as well move on to him, now. So what did he do?" He pulled out a tiny notebook and leafed it until he got to an empty page.

This time she wasn't able to restrain the eye-roll. "I just told you it was classified. Obviously I can't divulge the nature of his work, or any details. What I can tell you is that we worked at the same base for about a year, until March 2012. Our units often cooperated and since I outranked his fire team commander, I sometimes ended up directing him in the field. That's technically not allowed, but it was special circumstance." She shrugged. "I am, of course, biased, but I can tell you he was one of the best people on the job. That unit—the larger one, which included his team and mine—was the elite of elites. Cream of the crop. Every single person there was the best of the best. It was an international contingent, too, so that isn't just the best of America," she added. "So whatever you write in that little notebook of yours, you may be sure that you're getting quality material. When he decided to move to the Reserves, everybody, including my current CO, expressed regret and asked me if I could find a way to convince him not to do it."

"Do you know why he decided to leave the Corps?"

"He didn't leave it, he went from active duty to Selected Reserves," she corrected him. "He gave fifteen years of his life to the Corps. I think that's quite enough, don't you?"

"That's not an answer," he protested.

She sighed. "He told me he wanted a life. That base… it was on the other end of the world," she lied lightly. "Rather difficult to form relationships that would last. Jake got hurt really bad back in August—almost died, in fact. It was really close for a moment there. His unit was covering the retreat of other teams, and they got pounded," she explained, seeing the officer's raised eyebrows. "His team lead died and one of his teammates had to have his leg amputated. A friend of mine died that day, too," she added softly, thinking of Alison Porter with fondness and regret. "Jake was very lucky to come out of it alive. But their actions allowed another team to call for reinforcements and, in the end, to save a whole village worth of people."

Dorsal was frowning. "Where was that? Which conflict?"

"I can't say."

"Come on, it had to be either Iraq or Pakistan, right?"

"I can't say," she repeated. "Anyway, after he got hurt, he was sent home for convalescent leave. It took him a few months to get better, and in that time he met someone here. The relationship is still new—who knows if it'll survive long? But one thing's for sure, it wouldn't if he went back."

He nodded. "I understand." He then leafed his notebook again to land on another page. "Are you referring to Mr. Oliver Laplace?"

"Yes." So they knew—it was good, she didn't have to try weasel her way out of saying who it was to protect Jake's privacy.

"And do you know Mr. Laplace?"

"I've met him a few times, but I wouldn't say I know him. He's a paramedic, looks like a stand-up guy, a little too enthusiastic about everything for my taste, but that's hardly a crime." She shrugged.

"About that—crimes, I mean. Your brother ever committed any that you know of?"

"Of course not. He doesn't even have a single speeding ticket. I'm worse than him at that," she admitted. "Never yet gotten a ticket, but I like speed."

He chuckled. "Well, I guess that's to be expected from someone who used to fly fighter jets."

She grinned. "Exactly."

"And what about drugs?" He changed the subject. "Recreational use in the past is not necessarily a deterrent if we know about it now."

"Nah, not my goody two shoes brother." She shook her head, but didn't cop out to again being the bad sibling—her misadventure with Ecstasy was certainly more than Jake would ever do. "He was always the responsible one. Our dad was in the Navy—he was an aviator and was absent a lot when he went on deployments aboard an aircraft carrier. He always made sure to be fully present when he was here, but there were months when we didn't see him. And our mom has always been… fragile. She made good money with her craft—she's a graphic artist—but she suffers from schizophrenia. It was very mild when we were growing up, and meds largely worked, so it's not like there was any instability in our home—but Jake always felt responsible to make sure it stayed that way, you know? And especially with me."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "I was what you'd call a wonder child. I skipped a few classes so I was in high school at the same time as Jake, even though I'm three years younger. We graduated together. I was younger, smaller and very socially awkward—shy, you know? Jake and our friends made sure that I was never picked on at school, that I was always included. They had a band—you may have heard about it, Dead Man's Eyes?"

"He was in the Dead Man's Eyes?" The policeman's eyes bulged in shock.

"When they were teenagers." Alice nodded. "I was an unofficial sixth member, we were a group of good friends, especially Aaron, Jake and me." She kept her face blank while talking about Aaron, though her heart twisted at the mention of her erstwhile best friend. "They spent all their days and a fair amount of nights in Aaron's basement, playing, practicing, writing songs and goofing off. Just typical teenage boys stuff." She shrugged again. "There never was any alcohol or drugs mixed into that, though. Even if they wanted, Jake wouldn't let them. First, because I was always around, and secondly, because he wanted dad to be proud of him."

"And was he?"

"Very much." She nodded seriously. "Before dad died, Jake was planning to go to college. He had good grades, some extracurriculars and a real talent for the guitar. He wanted to go to Steinhardt with Aaron."

"So why didn't he?" Dorsal was writing furiously in his notebook.

"Because our dad died." Alice sighed heavily. "It changed everything. Our mom's fragile state deteriorated quickly. She fell into depression and her schizophrenia flared up badly. She tried to hold it together for our sakes, but we knew she needed professional help. So, instead of going to college like he wanted to, Jake decided to enlist in the Marine Corps. That way he didn't need to take out any college loans and he could start receiving a salary immediately. Mom's savings, plus his salary and some help from our uncles made it possible to put mom in an in-patient treatment facility."

He looked at the doorway as if he expected Eileen to appear there. "How long has she been out?"

"Seven years. She's been doing great ever since, but she'll be on meds for the rest of her life."

He nodded and then eyed her speculatively. "Isn't schizophrenia hereditary?"

"No one gene has been identified as a cause of schizophrenia," Alice explained. "Having a close relative, such as a parent, afflicted with the disorder raises one's risk of getting it from one to about ten to thirteen percent. Most people with a close relative with schizophrenia will not get it." She paused for a moment, and then added: "Typical onset for men is late teens to early 20s and late 20s to early 30s for women. Meaning Jake's too old now."

"For the typical onset," he repeated. "But isn't it true that stress can precipitate an attack?"

"An attack, yes, once you're affected. But stress is not one of the potential causes or risk factors for developing the disorder in itself."

"So what are those risk factors?"

"Exposure to viruses or toxins, issues with brain chemistry, substance abuse and autoimmune diseases or inflammation," she recited. "Aside from substance abuse and autoimmune issues, my brother has already been through all that and he's still schizophrenia-free, so the possibility that he will develop it later in life is minuscule."

"He's had issues with brain chemistry?" Dorsal repeated, rising his eyebrows. "How come?"

"Sorry, that's classified," she said lightly, thinking about how Jareth's bending had messed with his victims brains and neurotransmitters. None of those cured exhibited any side effects, though, as far as she knew. "But he's got a clean bill of health from the Corps, and I assume medical checkup it part of the Academy recruitment process, anyway."

"Yes—but we need to check for any potential vulnerabilities."

Alice shook her head. "You don't seem to be understanding, Officer. The kind of job Jake used to do—none of your people could do that. He decided to give you his skills and integrity, and you should be damn grateful for that, I'm sure you don't deserve it," she added cuttingly. "He's too good for the police."

"You don't seem too friendly towards us," Dorsal noted, a little offended, it seemed.

"I'll be friendlier when you stop killing people for doing the same crime while black that a white person would get a slap on the wrist for."

"Oh, come on! That's just a few bad apples! Not everyone is racist!"

"No, but enough people are. And they're still there." She waved her hand. "You don't want to get into that discussion with me, trust me."

"If that's your attitude, then why are you helping your brother get into the LAPD?"

"Because he asked me to." She rolled her eyes. "But I should warn you. He's the kind of person who will do the right thing even if it costs him. So whoever you choose for a Training Officer for him, better make sure he's above reproach, because Jake will not stand by and watch just because he's a boot."

"But that's exactly the kind of people we want in the force," Dorsal protested. "From everything you told me he seems like a picture of integrity—and that's what we want!"

"Good. Then just stand out of his way and you'll be alright." She shrugged.

The policeman shook his head. "You make him sound like he's got no faults."

"Oh, he does—he can be annoying as fuck." She shrugged. "He's just a normal guy. He loves cargo pants a little too much, he eats like he's got two full-size stomachs, likes to tease people, and he doesn't like early mornings, despite having to wake up at the crack of dawn for the past fifteen years. But there's nothing anyone could exploit, you know. He's financially stable, even though he's been giving away a portion of his earnings to mom for all his adult life. He doesn't do drugs and drinks in moderation. He's got a clean criminal record. His IQ doesn't break the bank, but he can keep up with me most of the time, and that says a lot." She grinned for a second and then grew serious again. "He's a good man, with a kind heart, ready to help people when needed. He's O-negative and has been giving up blood regularly whenever possible. And he's going to be your fittest recruit, and the best shot. You put him in a competition with your best SWAT people, and I guarantee you he'll beat them without ever breaking a sweat."

"That I would have to see to believe."

She shrugged. "Get him in and you just might."

He wrote something in his notebook, and then closed it. "Alright, then. I think that'll be enough. Thank you for your help, Ms. Boyd."

They stood up and she accompanied him to the door. "It's Major Boyd to you, Officer," she corrected him coolly.

"Right—sorry, Major. And, well, you know. Thank you for your service." He reached out and Alice, reluctantly, let him shake her hand. She didn't say anything, though, and watched him walk to his cruiser parked at the curb. Then she shook her head, sighed, and closed the door.

Alice sat down with a glass of wine in her hand, looking around at the crowded room. For a wedding put together in a month, it had quite the flair: big venue, though the location wasn't too convenient for anyone who wasn't staying at the hotel; decorations made of mostly flowers—hundreds of them (it turned out that the groom's sister was a florist); a two-tiered cake and plenty of other food and even more alcohol; and a DJ that kept everyone entertained through the night. The guest list was a mix of the young couple's families, groom's normal, run of the mill friends—and a bunch of Stargate Program colleagues of Hailey's. O'Neill and Carter were there, Cameron Mitchell, Daniel Jackson and Vala Mal Doraan (but the SG-1's newest member, Doctor Gregory, was not invited); Doctor Lee, Alice, and a couple other SG teams leads complemented the SGC list, but there were a fair few people from the Groom Lake facility, as well, since Hailey had spent a few years doing research there. Alice even recognized some of them from her own time at the facility when assigned to the Prometheus.

Presently, a tall and bulky man in a rather tight suit approached Alice. His buzz cut was so short and his hair so fair that he almost looked bald.

"Do I know you? You seem very familiar to me," he asked, his voice a deep bass.

Alice restrained the urge to grimace, and instead rose to her feet politely. "Yes, sir, you were one of my teachers at the Officer Training School, a long time ago. Major Alice Boyd," she added, giving him a little bow.

"Ah, yes, I remember!" He nodded, but he didn't gesture at her to regain her seat, so they both remained standing. "You're in one of the 304's 302 squadrons, right?"

"I used to be part of the 201st before the Prometheus was destroyed, sir," she corrected him, telling herself to be patient. His dismissive attitude was getting on her nerves.

"Ah, that's why you're here, aren't you? You met Hailey when docking at the Area 51?" He sipped at his whiskey.

"No, sir, we are both part of the SGC now. We've been working together quite a lot, lately."

"And what does a pilot do in the SGC?" He scoffed.

"I'm afraid I'm no longer a full-time pilot, sir. I was injured during the destruction of the Prometheus and used the recovery time to start on my PhD, following which I was reassigned to the Atlantis Expedition as a Jumper pilot, engineer and part of a Reconnaissance Team. I've only been moved back to the SGC a year ago, I am SG-7's team leader now." Her voice was cool as she recited her credentials. She felt like she was doing that a lot lately. One thing, at least, hasn't changed—she still felt perverse pleasure in informing people who dismissed or tried to diminish her about her qualifications. With normal people I'm a former fighter pilot was usually enough, but, of course, Clarke was a squadron commander himself, so that wouldn't work.

His lips narrowed a bit, but he didn't seem particularly impressed. "Well, good for you. I am so glad that you beat the odds, Major." He said it with such malicious sarcasm that it sounded like an offense and Alice's temper rose.

She took a deep breath. "And how about you, Colonel? How long has it been for you at the 510th? Eight years or so?" She asked in an innocent tone, but Clarke understood the meaning because he flushed red.

"Some of us know how to commit to something," he answered haughtily. "Jumping from one job to another doesn't make you a better soldier."

"Oh, I don't know," she said coldly. "Staying in one place didn't seem to help you much in that last action over the Pacific, sir."

His face grew even redder. "I got two kills in that action!" He spat, angrily. "And how do you even know about that!"

"It wasn't as deeply classified as some of my other missions," she said sweetly. "I'm surprised you don't remember."

"Remember what?"

"That I was the one who got the intel on the Alliance's plan in the first place, I got rid of the Ha'taks using the Ancient Chair—which I had installed a few years ago after the original one was destroyed, by the way—and then I proceeded to fly a 302 and splashed five hostiles."

He seemed appalled, but quickly regained his composure. "Ah, yes—now I remember. You crashed that fighter, if memory serves, though."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I was hit—but I managed to glide two hundred miles to the nearest carrier and survive the crash-landing. Got a Distinguished Flying Medal for that whole action, too."

"You were just lucky," he replied, sounding sullen and sulky.

She smiled sweetly. "Sure, Colonel."

"Would you excuse me," he said flatly, turned around and stalked off and Alice congratulated herself. She knew it wasn't maybe very smart making enemies in the Program, but it wasn't like he was her fan before. And it did feel very good indeed to put him in his place.

As she sat back down to enjoy the rest of her drink in solitude, it occurred to her that this was a familiar feeling. It wasn't exactly like how it used to be—that old, unadulterated swell of pride, like a balloon filling her chest, whenever someone praised her… it wasn't like that, now—it was darker and more internal—but it was close. She realized, for the first time in a long time, she felt good about herself—pleased with her achievements, hard as they were at the time. It was a new, twisted kind of pride, but it was still a relief to be able to admit to herself yes, I did a good job. There were things she fucked up—she shouldn't have let herself get shot, for starters—but that didn't entirely erased the good things she'd done. The failures might have outweighed the successes—she was still culpable for Karim's death, for letting Jareth still roam freely out in the galaxy—but they didn't negate them, either. And, maybe, on balance, it was okay to sometimes feel at least a little good about one's accomplishments—and not just constantly mourn the losses. Just from time to time, to feel a tiny little ray of sunshine striking through the dark clouds… maybe even she deserved that. From time to time.