Complete
Drama
Set in Season 4
FR-OC
Disclaimers:
Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, The SciFi Channel, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is written purely for my own entertainment, and that of anyone else who may happen to read it. No infringement of copyright is intended. It is not intended and should never be used for commercial purposes.
The original characters, situations and ideas contained within this work are the property of the author.
Author's Notes:
This fic is the first part of the Ballad of Louise Stillwell.
Acknowledgements:
Best thanks to Sho.
Extracts from the diaries and correspondence of Louise Stillwell.
"A lot has been said of the Stargate Program in recent days. Since the last files regarding the program were declassified, it seems that everyone and his dog has an opinion on the actions of the SGC and of SG-1 in particular, even – indeed, especially – those who have never had anything to do with the Stargate. Every critic has something to say against one or more of the major players and they usually believe that they could have run things better. It never ceases to surprise me that, in the popular opinion, the United States Air Force managed to select the only men and women on the planet who were not qualified to manage the business of the SGC.
"I say: Earth was never conquered on their watch; not one parallel universe in ten seems able to say that. People died, but it can not be denied that this was inevitable. Mistakes were made, but they were not the sort of mistakes that anyone else could have avoided. I say this, and I was there. I was there, and I can not stand by and keep silent. I knew these people, warts and all, even if I was never what you might call a key player in the Program, and I won't stand by and let them be slandered.
"Fortunately, I kept a diary for most of that time and my memory is widely-regarded as excellent, and so this is – more-or-less – straight from the horse's mouth. I have tried not to gloss, simply to present the truth, so that you can draw your own conclusions."
- Louise Stillwell, July 14th 2041
This is the diary of
Louise Keziah Stillwell
If found, please return to:
Apt.B16, 1236
Larkspell Terrace
Colorado Springs
Next of Kin
Ashena
Smith-Stillwell (Mother)
Coronado Ranch,
Clayton,
Virginia
Saturday, March 18th 2001
Dear Diary,
Men suck.
It's official. All men, without exception, are evil, stinking, lousy rat-bag bastards!
Alright. So clearly this isn't the best way to begin a new acquaintance, even if it is only with a diary. Maybe I should tear the page out and start again, but then again I'd hate to start shredding a perfectly good diary with the first page.
Let's just start again.
Dear Diary,
It's been almost ten years since I last kept a diary. Oh dear, this sounds like confession, although maybe it is in a way. It's been ten years, but this seems like a good time to start again. It's actually David's idea; I just spent a few hours crying down the phone at him and he said that, although he's always happy to talk, it might help if I wrote my feelings down. I guess he's thinking about that last diary, the one I started because Dr Ellis thought it would help me to manage my anger. Well, it worked then, so why not now?
So, here we go.
Introductions, then.
My name is Louise Keziah Stillwell. I was born on the third of August, 1975 and I am the third child of Paul and Ashena Stillwell. My brother is called David, he's the oldest, and my sister is Ashley. In the words of the song, my Daddy is rich and my Mama's good looking, although to be fair, Daddy is handsome as well; all his secretaries think so, that's why so many of them have to be quietly reassigned, poor loves. David and Ashley are also regular hotties; some say I am too, but I'm certainly not the looker in my family.
Anyway, there's not much to be done about the looks either way, but I have kind of disowned Daddy's money. I want to make my own way in the world, rather than being some kind of full-time heiress, professional socialite or It-Girl; have cash, will travel. I love my sister, but she spends most of her life partying at the Paris Hilton...or with Paris Hilton, never been sure. Either way, I just couldn't do that. I couldn't bear partying every night; surely it would get boring and that's just not right. David sort of coasts on Daddy's money, but guys who inherit are still allowed – even expected – to work, so it's different for him. I want to be my own woman and that means putting a distance between me and the money.
And you're a book; $4.99 from Woolworth's. So now we're acquainted.
Men suck.
It is official. All men, without exceptions, are evil, stinking, lousy, rat-bag bastards!
Well, I suppose that there are a few exceptions; Daddy, dear old David of course; Uncle Anakie may be a multiple felon, but he's not a rat-bag. And of course there's Tom. Dear Tom. Where would I be without him?
Excellent, dear diary. I've been writing for five minutes and I've already found new perspective. It probably helps that David offered to fillet the principal object of my enmity. I have the sweetest brother. It's just a shame that I have such rotten taste in lovers. Oh, dear diary, what do I do to deserve the likes of my lousy, stinking, evil, rat-bag ex-fiancé? Was I some kind of appalling sleaze in a past life? Was I a lousy, stinking, evil, rat-bag? Should I have chalked up some karmic loyalty points by letting Chris Beck take me to the senior prom?
But anyway, Steve is in the past, having left me for another woman. At least, I like to tell myself that. I have no evidence that Jolene – I have decided that he has left me for s stunning blonde named Jolene, with yards of cleavage, more leg than a herd of giraffes and no conversation beyond 'gee-whiz, that's neat' – even exists, but it's easier for me to think that Steve is taking a crappy job in Dallas to be with his Texan tart than to accept that he may simply have considered me excess baggage to be shed in the move.
I don't care if I'm being irrational. The light of my life just dumped me rather than shell out for a plane ticket – rather than ask me if I could stretch to a plane ticket – so I'm entitled to be rather less than sparkling.
Oh yes, and my bitterness is not without justification. Aside from dumping me in the first place, Steve also made a gloating call to Dr Cliff Meares, curator of the Museum of Natural History in Colorado Springs, as soon as the job in Dallas was clinched. Now it seems that there is no longer a post for an assistant curator of Mesoamerican antiquities at the museum. No post means no scholarship and no scholarship means no PhD.
I tried pleading. I tried wheedling. I tried pointing out that I had a contract, only to find that I didn't (thank you, Steve). I even tried suggesting that we might find some fellow feeling in the fact that we'd both been shafted by Steve, but to no avail. Indeed, he implied that the Mesoamerican job only existed as a sweetener to hook Steve and his Egyptological reputation and his bloody Harvard contacts while, on the subject of fellow feeling, he went on to insinuate that the post might become available again if I were prepared to 'feel his fellow', which must rate as among the weakest pieces of double entendre I have ever been propositioned with.
The sad thing is that I might start to rethink that offer in a few weeks. Thank God I've well and truly burned that particular bridge. At least, I guess I have; not many men are willing to do favors for women who have previously kneed them in the family jewels.
Well, there we go. I stand on my own and I stand by my resolve to never take another cent from Daddy.
3pm
Of course, that resolution was easier to live with when I had a fiancé who was going to support me for four years, like I supported him, the stinking, lousy rat-bag. Now, I'm stuck in a strange town with no friends, no home – once the rent runs out – and now, no job.
I'd do what Mummy did and marry a nice rich man, but every human male who isn't a filthy piece of refuse is a close relative.
Except Tom.
So that's it. I have to marry Tom Jones. Wonder what his address is.
Sunday, March 19th
Dear Diary,
Here's how it is:
My name is Louise Stillwell. I am 26 years of age. I have a degree in Anthropology and a Masters in Mesoamerican Archaeology. I've just spent four years of my valuable life supporting my boyfriend Steve through his PhD at Harvard. We made a deal, you see; I support him, then he supports me. With painstaking effort I persuaded the Foundation to defer my scholarship; this they did on condition that I secure an appropriate assistant curatorship close enough to Denver. I then proceeded to work a series of crappy secretarial jobs for four years. At the end of his course, Steve found a curatorship in Colorado Springs and an assistant's post for me, the two together supplying enough money to see me through my doctorate.
Current status: Unemployed, single, pissed. I've got money in the bank for two months rent – if I don't eat – and I'm stuck in an Air Force town, in the shadow of a big-ass mountain, miles from any real civilization.
I gave in and called home this morning. I kept saying that I wouldn't; I even told David that when I spoke to him, but I folded.
Of course, Mummy wanted to fly down at once and drag me home, but I assured her that I was fine and lied through my teeth about the job. I said that I still had a job on the cards and I'd lose it if I dashed off. I also refused to keep her informed.
Oh well. Tomorrow I will start looking for work.
Wednesday, April 4th
Dear Diary,
God bless family! And God bless the awesome, unconstitutional power of the military-industrial complex.
After two weeks of fruitless job-hunting, I was beginning to get despondent. I really think that David believed me when I told him I was thinking of moving into the drugs trade; perhaps that is why, like a closely-related knight in shining armor, he has swooped in to save my sanity, even if my bank balance is still on the critical list. I've taken great pains to avoid all traces of nepotism in my life, but while I still draw the line at getting a job by family ties, I have decided that when the fridge is empty and I can't make outgoing calls, I will let them arrange interviews for me.
David had no qualms about pulling a few strings, of course. After all, he does owe his living and – although I'd never say it to his face – his wife to Daddy's influence. Thanks to his UN contacts and Maya's connections on the Air Force congressional lobby, Colorado Springs' military air is now working for me. I'm hooked up for three secretarial posts today: one at Cheyenne Mountain, one at the Air Force Academy tutorial office and one at the financial office of same. So, it's time for me to doctor the résumé, polish off the diplomas and hide my degrees under four years' experience. Very little puts people off hiring a temp typist like a Masters in Mesoamerican archaeology.
Anyway, these jobs are sensitive, internal advertising to cleared personnel only. It isn't nepotism if your family ties just happen to mean that the Secret Service know what you eat for breakfast.
5pm
God, I hate interviews. Definitely choked on the Cheyenne Mountain one: Sitting in a porta-cabin inside a mountain, who wouldn't be nervous.
Some hope of a second interview at the tutorial office, but in the finance one I slipped up and mentioned the degree. I just know they spotted that one and I hope they didn't pass it on to the tutorial office.
Damn.
Tomorrow is moving day. I suppose I should pack up the last few things.
Thursday, April 5th
Dear Diary,
Reasons to be miserable: Part 1.
1.
Men.
2.
Moving
house.
3.
Interviews.
4.
Men.
5.
Men who
interview you.
6.
Removal
men.
7.
My new
apartment.
Seriously, dearest diary, this place is a rat-hole, but I did ask David to help me find the cheapest place in town. I can now stretch the remaining rent money to two whole months and have something left over for food. I could go another month, even two, if I get all my deposit back. I'm not convinced it's the right thing, but at least I'm away from all things Steve.
The new chez Stillwell calls itself a studio apartment, but that's a little flattering and actually somewhat misleading. There's a main room and a bathroom, but also a sort of box room which is done up as a windowless bedroom. I freaked out the one night I slept in there, so I've dragged the bed through to the main room and I can use the bedroom as a walk-in closet for all the stuff I may eventually have. So I've got a little extra space on top of your standard studio, but that doesn't quite make up for the fact that the walls are paper thin. I think my neighbors – who keep strange hours and have not yet attained my enlightened state of mind regarding men – must have the noisiest sex lives of anyone on the planet; including the majestic hippopotamus.
It's been a while, so I don't really remember; perhaps all sex sounds this loud when you're not getting any.
No. No, it's just those two. It's creepy, actually; not the sex noise, but the fact that I can barely tell the two of them apart. B15 might be a little taller and B17 a little blonder, but basically they're a couple of complete Jolenes with little to distinguish them one from the other.
And their so goddamn...friendly! I'm trying to ignore them as best I can, but each time I see them, they're all smiles and waves and 'hi Louise'. How do they even know my name? They told me theirs and I can't remember for the life of me which one of them is Mindy and which one is the one whose name isn't Mindy, but it's something similar that isn't quite Cindy either; Lindy or Sandy or Candy or something.
Still, they're not on my list of hates and nor – I am quite surprised to note – is Jolene. Oh, yes, on the other hand...
8. Steve.
I think I can face this now. I hate Steve. Joking aside, I really hate him. I think it was the realization that, when push came to shove, everything that I thought we owned, actually he owned, that showed me what a feckless, mean, good-for-nothing skunk he really is and always was. How does that work out? This was all bought with my money, so why is it in his name? There was some terribly plausible reason which seemed very sensible at the time. Now, my TV is in Dallas and I juts can't see the sense in it.
On the upside, there's a bar across the road. On the other hand, it is an Air Force bar and I may be in too fragile an emotional state for bar life anyway. Of course, on the gripping hand, I can't afford to buy; I'd need to flirt to get someone to buy for me and I'm definitely in too fragile an emotional state for that.
Sunday, April 8th
Dear Diary,
Another weekend without event. Ho hum.
Oh, yeah. I didn't say yesterday, but I got the letter. I didn't get the last job, the tutorial office one. Maybe I should go all out for nepotism or just swallow my pride, go home and live on the Ranch with Mummy and Daddy.
But I don't want to have to give up. I don't want to have failed! I don't want to disappoint them. Mummy was so proud of me when I said I was going to make it on my own and even Daddy eventually started calling me 'the independent one', with a little gleam of pride in his eye. I can't bear to let them down. Or is it that I don't want to let myself down?
Daddy always says that I was born under a lucky star. Mummy says that any child of our people will always be lucky. I...I guess something must turn up soon. It just has to.
Monday, April 9th
Dear Diary,
Nothing much has turned up then.
Oh, God, diary; what the hell am I doing? Why is this happening to me? Why won't anything work out for me?
Friday, April 13th
Dear Diary,
This is it!
Dearest diary, tonight is the night when Louise Stillwell re-enters circulation.
I ran into Molly and Sindy – what do you know, not only is she called Sindy, with and 'S' no less, but Mindy is actually Molly; I knew they weren't both called 'indy' at least – in the laundry room and they cruelly ganged up on me with their smiles and their kind words.
"Oh, Louise, we're so worried about you, honey," the taller one said; nay, cooed.
You're worried – I bethought me – how do you know my name? You're telepaths aren't you? You're actually reading this out of my brain and laughing at me!
If they were, they gave no sign.
"Molly and me think you need to get out more," the blonder one said. That surprised me; I'd thought that she was Molly, but obviously that was the taller one and this was Sindy.
"That's sweet," I said, "but really..."
"Some man did you wrong, didn't he?" Molly asked, kindly.
"We understand, Hon," Sindy assured me. "It's hard to move on, but you've got to get back on the bike sometime."
"That's why you're so lucky to have good friends like us."
I smiled, amiably, although it was news to me that we were friends, let alone good friends.
"You come out with us tonight," Molly commanded. "Hey; Chet, that's Cindy's guy, could even find a friend for you if you'd feel off coming out on your own."
"No! Really, there's no need for that." Chet? If I let them, I'd end up being set up with a redneck named Chuck.
"Okay," Sindy said. "No friend...yet. But you're coming out with us, Louise; we won't take no for an answer with this."
"I'm getting that," I assured them. "Alright. I'll come out, but nothing too wild. Start me off slowly, okay?"
"Sure," Molly promised. I think it was Molly; I'd lost track again. I know Molly is the taller one, but I can't quite remember which of them said that. "Something nice and quiet. We know just the thing."
I just wonder what I've let myself in for.
Saturday, April 14th
Dear Diary,
I do not feel so good.
Molly and Sindy are nice enough, but they clearly have some perverse notion of what is 'quiet and gentle'. I spent most of last night in a ceilidh bar downtown, listening to some sort of Irish funk-rock fusion and drinking whiskey with some of the most serious whiskey drinkers I've ever met.
I'm writing this over a very light breakfast which I'm eating very slowly at lunchtime. Well; if it was a late lunch it would be lunchtime. I'm sure we were in the bar past the usual hours and the sun may have been rising as Molly dragged me home. I think we lost Sindy and Chip – or was it Chet? Yes, Chip was with Molly and he might well have been helping Molly to carry me home – at some stage. I'll need to find out whether I really did make out with a fiddler; always a risk in a ceilidh bar, I guess.
I know for a fact that I danced, so I must have been pretty far gone.
It was an odd crowd, if I recall correctly; way beyond mixed. I guess that's the Air Force thing again. When a town's this driven by government employers, you get an equal opportunity populace.
So anyway, my mouth feels like sandpaper and my head is pounding. At some point I need to dare the sunlight – incidentally clearing up the question of whether I've actually been turned into a vampire or if I've just managed to come by some hardcore lethargy – and see if I really blew a month's rent on whiskey or if it just feels that way.
I don't think I can face this toast. I think I ate something last night that didn't quite agree; either that or something crawled into the back of my throat and died there.
5pm
Dear Diary,
After an illuminating hour in B15, I can add a little more detail to last night's events. I ran into Molly in the hall while she was kissing – well, kissing doesn't quite do it justice – some guy goodbye and she insisted that I join her for coffee. I guess I always figured that she had a nicer apartment than mine, but it turns out to be much the same, just way better organized.
I'd never seen Molly without make-up before. She always looks very pretty when she's taken the time to put her face. Bitch looks lovely with saggy eyes and a bed head as well. The fact that she looked this together after as long a night as mine, plus spending at least some of the morning having energetic sex with Ciaran – as his named turned out to be – just adds insult to injury.
"So; a good time was had?" she asked.
"Was it? I really haven't a clue," I admitted. "The whole thing is just a blur."
Molly shrugged. "Looked like you were having fun," she said. "I tell you, Hon; you sure danced like you were having fun."
I blushed, furiously. "I wouldn't know," I assured her, "I never dance when I'm sober enough to remember."
"Well I sure don't know why," Molly laughed. "You dance better than me and I'm Irish."
"You are?" I have never understood Americans who claim to be Irish. Surely if they were Irish, they'd live in Ireland? It would be like me calling myself Anglo-Indian. Of course, a lot of people assume I'm part-Indian anyway, although they mean Native American...Which I'm not.
"Sure, Honey."
"What about Sindy?"
"She's from Idaho."
Sindy is about as Native American as I am, so why she's fully naturalized and Molly is apparently bona fide Gaelic is beyond me.
"Uh-huh. Did I...I didn't sing did I?"
"Not that I heard."
I breathed a sigh of relief. I may dance like Mummy, but I sing like Daddy and he can't carry a note. Actually that's unfair; he gets by with this sort of Sinatra/Crosby non-singing and keeps his dignity, I just wail. I never have been sure if I got a better deal than Ash, who sings like Mummy – I've never been sure why she never capitalized on her social notoriety to launch a pop career – and dances like Daddy; still we're both ahead of David, who takes after Daddy in all things and so can't sing or dance, but has money, a nice house and a beautiful wife who can do both.
"So, aside from dancing, did I do anything else embarrassing?"
"You did get real friendly with Fergus," she admitted.
"The fiddler?"
"The drummer. I get friendly with the fiddler and if you know what's good for you, you'll keep your hands off Ciaran. You may have a wicked left, but I've got your number, Honey."
"Sure," I agreed. She sounded serious about this and I guessed she must have a few problems with Ciaran; it's hard to believe a guy could stray if he was getting kissed the way he was getting kissed this morning, but guys are weird. Unless of course I was right the first time and that was Chip...I may have been dreadfully hung over, but I was with it enough that I chose not to pursue this line at this time. "So...the drummer?" Oh, the shame; a drummer. "Regular drums or bodhran?" I asked, just to prove that I knew something about the musical food chain.
"Bodhran."
Oh well, small mercies. "So, how friendly..."
Molly laughed. "We kept and eye on you, Hon. We wouldn't of let you go too far, even if Maggie hadn't stepped in."
I winced. "Maggie?"
"Fergus's wife."
I buried my head in my hands. "Great. Just great. So I blew all my money on booze, danced, kissed a stranger and got into a fight with his wife."
"No, no!" Molly cried. "Maggie knows what Fergus is like."
"Then...how do you know anything about my left hook?"
"Oh, that." Molly started to laugh, almost uncontrollably.
"Molly?"
"Oh, Hon. Well, this girl was looking for trouble. You said about two words to her boyfriend – according to witnesses, something like 'your girlfriend's really pretty' – and she got nasty. She called you a gypo and you decked her. Neatest punch I've seen at Flynn's in many a year."
"If I take my own life, could you be a darling and just bury me somewhere out of the way?" I asked, despondently.
"She asked for it, Louise," Molly assured me. "Even her boyfriend knew that. Flynn asked them both to leave and he went quietly."
"Yeah, but I can't have any money left, so..."
"Don't be silly, Hon. Maggie bought you a drink after she peeled you off Fergus. Fergus bought you several when he was trying to get you attached in the first place."
"I'm a drunken sleaze!"
"Sindy and I bought you some early on," Molly finished, laughing, "and no-one who dances like you do ever has to buy their own on Ceilidh Night."
I sighed. "Well, that's one less thing to worry about," I allowed. "Molly? What do you do?"
"I don't follow?"
"For a living. What's your job?"
Molly looked surprised. "I'm in the Air Force," she said, as though it was obvious. "Senior Airman."
I hoped I wasn't staring too hard. "You are in the Air Force?"
"Sure."
"And Sindy?"
"The same. Well, Airman First Class, but otherwise the same. I'm a computer tech at Cheyenne; Sindy's a telephonic engineer. I figured you knew. Larkspell's an Air Force building; they bought it up a couple years ago and shipped the low-clearance tech and admin personnel out here to make room on base for all those new people they got working on the sensitive stuff downstairs."
"I did not know that," I admitted.
"We've been taking bets on how a civvy got in here, although actually I figured you for service after I saw that punch last night."
"No," I replied. "That was my offending Uncle Anakie."
Molly gave me a funny look. "Don't you mean offensive?"
I shook my head. "He's very agreeable, he just offends a lot; in the criminal sense."
"Staring fights?" she guessed.
"Mostly finishing them. As he paints it, he's always innocent; he just gets victimized because he's the last man standing." I chuckled. "He has a theory see, that your off-hand gets drunk more slowly than the other; that's why he taught me to punch left handed."
Molly laughed aloud. "He sounds like a real character. Bit like you." She looked at me funny. "How come you don't talk to folks? You're so good at it?"
"I guess you noticed I don't get out much at all," I demurred.
"Sure." She laughed again. I was learning that she laughed a lot, like the whole world was a show for her benefit and she was going to enjoy it. "I can see why," she told me, "but you just gotta learn when to stop."
"Stop?"
"Stop. It ain't good for a skinny little thing like you to drink so much, sweetie."
I shrugged, helplessly. I certainly hadn't meant to drink that much. "I'm just...recovering from a bad relationship; you guys got that right. I'm not sure I should be drinking at all, actually. I've got no money, no job..."
"No job!" Molly was horrified. "Oh, Hon! You should have said. We could put in a word for you at the admin pool or something. They do employ a few civilians at the Mountain. You'd need to get clearance, which can be a painful process..."
"I'm cleared!" I replied eagerly. Friends is not nepotism; some places put it on the forms: Do you have a friend who could work here?
"You are?"
I blushed. "Daddy's in politics," I admitted. "The Secret Service knows more about my past than I do."
"After last night, I can see why."
"Hey!"
"You said yourself it was a blur." She looked at me shrewdly. "So if your Dad's enough of a big shot that the Secret Service vet his family..."
I blushed. "Yeah. I could go home," I admitted. "I just...I want..."
Molly held up her hand. "I get it," she assured me. "My old man has his own airplane and I live in this place. He'd take me back if I swallowed my pride, but I'd have to be a lot further down. So, you interested in the pool? Admin wouldn't be too much of a come down?"
"It's what I've been doing the last four years," I replied. "I tried out for the pool once before, but I choked in the interview."
Molly smiled. "Well, it's quite a turnover," she assured me. "You'll still be on the books, even if you didn't get in that time."
"I hope something turns over soon. I've about six weeks rent left, assuming I don't blow it all on drinks."
Molly waved away that concern. "Sindy and I will look after you. We can stand you a few rounds and make sure you stick to a few as well; and we won't let you go homeless, Hon. No fear on that score; you've a place here as long as you want it."
"Oh. I couldn't..."
"Don't sweat it, Louise. We're your friends."
"I...I'm just not sure how that happened."
"You just looked so sweet and helpless," she explained. "We decided to adopt you."
So there it is. I guess I am lucky and God does move in mysterious ways. Very mysterious ways. From now on, Friday 13th is my lucky day; so long as I stay off the Old Paddy and watch out for drummers.
*
Wednesday, April 18th
Dear Diary,
Another interview at the Mountain. Hurrah for Molly and Sindy! I will not make a mess of this one. I will say the right things and I will not mention college.
God, I wish I weren't so nervous. It's only a lousy temp typing job.
3pm
I will never again complain about interviewing in a cave! This time they took me right past the portacabins to a lift and down twenty-seven floors. I didn't even know that the mountain had sub-levels. Oddly, the sense of claustrophobia wasn't as bad this time and I felt quite relaxed when I went in for the interview itself. That didn't last.
Last time, I got a staff sergeant, a cute corporal with 'military intelligence' written all across his cute face and a payroll clerk of indeterminate age who looked like he hated me for daring to think I might be good enough to draw a single cent from his budget. This time, I still had the payroll clerk, but the other two panelists were a step up: a grim-faced master sergeant and a woman who must have been about the youngest captain in the US Air Force. It was the sergeant – MSgt. M. McKittrick, according to her jacket and I had no reason to doubt it – who did most of the talking.
"You interviewed here once before, Miss Stillwell, for a minor administrative role within NORAD; is that correct?"
"Yes, Ma'am," I replied, nervously. It seemed polite to say something, even though I knew that she must already know the answer, otherwise she wouldn't have asked.
"Sergeant will be fine," McKittrick corrected.
"Officers are Ma'am," the young captain added, gently. Capt. A. Kawalsky was her name; I don't think she could have been much older than me, if at all.
"Sorry," I offered, although I wasn't sure which of them I was apologizing to.
McKittrick just grunted. "Your past experience of administration is impressive, Miss Stillwell, although I am a little concerned about your reliability, long term."
I winced inside, worried that the Academy had passed the word about my doctored résumé.
"You seem an intelligent, educated woman," McKittrick went on. "How many languages do you speak?"
"Some Spanish," I replied, warily. "Some French."
Kawalsky smiled. "It's not a trick," she promised. "The fact is that we work in several languages in our department and people make mistakes when they transcribe an unknown language. We need people with your secretarial skills, but we also need people with language skills."
"Okay," I replied. "My Spanish is pretty good, although the French is rusty, and I know a little Russian. I also speak fluent Romany, for what that's worth."
"Romany?"
"From my mother."
Kawalsky nodded. "Is that all?" she asked. It was nice to have that taken in stride, although I was actually a little stung not to get a startled 'you're a Gypsy!' out of her.
"Nothing else useful; I mean, a little Latin and stuff."
"I see." Kawalsky looked almost disappointed.
That was the zany highlight of the interview. The rest was standard stuff – where do you see yourself in five years, what are your strengths and weaknesses; do you like shrubs – and I think it went well. I'm just a little worried about that beginning. What did they want me to say?
Oh well; I guess I'll find out soon enough.
Friday, April 20th
Dear Diary,
Yippee!
Oh dear. I don't know why I'm getting so excited by a temp contract (with the possibility of a permanent position, negotiable after six weeks). No, wait; I know: It's because I was unemployed for a month!
I may go quiet for a while, dear diary, but that's mostly because I can't write about my work. This evening, however, I will be writing...wait, probably tomorrow morning I will be writing about this evening's revelries. Molly and Sindy seem to have known before I did and it's Ceilidh Night again. I solemnly swear that I will be more careful with the drinks this time.
No; really.
Sunday, April 29th
Dear Diary,
Bad day. The cat, it seems, is out of the bag. It seems that Chet, Sindy's guy, caught her cheating on him. Plus ça change, apparently, but in this case her co-cheater was Ciaran the fiddler, Molly's beau, and things got ugly when Chet told Molly what had happened. Molly accused, Ciaran did not deny; Sindy fled from the bar and hasn't been seen since; Molly is about as fragile as I was the night Steve cleared off.
I knew men sucked, but it's a disappointment about Sindy. I hope we can sort this out. They're about the only two at work I can hold a conversation with. They're a hell of a lot more interesting – and way smarter – than most of the girls in the pool; even the ones with college degrees.
I hope this doesn't spoil anything.
Monday, April 30th
Dear Diary,
I think either Molly or Sindy must really have done something bad in a previous life. My computer crashed today and while Molly was in to fix it, Sindy had to come and rewire the network switching box or something. Dumb luck, but things got nasty and bad words were said.
I realized today that Sindy can't have had a clue how much Ciaran meant to Molly. Sindy doesn't do commitment; I knew that much. She and Chet are only together in the flimsiest of ways. I guess she must have figured everyone else works the same way. Unfortunately, Molly isn't like that; when Sindy tried to smooth things over, Molly almost went for her, right there in front of a dozen typists.
The real surprise was the Basilisk, though. Sergeant McKittrick, Maureen to her mother – maybe – and the Basilisk to her staff, is the head of administration for the wacky secret fun that goes on in the lower levels of the Mountain. She rules over us with an iron fist. Stalin himself is like, dude! She's a scary woman and when she called Molly off and into her office, I half-expected never to see Molly again. Ten minutes later, she called me in and gave me the afternoon off to take Molly home. I could see that she'd given Molly a cup of cocoa and everything.
"Oh, yeah," Molly assured me. "The Baz is okay; she just hates disorder. You really need someone like that to take care of admin."
Which is true, although I'm not exactly convinced. The 'Baz' is still a scary woman.
Monday, May 20th
Dear Diary,
An interesting day, full of strangeness, for today Molly and Sindy spoke civilly for the first time since 'the incident' and I saw the dead walk.
No. Really.
I was in the commissary with Molly at lunchtime and the place was full of officers. Apparently, one of the deeper sub-levels had lost its power and their commissary was out of action. On the plus side, we got their chef as well. I had the most fabulous seared tuna; it was almost like being at home.
I was enjoying the fish when Molly gave a low whistle. "We're honored," she whispered. "Full-bird colonel at six o'clock."
I turned to look, curious to see what a full-bird colonel looks like. Much to my disappointment, he did not have an eagle for a shoulder pad, Judge Dredd style. In fact, since he was wearing base fatigues, he actually looked a lot like everyone else; a little taller than most, a little greyer and a little more handsome, but nothing unusual.
Of course, he could have had three heads for all I would have noticed, because I was staring at the man next to him. I couldn't even find the words to express my surprise in English and I was forced to swear in Romany.
"Hm? Oh, Dishy Dan; he is just adorable, isn't he?"
"B-but..." I stammered. "But that's Daniel Jackson! I thought he was dead!"
Molly shrugged. "He looks fine to me," she said. "Why did you think he was dead?"
"He just disappeared," I explained. "He kind of went nuts and everyone thought that he was going to be the next Graham Hancock, but the book never showed. People assumed he must be starving for his principles and saving up to self-publish; after a while, the whole archaeological community gave him up for dead."
"You're a woman of many parts, Hon. So here he is, this dead man; picking up his tray – not a ghost then – and following Colonel O'Neill...right over in our direction." Her face grew slightly pale; as I understood the situation, it was not done for a senior airman to sit next to a colonel at lunch.
I was still wondering what Dr Daniel Jackson was doing eating lunch with a full-bird colonel and also what that 'full-bird' really did mean. Turns out it is an eagle, but not a shoulder pad; I asked Molly.
"Good afternoon, Airmen," Colonel O'Neill said, pleasantly.
Molly straightened up, suddenly every inch the airwoman. "Sir," she replied, crisply.
"At ease," Colonel O'Neill said. "It's pretty crowded in here, so just pretend we're at the next table, okay."
"Yes, Sir," Molly replied. It occurred to me that we probably would have had to leave if he had decided to press the issue. I didn't much care for that feeling, but then that's why I didn't join the Air Force.
The colonel sat next to Molly, which made her rather uncomfortable; Dr Jackson sat next to me, which made me feel as though I were eating my lunch in a morgue. Of course, I've worked with a fair few cadavers of various ages; they don't usually smell so good, but Jackson smelled just fine. Guess the reports were exaggerated.
He clearly didn't stand on ceremony, because despite the fact that he was with a colonel and I had been mistaken for an airman, he looked over at me and said: "Hi."
"Good afternoon, Dr Jackson," I replied. My nerves must have shown, because O'Neill raised an eyebrow.
"You've met?"
I wasn't sure which of us he was talking to.
"No," I replied, when Dr Jackson did not. "I only know of Dr Jackson by reputation."
Dr Jackson blushed and the colonel laughed. "And what is his reputation in the typing pool?"
It was my turn to blush at that and to hope I hadn't given myself away too much. Fortunately, the question was rhetorical and the colonel did not press me. My archaeological past was still my guilty secret.
The conversation stalled, but it was an interesting encounter, all the same. I emailed Gail as soon as I got back to my desk, wondering what she made of the news.
Date: 5.21.02 8:42:53
From: g.whittington@chicago.edu
To: lks316@usaf.gov
Subject: Re: You'll
never believe who I ran into at lunch!
Hi Louise,
Well, this is news. I was a little surprised to hear from you out of the blue like this. I was starting to think you'd forgotten your old supervisor.
Daniel Jackson, eh? Well, well, well. I wonder what he's doing in an Air Force base. Of course, I wonder what you're doing in an Air Force base. Please tell me you're not still slaving to keep that parasitical boyfriend of yours? Whenever I think of you, I hope you've kicked that creep out on the curb.
> guy you used to go
out with, the one who got the UFO bug and got kicked out of the
> university.
Okay: This is rumour control; these are the facts.
Firstly, I did not go out with Daniel; we used to drink together and I fancied the pants off him, but we never dated. I was too focused on my career to think about having a social life – being the youngest Professor in the University can be such a burden; people expect so much of you. I know there were stories about him dating the snobby British broad, but that was the other snobby British broad; the blonde one.
Secondly, Daniel never actually made any claims about aliens. Sure, he had some wild theories, but he was smart enough not to broadcast them too widely. He wanted to have a chance to investigate with a lot more rigour before he started babbling about extraterrestrial. He was a kook, but he was an archaeologist to the core.
> So tell me, what was he actually like? What was it like working with an insane genius?
You listened to way too many stories, Louise. He was much like any other young researcher – if a few degrees hotter – when he started researching cultural cross-pollination. He spent two months in Mesoamerican studies, treading on eggshells. We got to be friends because I didn't laugh in his face.
Once you actually took the time to listen to his theories, you could actually see that he wasn't just mouthing off. He'd researched his ideas and he based them on a body of evidence. A lot of what he talked about is actually starting to be explored by the mainstream now, so he was a genius, but not insane.
Well, he did date Sarah Gardner, so there may have been a trace of masochism.
> Didn't he leave the university under a cloud or something?
Not as such. More...fled in disgrace and vanished without a trace. We were supposed to meet up the morning after his last lecture. He'd lost the last of his funding and I'd offered him a place to crash, but he never showed. I got a message on my machine to say that he'd been called away and was at the airport. He said he'd phone when he arrived, but he never did.
I never heard from him again. It's funny; we never went out, but he still managed to break my heart. It still hurts. You think you know someone and then...At first I thought he must be in some kind of trouble, then I thought he was dead. We heard things every now and then, but nothing solid. It was like he'd vanished off the face of the Earth. I lost a lot of sleep over him.
There was a rumour that he surfaced a couple of years ago. A group of archaeologists from Dallas ran into some problems at a Mayan pyramid excavation. You must have read about it; the Kleinhaus expedition in Mexico? Three people were killed in vaguely mysterious circumstances and a sarcophagus of apparently Egyptian origin was recovered. When I heard about it I contacted the rest of the team and asked if I could examine the sarcophagus, but they said it had been sent to be examined by Dr Daniel Jackson.
I followed up on the address they'd sent it to and I was blocked by some official stonewaller. No idea what I was talking about, they said. The sarcophagus had been examined, found to be Mayan after all and then sent for examination by a specialist in that field. I asked them who, they asked who I was. I gave them Sarah Gardner's name and they told me it had been sent to one of the top Mesoamerican archaeologists in the country: Professor Gail Whittington at Chicago University. First I'd heard of it.
Then he turned up, in the flesh, at Dr Jordan's funeral. Of course, I didn't go; Daniel was the only one in Egyptology that I really knew and I was out of town, anyway. I think that there was some government connection there as well. It came out later that he was investigating Sarah Gardner, who turned out to not only be a complete bitch, but also some kind of international antiquities thief who'd been smuggling artefacts in and out of the country for years. She put Steven Rayner – never met a Steve that I liked, not in archaeology anyway – in hospital, so I hear; only thing she ever did that made me like her even a little bit. No-one's heard of her since.
Be careful, Louise. He's into something odd now. He makes antiquities disappear; he makes archaeologists disappear. In Mesoamerican archaeology there have been four violent deaths, one serious injury – worse than a broken leg, anyway – and one unexplained disappearance in the last ten years and all of them can be linked to Daniel Jackson.
That being said, I wouldn't mind having his email. I owe him a major earful.
Whatever you're doing at that base, please say it's temporary. You're the most promising grad student I've taught in five years – damning with faint praise as that may be – and I hate to think of you wasting yourself on that wretched letch, Steve.
Catch you later,
Gail
Tuesday, May 21st
Dear Diary,
Another early morning entry. As well as Gail's email, which I'll print out and enclose, I've been talking to Molly about Dr Jackson, which has been interesting. Most of what I know about him was news to her; what the Cheyenne Mountain grapevine has to say was solid gold gossip.
Now, I don't speak for any of this as such, but the story goes that Daniel Jackson was recruited as a linguist on some deep cover, overseas op. He worked with Colonel O'Neill – and I quote – 'somewhere dusty' and killed a dictator (a minor one, I guess). He went native, got married and maybe got some kind of weird, archaic tribal religion, then came home when his wife was killed in an ugly counter-coup.
It sounds pretty bland from me – and in many places, frankly ridiculous – but Molly dressed it up nicely. She tells a stupendous sob story, she really does and certainly at two in the morning she made it sound very convincing. She calls it blarney and naturally attributes it to her Irish heritage, but it's as close as damnit to Uncle Anakie's tale spinning. All this ethnic stuff is just baloney, a storyteller's a storyteller. I told her she was wasting her life on computers.
4pm
So, having spent much of last night finding scandalous information about Dr Daniel Jackson, professional archaeologist vanisher, I was rather embarrassed to find him once more sitting beside me at lunch. Worse yet, we were both on our own. Molly was in the middle of a big job in the machine room – I don't know where Colonel O'Neill was – when Dr Jackson singled me out.
"Sir?" I asked, innocently. "Or...whatever I should call you."
"Daniel will do," he assured me. "And you're..."
"Louise Stillwell; typing pool," I explained, quickly.
"I was going to say, 'and you're Louise'; I know."
"Ah."
"You speak Romany," he said, without further preamble.
"A little," I demurred.
"French, Spanish; 'a little Latin and stuff'," he went on.
"You've been reading my interview notes," I said. I was beginning to get sinking feelings; I'm still not convinced this isn't the last anyone will ever hear from me.
"Define 'stuff'," he invited.
I shrugged, helplessly.
"Captain Kawalsky said that she had some doubts about you," Dr Jackson went on.
I was getting very nervous about this conversation.
"I don't interview well," I offered, by way of mitigation.
He just stared at me, sweetly; the smooth non-talking bastard.
"I did some Latin and Greek at school," I offered. "Private school."
"And...is that all?"
"Yes, Dr Jackson. I mean, Daniel." A lie, even if only by omission.
"Oh," Dr Jackson said. As Captain Kawalsky had done, he sounded disappointed. I wondered if I should fess up, but I didn't. It turns out Uncle Anakie was right; it's not easy to take back a lie once it's been told.
Thursday, May 30th
Dear Diary,
It's kind of late and I just got home. I hate it when they give me an urgent bit of typing at the last moment. I mean, seriously, if it's quite so urgent then why didn't they give it to me to type up and photocopy, just as a thought, at lunchtime.
Still, it was almost worth it. It was Dr Jackson who brought this bit of work, almost dead on five. Just about everyone else was packing up, but I was still finishing up my last piece when Dr Jackson arrived and the Basilisk turned to jelly. It's rare for anyone important to show up at the pool in person, but that wouldn't have explained the reaction.
I could hardly believe it. Sergeant McKittrick, terror of the typing pool, was blushing like a schoolgirl as Dr Jackson explained what he needed in his characteristic fashion: sort of bashfully ebullient. The Basilisk still looked flustered when she brought the file over to me.
In retrospect, I might have got out earlier or got my overtime signed for if I hadn't teased her about having a crush on Dr Jackson, but I'm clever, not smart. The blush on her cheeks turned into a flush of anger and somehow I doubt I'll ever get that overtime signed for.
1.38am
Oh.
Crap.
I was in such high spirits over the Basilisk's embarrassment that I think I may have done something foolish.
That last job was a translation of a Mayan inscription. Of course, I wasn't supposed to do any actual translation, I just had to type it up and make six copies of the translation and an image of the original inscription, but as I say I was in high spirits and I couldn't resist seeing how my translation would compare to Dr Jackson's.
The inscription was in a very ancient form of the Mayan language; the same form that Gail had been studying and which had been used on the obelisk that should have been the topic of my PhD. I mean, really I owed it to myself to keep my hand in. Of course, I couldn't do a full translation without reference material, but I could do enough to see that Dr Jackson's translation was a good one. There were a couple of basic grammatical errors, but they just showed a greater familiarity with later dialects.
It was only as I was falling asleep that I realized what I had done.
I had left my translation note in with the rest when I photocopied them and sent them back to Dr Jackson.
I think I might be rumbled.
Friday, May 31st
Dear Diary,
As expected, I was called in to see the Basilisk this morning. It wasn't a huge surprise to see Dr Jackson in the office with her; the bald fellow with the twin stars on each shoulder was a bit of a shock. I mean, really; I hadn't realized that Major-Generals dealt with temp typists with phony résumés.
"You did this typing?" the Basilisk asked.
"Yes," I admitted.
Dr Jackson held up my notes. "Did you write these?"
"I did."
"You also made four changes to my translation," Dr Jackson added. "Pretty technical changes, based on difficult questions of grammar."
"Sorry," I offered, lamely.
"Miss Stillwell," the General said.
"General," I replied, anxiously.
"I'm George Hammond," he said.
His face was serious; stern without being hard. He was pushing retirement age and perhaps carrying a few extra pounds, but he gave the impression of great capability and authority oozed from every pore in his body. After a lifetime surrounded by politics, you learn to get the measure of people – especially powerful people – quickly. I had no doubt that George Hammond would bury me if I crossed him and none of his people would bat an eyelid.
I determined there and then that I would never cross George Hammond.
"I wonder if you know what you've done, Miss Stillwell?" he asked.
"I...I'm sorry if I've caused any trouble," I said. "I can have my desk cleared in five minutes, but if you could just give me another chance..."
"Miss Stillwell," General Hammond interrupted, firmly. "Would you tell me how you were able – and why you felt qualified – to alter Dr Jackson's translation?"
I coughed, awkwardly.
"If it helps," Dr Jackson sighed, "it wasn't hard to find out about the degree."
"You arrived here with Secret Service clearance," the Basilisk reminded me. "Did it never occur to you that we could find out from them who you really are?"
I blushed. "I'm sorry," I whispered, almost in tears. I really was upset; I never wanted to lie, but even if it wasn't the PhD I wanted to do, I found I liked it at Cheyenne Mountain. I had friends here now and I didn't want to be sent home in disgrace. Then a worse thought struck me.
"Are you going to make me disappear?" I asked.
General Hammond looked at me, curiously. "Miss Stillwell?"
"Things happen to people who get near to...whatever it is you're doing. Sarah Gardner disappeared. Dr Kleinhaus was killed."
"That was nothing to do with us," Dr Jackson assured me. He sounded hurt. "Well; nothing much."
"Miss Stillwell," General Hammond said, "the United States Air Force is not in the business of making people disappear; especially the daughters of senators."
I gave a nervous laugh. "Sorry. Just...I don't like to get anything because of who my parents are; I can't decide whether to demand you make me disappear or not."
"Nobody is disappearing," General Hammond assured me. "Now, can you explain about the translation?"
"It was just a sort of challenge to myself," I explained. "I didn't even realize I'd changed your translation, but then...Well, you must admit, some of it didn't even make much sense in English. It was that one at the beginning, wasn't it? That 'Doorway to Heaven' thing. I mean, it was pretty glaring and..."
"Yes!" Dr Jackson broke in, quickly. "That one was deliberate."
"Oh."
"I wanted to see if you'd rise to the challenge; if you'd let yourself slide in the last few years," he explained. "That and, maybe, trap you into admitting what you could really do."
"And the others?" I asked. "You said there were four changes."
Now Dr Jackson blushed. "No. Those were genuine errors."
"By correcting them, you may have saved four lives," General Hammond added.
I laughed again, more disbelieving than anything else, but the General seemed quite serious. "How can an archaeological translation save lives?" I asked. "Whatever 'Guardian' that stone referred to...it must have been dead or defunct for centuries, if it wasn't a myth in the first place."
"Millennia actually," Dr Jackson corrected. "But the Guardian is still very active. My translation was just inaccurate enough to have got someone killed. Probably me. Again."
I was beginning to feel almost dizzy. "I don't understand," I admitted
Dr Jackson looked at General Hammond, who nodded.
"We need a good Mayan scholar," Dr Jackson told me. "The Air Force won't clear Gail Whittington; believe me, I've tried, but even if she would work with me they want to keep the project strictly US/Canadian for the time being."
"What project?" I asked, more baffled than ever.
Dr Jackson and General Hammond exchanged another look, and then...
3.15pm
Dr Jackson caught me writing the above in the lab. I was given a long talk about what was allowed in a personal journal and what would have to stay on base, so I guess that this diary won't be leaving the Mountain any time soon.
To continue my story:
"The US Air Force is willing to offer you a research post," General Hammond told me. "Your work will be classified, so you can't publish, but we will fund you for a PhD at any US university and provide travel funds and release time."
"Unfortunately, we can't tell you anything more than that unless you say yes now," Dr Jackson added.
I pinched myself, hard. It hurt.
"You're not dreaming, Miss Stillwell," General Hammond assured me. "All we need is a word: Yes or no."
"Yes," I replied. "You pretty much had me on 'we need a good Mayan scholar', even if you do give me too much credit."
"I know at least three other people who wouldn't quibble," Dr Jackson said with a rueful smile.
"Sergeant," General Hammond said. His demeanor had softened and I could see that, for all his power, he must be more loved than feared. Men like General Hammond are rare.
Even the Basilisk looked almost friendly as she produced a ready-to-sign non-disclosure agreement, all properly witnessed and countersigned and awaiting only my own John Hancock. I would have read it – any relative of Uncle Anakie learns young to count their fingers before and after every handshake –but large sections were covered by masking tape. I decided to take the chance and signed.
Dr Jackson raised an eyebrow at the florid extravagance of my signature, which was gratifying; after all, I spent the best part of a month developing it to be idiosyncratic and intriguing. Ash once suggested that all the loops and swirls would give a graphologist palpitations. I initialed each page as well, then the Basilisk swept the document away.
"Thank you, Sergeant," General Hammond said.
"Sir," the Basilisk replied with a nod. I kind of expected her to salute, but it turns out they don't do that indoors. It's a hat thing...
"Dr Jackson," the General went on, "why don't you show Miss Stillwell what we do here?"
So Dr Jackson took me down two more levels and led me through a labyrinth of passages. Just as I was starting to worry that I'd signed some sort of agreement to be fed to a Minotaur, we reached a control room of some sort, filled with computers and with a massive bay window covered by a steel shutter.
"I don't see any Mayans," I admitted.
"They're...elsewhere." Dr Jackson replied. "But this is the best way to see it for the first time."
"To see what?"
"The 'Doorway to Heaven'."
I was still confused, but I remembered that first mistake. "Don't you mean the 'Star Gate'?"
"Exactly so," Dr Jackson agreed. "Sergeant."
One of the technicians reached for a switch and the shutter slid upwards.
Oh, dear diary: I have seen wonderful things.