Stargate SG1 - Roswell (36 page)

The Asgard blinked at him. “It is no longer functional.”

“Right. Got that.” Pointing in the direction of the base hospital, Daniel Jackson said, “How are we going to get Sam out of there?”

“I can extract the escape pod power supply unit, however that will take until morning, and it will first necessitate the disengagement of the cloaking device.”

“Forget it,” O'Neill declared when a searchlight played across them. “The moment that pod becomes visible, we're going to be the subject of much panicked and fairly pissed off target practice.” Turning to An he asked, “What about flying the escape pod out of here?”

“Its flight systems are severely damaged but it could travel a short distance, I believe.”

“According to Carter, the jumper's flight capable, so let's get this show on the road. Teal'c, you and An follow us in the pod.”

“Where are we going?” Daniel Jackson asked.

Jack turned to the controls. “Some place a little less busy.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

In scopolamine, Veritas.
At least, that's what Cancer Man must have presumed when he or his pal, Brylcreem had injected her on the flight to DC, because Sam recognized the paradoxical depressive-euphoric sensation fogging her mind.

Truth serum, the OSS—the wartime precursor to the CIA—had labeled it. “Also called hyoscine, C17 H21 NO4,” she said. “Contains a sedative, so it takes the edge off the headache, too. Watch out for the downer, though, I'll probably throw up.”

“What's your real name?” snapped Cancer Man. She assumed it was Cancer Man based on his sour breath, because his face was in shadow.

Come to think of it, all of their faces were masked by coils of blue haze breaking up the darkness that surrounded a solitary pool of turbid light in which she was the star attraction. She was also plonked down on a hard backed wooden chair. Closing one eye, she squinted at the overhead light. Bare, fly-speckled globe under a flying sauce shaped shade with the obligatory peeling paint. The setting was such an archetype that Sam was hard pressed not to giggle. Instead, she opted for the truth, which was going to be just as much fun, all things considered. “Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter, United States Air Force, 43-412-6775-320. D'you think maybe you could have used some mouthwash? I think your breath convenes the Geneva Convention Regulations about cruel and unusual punishment.”

A snigger from somewhere in the shadows transformed into a sudden fit of coughing.

“You got your wires sadly crossed, Olga. There ain't no such thing as the United States Air Force. Where are you really from?”

“Ain't isn't actually a word, you know. And you ended a sentence with a preposition. The General would have you on that.”

“General who?” snapped a voice from the corner.

“That you, Brylcreem?” Sam squinted through the tobacco cloud.

Did she really say that out loud? This stuff really did take the edge off your inhibitions. Not that she thought of herself as being inhibited so much as controlled, analytical and—

“Where is this general?”

Now that was a good question. “Truthfully?” Sam thought about that for several moments. “In orbit, probably, but as to whether he's in the flying disc or the cigar shaped model, I can't be sure because I have no idea of how long I've been out. Anyone got the time?”

A considerable amount of muttering followed before Brylcreem came out with a question laced with enough sarcasm to make his successor, Kinsey, sound like a rank amateur. “So, you arrived in a cigar shaped flying saucer, and your general took off in the disc shaped saucer.”

Oooh, that was a doozy, and she could finally let fly on the sanctimonious SOB because it really didn't matter, what with the timeline already being messed and all. She smiled. “Cigar shaped saucer? Try again, Brylcreem. It's either a saucer or a cigar.”

“What are you here for?”

“Illudium phozdex.”

Barely half a second later, something came flying out of the darkness—not a saucer or a cigar—and slapped her with enough force to toss her out of the chair and onto the floor.

Hand. Had to be a hand, and not that much force, really, but since they hadn't bothered with tying her to the chair, rolling with the hit was a better option than getting whiplash. The sting was already fading. These guys really were amateurs compared to the torture she'd undergone at the hands of pathological mass murderers. One of them—not Brylcreem or Cancer Man, of course—was apologizing to her and helping her to her feet.

“Those cuffs necessary?” someone else—sounded like the guy who'd sniggered—asked in a louder voice.

“I told you, I'll do the interrogating, Bennett!” Cancer Man barked harshly and then turned back to Sam. “Where are you stationed?”

Bennett, huh. Cancer Man was giving away a hell of a lot more than he was getting. When she didn't answer, a second, considerably less forceful slap knocked her in the other direction. This time she caught her foot under the leg of the chair so that it came down on top of her as she fell. Something must've bumped the lamp, too, because the pool of dingy light wobbled around, revealing cigarette butts all over the manky-carpeted floor. Ink stained, too, and smelling like dust and blood. Didn't they have cleaners in this place? “You said shut up!” she objected, not bothering to get to her feet. “Make up your mind.”

“That's enough,” Bennett said, stepping into the light. He was wearing tan khakis and a Naval officer's uniform with full commander's stripes. “You're not going to get anywhere like this.”

“Where are you stationed?” Brylcreem elbowed past him.

“Cheyenne Mountain.” She lowered her voice. Good Cop, also dressed in the tan khakis but wearing a staff sergeant's stripes, gently helped her up and righted the seat. “Deeeeep underground. Deep space, too. Better than DC.” Screwing up her nose, she sat on the chair and added, “Much more fun. That's the problem with people like you, Brylcreem, you're jealous. Took me a while to figure it out, but yep, that's what it is. We get to go off-world and we stick together; we're a
team,
which, I suspect, is complete anathema to you. And I right, guys?” she called to the crowd at large.

“Where are the rest of your Commie pals?”

“Chekhov...
The Korolev...”
The sudden emotion bit with an intensity far sharper than any backhander Cancer Man could deliver.

She thought she'd dealt with it, put it past her, collected the scattered remnants of her emotions along with the equally scattered remnants of the once magnificent fleet. And it
had
been magnificent, something she'd felt privileged to see as she'd floated there in space off the edge of the Supergate—until the indescribably huge vortex erupted. That had made her feel like a bug, tiny, and so insignificant that she'd been utterly ignored by the massive Ori ships that had come through, behemoths smashing apart the defending fleet like brittle tin soldiers.

The utter sense of isolation and helplessness that followed was nothing like she'd ever experienced before. Earth was now undefended as she'd sat there, floating around with nothing to do but contemplate the depth of her failure. If she'd just been a little faster, a little smarter... “All gone,” she replied in a cracked whisper. “All dead and gone.”

“What? The Ruskies?'

“Everyone. Never stood a chance.” She was getting bored with all these stupid questions, and this timeline was messed up so she really didn't much care. “Felt a whole lot better after Teal'c lured that ship into the Supergate.”

She gave the shadows a speculative look. “Did you know Rodney once blew up an entire solar system? I did, too—well, just a sun, but it took out the system—still, mine was on purpose. Of course you wouldn't know about any of that. Hasn't happened yet.” And it never would, because she was going to be beamed out of here any minute and then this timeline was going to find itself nipped in the bud.

That thought made her smile. Nip Brylcreem and Cancer Man in the bud.

“What was that creature you helped escape?”

“Ooooh, you can't call them creatures. No, no, no. And not 'it', either. They don't like that. It's the whole reproductive issue, you know?”

“Tell me what it is!”

Sam lifted her cuffed hands to scratch her cheek, surprised to find flakes of dried blood. “You hit me with a gun!” She peered around at the shadows, offended. Yeah, they must have given her something stronger then scopolamine otherwise she was darned certain she'd be in a whole lot more pain.

The staff sergeant who'd helped her to the chair—twice—practically begged her, “Ma'am, what's the space man's name?”

Maybe the sergeant really didn't like seeing anyone beaten up. He was hardly more than a kid. Wouldn't last long in the NID, that's for sure, but she took pity on him and answered. “An.”

“An,” Brylcreem echoed.

“That's what I said, An.”

“And what?”

“What's on third.” Oh, that was priceless. Brylcreem and Cancer Man as Abbot and Costello. She giggled. “Who's on first, I think.”

Before the expected slap tore through the curls of smoke and collected her cheek again, a door banged open someplace off to her left, utterly ruining the ambiance of the B-grade interrogation. “Aw, and we were just getting to the best part!”

The drugs were beginning to wear off, too. She knew that because nausea slammed into her when two of the goons turned from what looked to be a very tense conversation with the new arrivals, and jerked her to her feet. Must be the sudden elevation, she thought. Lack of oxygen.

That didn't make any sense, either, but over the objections of Bennett, the goons were pulling her out of the pool of light and into a gray walled holding room. The nausea was intense now, but she had to control it, had to focus on where she was. Government issue desk, complete with a telephone and blotter, and lots of wooden filing cabinets and windows with dust and dead moths piled in the corners. One side the office was glass paneled, and looked out on to a bullpen—which seemed to be filled with noise and confusion. While some people were shouting and running around, others bunched up at the windows, looking outside and pointing.

God, she just wanted to throw up. She could feel her knees going, but a couple of guys grabbed her shoulders and jerked her to her feet. Soon; had to throw up soon because it might help to clear her head. It wasn't as if it would be the first time she'd lost control of her stomach contents under interrogation. Generally made the interrogators feel like they'd achieved something, and she'd gotten over the whole dignity thing the very first time she'd stepped through the 'gate.

A perfect opportunity presented itself when a red-faced Brylcreem grabbed her jaw and twisted her head around to spit some question or other in her face. Well, it wasn't as if she hadn't warned him. She took the weight on her feet just long enough so that her head was level with his, opened her mouth, and then let fly.

Although the goons immediately released her, Good Cop—the staff sergeant—grabbed her before her legs could buckle, but his hands were supportive rather than restraining. Three or four heaves later, most of it was out of her system, Brylcreem
was gone, her handcuffs had been removed and she was being helped across to one of the windows.

Sam vaguely recognized the location, but couldn't quite place it. Not DC, nope. New York...yeah, that was it. The sun was just up, and judging from the angle, they were overlooking Central Park West.