11 days to go:

  “Fuck it!” Isla Spearman swore, glaring at the duty roster like it had personally insulted her. She slammed her fist against the small table in their room, rattling an empty coffee mug. Definitely not a happy camper at seven in the morning.

  The previous evening, the base had gone to DEFCON three. Orders had been issued, but details? As usual, scarce. Typical SGC protocol… treat the troops like mushrooms: keep them in the dark and feed them bullshit. All they’d been told was that intel suggested an imminent threat.

  From the upper bunk, a voice groaned in protest. “Will you can it, Isla? I’m reading something important here.”

  Deena Mur; half Serrakin, full-time smartass… leaned over the edge of her bunk, a well-worn Batman comic in her hands. Since arriving at the Alpha Site, she’d thrown herself into Earth culture with reckless enthusiasm. Given that her people had leapt at the chance to build F-302Ds under license, pilot training had expanded to include Hebridan’s best and brightest. The Free Jaffa had also joined the program, which had led to some… interesting dynamics.

  Isla shot her a scowl. “Reading bloody DC comics isn’t exactly high-class literature, Deena.”

  Deena smirked. “Says the woman who thinks rugby commentary is Shakespeare.”

  Isla bristled. “Oi! Rugby is culture, you heathen.”

  Deena arched a brow. “Tell that to Cate. She’s been insufferable since the Wallabies finally took the Bledisloe Cup.”

  Isla’s nostrils flared. “We don’t speak of that.”

  “Cate does,” Deena grinned. “Loudly. Often.”

  Isla groaned, rubbing her face. As if today couldn’t get worse; she was stuck in Cate’s flight rotation. The woman didn’t hate her, right? …Right?

  Before she could spiral further, the base loudspeaker crackled to life.

  “All flight personnel, report to Briefing Room Two.”

  Deena swung down from her bunk with a grin, rolling up her comic. “Guess it’s showtime. Try not to let your mortal enemies… Cate and reality… ruin your day, yeah?”

  Isla muttered something deeply uncharitable under her breath and grabbed her flight suit. It was going to be a long day.

  BR2, as it was commonly known, had once been the original Alpha Site cafeteria... back when the place was little more than a sprawl of portable buildings that made it look like a construction site. Sitting at the end of Runway North 2, it had been in the perfect spot. So, when the new base was built, BR2 had been spared the wrecking ball. It was kept for its size... large enough to seat an entire squadron of pilots.

  A protected underground tunnel connected the main complex to BR2, part of a wider network allowing personnel to move safely between key buildings in the event of an attack. The fact that BR2 itself was above ground? Pure convenience. Its smaller counterpart, BR1, was three levels below.

  At the front of the room stood three figures: Commander Neville "Dusty" Dixon, now sporting the three full bars of his new rank; Squadron Leader Cate MacGregor; and Jaryl Immar, a Free Jaffa officer known simply as Leader, his rank roughly equivalent to Cate’s. They turned as the first pilots started filing in.

  At the back, SG-1 lingered near a guest... none other than Lieutenant General Jack O’Neill himself. Hands shoved deep into his pockets, he was talking casually with Cam Mitchell, who mirrored his posture.

  The room filled with the usual clatter... loud conversations, boots scraping, the occasional shove between pilots who sometimes acted more like unruly school kids than military officers.

  Dusty let it go for a few seconds before speaking. Calm, firm, absolute authority.

  "Be seated. All of you."

  The noise died immediately as chairs scraped back and pilots took their places.

  "Squadron Leader MacGregor has a few words before we get to today’s briefing," he added.

  Since his promotion, Dusty was now the Commander Air Group... the Alpha Site’s CAG... until he received a ship posting. The Buzzards’ new XO sat in the front row: Captain Mark "Batman" Kalowski, one of the squadron’s most respected pilots. He was also fully prepared to Gibbs slap anyone who got out of line.

  Cate stepped forward, scanning the room.

  "Second Lieutenant Flowers," she said, her voice deceptively mild. "Sit. Down."

  Jeremy Flowers; Bahamas-born, New York-raised, and entirely too pleased with himself; was already technically in a chair. Technically.

  His backside rested on the backrest, boots planted on the seat like he was lounging on a street corner rather than attending a high-priority squadron briefing.

  Cate tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable.

  "Properly."

  Flowers hesitated. A couple of nearby pilots exchanged glances, silently betting how long he'd push it.

  In the front row, Kalowski shifted just enough to be noticed.

  Flowers got the message.

  With exaggerated slowness, he swung his legs down, dropped into a proper seated position, and leaned back like it had been his idea all along.

  Cate exhaled. Finally.

  "Good choice."

  As Isla and Deena took their seats, the half-Serrakin nudged her friend with an elbow and whispered, “MacGregor’s in a mood today.”

  Isla smirked, voice low but dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, must still be crying over the Wallabies finally winning the Bledisloe.”

  A beat of silence. Then…

  “I heard that.” Cate’s voice rang out from the front of the room, calm but carrying the unmistakable weight of authority.

  Isla winced. “Ah, shit.”

  “Spearman, to the front.” Cate’s expression was unreadable, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth suggested she was enjoying this far too much. “Since you’ve got energy for backchat, you can show the boys and girls how to do 50 push-ups.

  Isla groaned as she pushed herself up. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kalowski leaned toward Dusty with a smirk. “She’s getting off easy.”

  Dusty shrugged. “MacGregor’s feeling generous today.”

  Jack O’Neill muttered to Mitchell at the back of the room, “Classic.”

  “She seems to take after someone, General,” Cam said casually.

  Jack turned his head, as did Sam and Daniel. He put on an all-too-innocent look. “Moi?”

  “Well, what’s the old saying? If the cap fits,” Cam told him, grinning.

  “I’ll have you know I hardly know the girl. But what I will tell you, Mitchell… she’s a mirror of her old man.” Jack sounded like he was proudly boasting the strengths of a good friend.

  Sam chimed in. “Rumour has it you were seen talking to the Admiral last week. Not much you can get away with these days, Ja… General.” She recovered quickly.

  “What? A guy can’t have coffee with an old mate in “Springs? Is everyone spying on me now?” Jack did his best to sound offended, then turned just a shade more serious. “None of you heard this from me. With all this talk about the Alliance’s impending attack, I was asked to suggest someone of senior command rank who could bring a different set of tactical skills to the table.”

  Cam frowned slightly. “Our tactical skills have done us well for some time now, General. Why the change?”

  “The Alliance knows how we operate. We can’t repeat ourselves.”

  Teal’c nodded in agreement. “A new set of rules will keep the enemy at bay.”

  “I saw him briefly with Mrs. Admiral. Not a bad looker for a man of his age,” Vala added.

  All eyes turned toward her. She simply grinned.

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, Jack?” Daniel finally spoke. “You’re going to tell Cate she might end up working with her father?”

  “Maybe,” Jack replied succinctly.

  Before anyone could say more…

  “Heads up!” Cate snapped.

  Her voice carried across the room, cutting through the quiet hum of conversation. Even SG-1 and Jack, tucked away at the rear, turned their attention toward her. Cate had that effect. The briefing had begun in earnest.

  She wasn’t about to hold back either. Every pilot in the room could feel the heat of her energy as she laid out deficiencies from yesterday’s patrols.

  “One… Blue Flight’s landing gaps were all over the place. Ten-second intervals are to be strictly maintained, and with just four birds, you couldn’t even manage that.”

  Lieutenant Nick Hasley, USN, shifted uncomfortably before attempting to justify the error. He failed miserably.

  “Two… Red Flight was off track by a considerable margin. You have a designated racetrack flight path with specific waypoints. Captain Jin Ooso, care to explain why you chose to go sightseeing?”

  The FJN pilot hesitated. “My wingman, Second Lieutenant Victoria Osbourne, picked something up on her scan, so we investigated.”

  Cate folded her arms. “And that took you over a thousand klicks off course without reporting any contacts?”

  Ooso and Osbourne scrambled for an answer, engaging in what could only be described as verbal gymnastics. Cate wasn’t impressed.

  Dusty stepped in next, shifting gears to outline today’s CAP assignments. “Blue Flight, first four-hour sortie at oh-eight hundred. Cate will lead. Kiwi-Two, Sparrow, and Viking, you’re with her.”

  A low groan came from Isla, while Deena’s grin was the complete opposite.

  “At twelve-hundred hours, Major Mark “Batman’ Kalowski will take Red Flight.”

  Jaryl Immar picked up from there, moving on to the first Combat Space Patrol of the day. “First off, a shoutout to our golden boy, Nugget. Bianchi scored his eighth confirmed kill yesterday, taking down a lone Al’kesh raider.”

  From his seat, Cam leaned over to Jack. “I watched him from the co-pilot’s seat of a 402. Kid’s got hands. Blew me away.”

  Jaryl paused before selecting the first CSP flight: two F-302s and four F-402s. “Flowers, you’ll be my co-pilot in Fireball, I expect nothing but professionalism, understood?” The Jaffa Leader had only been a part of the training program six months, to the point he had only in the last month managed to attain the required fifty hours on the 402. But Cate had singled him out as an outstanding pilot and one hell of a mentor to the younger pilots; there was no question of his status when her report on him was on Bixby’s desk. Jeremy’s face went an ashen grey colour, as if he had just been given his last rites.

  “Crap.” The young man said to himself, burying his face in his hands.

  Dusty wrapped things up. “One more thing; Alliance forces are still testing our defences, as Nugget’s engagement yesterday shows. They’re looking for a weakness. Don’t give them one.” He glanced at his watch. “Blue Flight, wheels up in ten.”

  The room stirred, pilots already moving with purpose.

  Later that night, Jack knocked on Cate’s door, his usual confidence a little more subdued than usual. When Cate called out for him to come in, he stepped inside and paused, taking in the neatness of the room. It wasn’t what he expected. He had imagined a chaotic mess of papers, gear, and unmade beds; a reflection of the usual pilot's disarray. But instead, Cate’s room was impeccably organized, the shelves lined with books and equipment in perfect order. She had a system, and it was damn impressive.

  Jack cleared his throat, a little thrown off by the level of calm around her. “You keep a tidy room, Major.”

  ‘Squadron Leader is just way too much of a mouthful’, Jack thought, shaking his head at himself.

  Cate glanced up from her desk, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You can sit on the edge of the bed,” she said, her voice casual but still carrying an edge.

  Jack gave her a curious look but did as told, sitting awkwardly at the bed’s edge. He ran a hand through his hair. “This isn’t easy, Cate. I was asked to bring up something tonight, and… well, it’s about your father.”

  Cate’s eyes narrowed, her posture straightening. “My father, Will? What’s this about?”

  Jack hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “I was asked to suggest someone with senior tactical experience, someone who could offer us a different perspective on the Alliance’s movements. Your old man... they want him to come back to duty.”

  Cate stared at him for a beat, processing the words. “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I was.”

  She scoffed. “That’s a crap plan. He should be enjoying his retirement, not getting dragged back into this mess.”

  Jack leaned forward, meeting her gaze. “Will is the same age as I am, Cate.”

  Cate’s eyes flashed with frustration. “So what? Are you asking me to get on board with this? To just accept that my dad… my dad… could be in charge of something like this?”

  “You think he wouldn’t be good at it?” Jack asked, an eyebrow raised.

  She bit back a response, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I just think there’s gotta be a better plan than this.”

  Jack exhaled, clearly frustrated too. “I’m not saying it’s perfect. But your father has the experience, Cate. He’s got more than just retirement behind him.”

  There was a long pause. Cate seemed to soften, but only just. “Fine. If that’s what they want, then I guess I’ll have to accept it.”

  Jack nodded, standing up. “Thanks. I know this isn’t easy.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Cate stayed where she was, her eyes fixed on the floor for a moment. Jack hesitated before walking to the door.

  “Jack,” she said, before he could leave.

  He turned back, meeting her gaze. “Yeah?”

  “I’ll figure it out. But don’t expect me to like it.”

  Jack smiled, a quiet understanding between them. “Goodnight, Cate.”

  Cate stood at the door for a while after Jack left, her mind racing with thoughts of her father’s return to duty. She could still hear his words echoing in her head. Finally, after a restless few hours, she collapsed into bed, the weight of it all pressing heavily on her chest. Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

  At precisely 0800, Blue Flight lifted off in pairs, ten seconds apart from South 2. As they climbed, Green Flight returned from its four-hour CAP, touching down on North 3. Three minutes later, Falcon 1; the Combat Space Patrol, took to the skies. Their F-302s and F-402s went near-vertical, rocketing toward the blackness of space.

  For two hours, the respective flights ran their course. It was quiet; too quiet. To pass the time, the pilots filled the comms with typical military banter, some of it crude, most of it laced with sarcasm.

  “Tell me again why we get stuck with the lower orbit runs while Falcon gets the pretty view?” Isla “Kiwi-Two” Green grumbled over comms.

  “Because the universe knows you’d get distracted and fly into a deserted planet,” Deena “Sparrow” Mur shot back.

  “Oi! That was one time! And it wasn’t a planet; it was a really, really big asteroid.”

  Cate’s amused snort crackled through the radio. “It had an atmosphere, Kiwi. That makes it a planet.”

  “Technicalities.”

  Meanwhile, Falcon 1, high above, had their own discussions.

  “Hey, Jaryl, you ever think that nebula looks like something?”

  “Not this again…”

  “I swear, it’s a baby elephant. You can see the trunk.”

  “It's a cloud of ionised gas, Falcon-Two.”

  “A baby elephant-shaped cloud of ionised gas.”

  For all the jokes, neither Cate nor Jaryl let their pilots relax too much. The Lucian Alliance was known for striking when least expected.

  Then…

  “Baseline, this is Birdseye. We have activity. Four separate hyperspace windows just opened, 8,000 metres altitude, 1,200 klicks south of the Alpha Site.”

  “Baseline copies, Birdseye. Can you confirm contacts?”

  “Confirmed. Four Al’kesh bombers inbound at high speed.”

  Blue Flight pushed forward, intercepting 400 kilometres south. The engagement was immediate and brutal. The Al’kesh weren’t just raiders; they were disciplined, highly skilled, and had undoubtedly studied Tau’ri tactics. Their formation was tight, defensive turrets tracking fast movers with alarming precision.

  Missiles streaked across the sky, F-302s rolling to evade. Cate locked onto the lead bomber.

  “Fox Two!”

  Her missile struck home. Fire erupted from the Al ’kesh’s engine, but it wasn’t down yet. It twisted violently, rear gunners peppering the sky with plasma fire. Sparrow dove through, cannon blazing, scoring a direct hit on the weakened craft. It exploded.

  “Splash one!”

  “Viking, break left!... Shit, you’re hit!”

  “I’m losing power… ejecting…”

  Viking punched out, his chute deploying just before his fighter disintegrated. The fight raged for another fifteen minutes. Finally, three Al’kesh were destroyed. The last enemy bomber fled into hyperspace before they could pursue.

  Cate swore under her breath. Detection had come too late, and Jaryl’s flight had never been called in.

  Back at base, Cate stomped into the debriefing room, still in her flight suit, helmet tucked under one arm. Her expression alone had people straightening in their seats. She dropped her helmet onto the table with a thud.

  “Alright,” she said, voice deceptively calm. “Who wants to tell me why the hell we didn’t see those Al’kesh sooner? And why Falcon Flight wasn’t even considered for backup?”

  Silence. It was obvious to everyone she was pissed.

  Then Jaryl cleared his throat. “So… uh… do we talk about the elephant in the room?”

  Cate’s glare could have melted duranium.

  “Not that elephant,” Jaryl amended quickly.

  This was going to be fun.

  And she was going to let command know exactly how pissed off she was.

  6 Days to Go:

  Five days had passed with relative mediocrity. There had been two other raider attacks, one from orbit that was dealt with swiftly when a lone Al'kesh had somehow emerged from hyperspace a mere thousand metres in front of the Chekov II. The barrage of defence fire from two powerful ships swiftly put an end to that plan.

  The second attack was different—three Al'kesh emerged from hyperspace within the planet’s atmosphere. They were getting disturbingly precise with their destination coordinates. This time, they materialised over land, just 250 kilometres southwest of Foreston. Before any defence could be mounted, they bombed three farms and the small town of Whistler, killing seven people.

  In the Baseline Main Control Centre, Jack O’Neill stood with Bill Lee, watching the situation unfold on the large tactical screen. Jack frowned and muttered, "What is it with the Alliance and threes? Three ships every damn time."

  Bill glanced at him, considering. "Could be a strategic doctrine—sets up a triangular attack formation, maximising coverage. Or maybe it’s superstition? Some cultures consider three a powerful number."

  Jack raised an eyebrow. "Or they just suck at basic math. I mean, three against how many of our ships? Not exactly a winning strategy."

  The impact of the attack was immediate. Michelle Bixby found herself facing an enraged local population, with the Os Cavaleiros leading the charge. Their young Rainha, Josile Serantel, was particularly volatile, expressing her fury in no uncertain terms… sometimes even slipping into an archaic form of Portuguese. Sam Carter, who had known Josile since childhood, was the only one able to defuse the situation.

  Cam, watching from the sidelines, muttered to Teal'c, "You know, if she wasn’t so mad all the time, she’d actually be pretty."

  Teal'c, in his wisdom, raised an eyebrow. "So, is prettiness measured by the lesser degree of a woman’s anger? Is Catherine MacGregor prettier by this scoring method?"

  Cam coughed. "Okay, fair point."

  But Cate wasn’t focused on politics—she was furious with herself. She couldn’t accept that there was no way to pre-emptively determine where the raiders might appear. Doctor McKell and Sam, two of the brightest minds in the galaxy, insisted it was an impossible task. Still, Cate worked around the clock, even dragging her science students into it. Tyra’s second-year class soon found themselves deep in nerdy theoretical discussions.

  At one point, Cate, utterly exhausted and frustrated, walked up to Sam and bluntly asked, "Can you take over a lecture?"

  Caught off guard, Sam chuckled. "You want me to teach?"

  Cate shrugged, rubbing her eyes. "Better you than me. I’m barely surviving advanced physics right now."

  Sam watched her walk away with a mixture of pity and affection. Over the last year, Cate had become like a younger sister to both her and Vala.

  3 Days to Go:

  Tension was mounting. The people on the ships, the aircrews—everyone was talking non-stop about what might happen. On the ground, the unease was even worse. Whispers spread, speculation turned into fear.

  Late one night, with 72 hours to go, Cate found herself in the Ancient Control Room—now officially referred to as such. She sat on the edge of the platform of one of the two control chairs, her chin resting on both hands, deep in thought. Something about the room nagged at her.

  Why two chairs?

  The tactical display screen behind the desk that Tyra had activated nearly two weeks ago remained blank. That was the problem. She pipped her radio to Tyra, apologising for the late hour, and asked her to come down.

  Minutes later, Tyra arrived, stifling a yawn. Cate, still fixated on the chairs, gestured toward them. "Let’s both sit. Just a hunch."

  Tyra frowned but humoured her. They placed their hands on the armrests simultaneously. Instantly, a tingling sensation ran up their arms, the fine hairs on their skin standing on end. A soft hum resonated through the room. A moment later, a massive holographic display appeared above them; slowly rotating, their planet at its centre.

  The coverage was immense. They could see stars stretching light-years into the distance, and scattered among them were tiny green dots.

  "Stargates!" Cate exclaimed. "Those are Stargates."

  Tyra pointed. "What about the red and blue ones?"

  Cate had already figured it out. "Blue represents our ships—or anything the system recognises as friendly. Red... must be hostile."

  Tyra hesitated. "Let me guess, you need to call Sam?"

  Cate nodded. "Hell yes."

  Tyra groaned. "Cate, it’s 0200. Can’t it wait until morning?"

  Cate shook her head. "No, kiddo, this is way too important."

  Minutes later, Sam arrived, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Cate quickly explained what had happened. Sam’s exhaustion evaporated instantly, replaced by excitement.

  Cate and Tyra returned to the chairs, all three studying the display. The objects moved in slow motion, a representation of time and distance. Then Sam noticed something—a red box glowed, then vanished, only for a faint red line to trace its former position. The box reappeared near a distant star system.

  Sam’s eyes widened. "Cate, do you know what we just saw?"

  Cate and Tyra realised it at the same time. "A hyperdrive wormhole!" they said in unison.

  Cate grinned for the first time in days. "We can track them! We need an astronomer down here, now. And we need to compile a list of everyone on base with the gene—or who’s had successful gene therapy."

  Sam nodded. "Agreed."

  Tyra still looked confused. "An... astronomer?"

  Cate smirked. "To read that bloody map." She pointed up at the vast holographic display above them.

  Sam exhaled, glancing at the shifting patterns in the projection. She licked her lips, eyes lighting up with the thrill of discovery. "You do realise what this means, right? The mathematical permutations involved in this system tracking real-time hyperdrive trajectories? The sheer computational power necessary to factor in all the gravitational influences, the redshift differentials, the subspace interference; it’s phenomenal! Oh, McKay is going to lose his mind when I tell him. I cannot wait to see his face."

  Cate gave Tyra a look and smirked. "This is why we called her."

  Tyra just sighed. "So, we are waking up an astronomer, then?"

  Transformation

  Cate sat cross-legged on the floor of her quarters, watching as Josile prepared the special dye. The woman from Os Cavaleiros worked with practised ease, laying out the necessary brushes and sponges. Sachi sat behind Cate, combing through her thick blonde hair with an almost reverent touch.

  "You’ve got beautiful hair, you know that?" Sachi remarked, lifting a long strand and holding it up to the light.

  "Yeah, well, it’s about to be a casualty of war," Cate grumbled.

  Sachi chuckled but then sucked in a sharp breath as she caught sight of Cate’s back. The scars, souvenirs of a regime that reminded her of the Alliance, North Korea, crisscrossed her skin like a brutal tapestry of past battles. Some were thick and raised, others thin and faded, but all told a story.

  "Do they still hurt?" Sachi asked quietly, brushing her fingers lightly over a particularly deep one near Cate’s ribs.

  Cate snorted. "Only when I laugh."

  Josile, working on mixing the dye, glanced up and took in Cate’s physique with an appreciative nod. "You are built like a true warrior," she mused, eyes scanning the muscle definition in Cate’s arms and shoulders. "Strong, but fast. A predator, not just a fighter."

  Cate rolled her eyes. "I feel like a bloody art project."

  Josile smiled as she dipped her brush into the dye. "Then let’s make you a masterpiece."

  The Morgue

  After Cate’s transformation it was Sachi’s turn and the cold, sterile smell of the morgue never failed to make Cate wrinkle her nose. Sachi lay motionless on the table, her face pale under the dim lights. The mortician worked quickly, applying subtle shading to make her appear convincingly dead.

  Daniel stood nearby, arms crossed, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

  "This is morbid," he muttered, watching as the mortician added a touch of blue under Sachi’s fingernails.

  "Welcome to espionage, Jackson," Cate said dryly.

  Sachi cracked an eye open and grinned. "I feel like I should be getting paid for this."

  Daniel gestured to her body with a smirk. "I think technically you’re a corpse, so you’re not entitled to wages. Bit of a loophole there."

  Sachi groaned. "Great, I died for free."

  The mortician snapped a picture of her, adjusting the body bag just so. Cate leaned over and gave Sachi’s shoulder a squeeze. "Just hold your breath and think of home."

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. "That’s what they say when you’re about to get punched in the stomach."

  Cate smirked. "Same principle."

  Control Room – The Ships Discussion

  The main control room; Baseline, was alive with activity. Michelle stood near the central display, arms folded as Hallam’s message played back. The estimated enemy fleet numbers flickered on the screen.

  Cam leaned in with a thoughtful hum. "Twelve minimum, twenty-eight maximum. And I swear, the Lucian Alliance has a thing for threes."

  Bixby raised an eyebrow. "You think they’re superstitious?"

  "I know they are," Cam replied. "You ever notice their fleet movements? Everything comes in multiples of three. Squads, patrols, even their damn ration packs are packed in threes."

  Teal’c, who had been silent, finally spoke. "Among many cultures, three is considered a sacred number—symbolic of balance, wisdom, and completeness."

  Cam grinned. "Yeah, except in this case, it’s just making our math harder."

  Jack, who had been listening from the upper level, chimed in. "So, do we just assume the worst-case scenario and prep for twenty-eight ships?"

  Michelle exhaled. "I think they’ll keep a couple back for home defence. That leaves… let’s say twenty-four, at best."

  Cam whistled. "Hell of a fight incoming."

  Jack clapped his hands together. "Alright, people. Let’s get ready to make their math our problem."

  Departure:

  The hangar at the end of the Alpha Site’s runways, buzzed with energy, but the moment felt strangely intimate. Cate stood in front of her friends, a sea of familiar faces watching her with a mix of pride and worry.

  Vala hugged her first, squeezing tight. "You’re either the bravest person I know, or the craziest."

  Cate smirked. "Why not both?"

  Sam was next, holding Cate’s shoulders as she searched her face. "We’ll be here, Cate. If anything feels wrong, you get out."

  "I will."

  Teal’c bowed his head slightly before embracing her briefly. "Return to us, Little Sister."

  Daniel patted her arm, offering a small smile. "Try not to get into too much trouble."

  "No promises."

  Tyra hesitated before stepping forward, squeezing Cate’s arm. "Don’t do anything stupid."

  Cate grinned. "Then what’s the point of going?"

  The biggest surprise came when Jack O’Neill pulled her into a firm hug. He held on longer than the others, then pulled back and masked whatever emotion he was feeling with a trademark smirk. "Just don’t get caught. I really don’t wanna have to explain this to the elder MacGregors."

  Cate chuckled. "Noted."

  Final Warnings from Darlen:

  As Cate and Karen finished final preparations, Darlen pulled Cate aside. His usually easy-going expression was replaced by something more serious.

  "Alright, listen," he began, lowering his voice. "Lucia’s got a strict way of doing things. The military is everything. If someone higher ranked speaks, you don’t interrupt. Keep your head down in public, and whatever you do, don’t mock their honour code."

  Cate smirked. "I’d never dream of it."

  Darlen exhaled sharply. "I mean it, Cate. They live and breathe that stuff. Oh, and when you meet Hallam, don’t shake his hand."

  Cate frowned. "Why?"

  "Because in Lucia, shaking hands is something you only do after signing a treaty or forming an alliance. It’s big."

  Cate raised an eyebrow. "That’s a bit dramatic."

  Darlen grinned. "Says the woman pretending to be a dead soldier from a war-torn planet."

  Cate laughed. "Fair point."

  As they made their way toward the Tel’tak, Cate threw one last look back at her team, then turned forward. Time to become Rosmalin Soosa.

  The revelation:

  Getting to PH7-H88 without an event went reasonably well. Cate’s effort of paying attention to Teal’c had paid off as well when Karen let her "fly" the Tel’tak for a while. There was one small hold-up; they were challenged by a Tok’ra ship, which to Cate’s surprise was pre-arranged. It was Karen’s way of reporting in and getting any new orders if they were to be had.

  Here they were, two little ships, hung on an invisible string in the blackness of space. Sitting in the Tel ‘Tak’s cockpit, Cate watched as a large screen activated in front of them, revealing a familiar face.

  "Anise," Karen acknowledged.

  The Tok’ra woman nodded curtly. "Your progress is satisfactory. We have no further intelligence regarding Hallam, but you are reminded of the importance of his cooperation."

  Cate folded her arms, already irritated by the tone. "Right. Because I got dolled up like this for a Halloween party."

  Anise’s expression didn’t flicker. "Your discomfort is irrelevant. The mission is paramount."

  Cate exchanged a look with Karen, who gave the smallest shake of her head. It wasn’t worth the argument.

  Then came the bombshell. "Pretaya, you are also reminded of your secondary objective. Sachi's family must be extracted from Lucia. This was the arrangement."

  Cate stiffened. "You're telling me this now?" Cate turned sharply toward Parker. "You already knew about this?"

  "Of course," Karen admitted. "I didn’t want to say anything earlier, in case you had second thoughts. And I was right."

  "Fuck that!" Cate exploded. "This mission is dangerous enough without adding another bloody layer to it!"

  As expected, both Anise on the screen and Karen in the cockpit remained impassive until Cate was done. After a beat, Anise merely asked, "Are we finished?"

  Cate clenched her jaw but forced herself to settle down. She wasn’t an easily forgiving woman, though, and she still bristled. "Right." She turned to Karen, deliberately ignoring the screen. "Since you've been back to Lucia twice now, did you happen to do any recon? Where are they? How many? How do we get them out?"

  It was like pulling teeth. Slowly, Karen relented. "They live in the south side of Lucia City. Comparable to... the Bronx in New York, perhaps. Their mother is a widow. Sachi has a younger brother, Dane; fourteen, and a sister, Elka is eleven."

  "It just gets better and better," Cate said blandly. Then she turned back to Anise/Freya. "We don’t have much time. Any obstacles along the way?"

  "The situation remains unchanged. Your task is difficult but not impossible." Anise tilted her head slightly. "You are a brave and daring young woman, Catherine."

  There it was; that damn patronising tone. Cate forced herself not to roll her eyes. "Great. Last words?" she asked Karen.

  "No," came the simple reply.

  An hour later, they landed near the Stargate on PH7-H88, a desert planet with little appeal. Karen gave Cate a once-over, inspecting the fake sutures on her forehead. "You’ll pass quite well."

  Cate snorted. "Unlike Anise."

  Karen blinked. "What about her?"

  Cate shook her head. "She’s a piece of work, isn’t she? Treats us like simpletons and looks like she’s about to do a photoshoot for a bloke’s wank magazine."

  Karen's mouth fell open in genuine shock. "My god, why would you say such a thing?"

  Cate smirked, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Come on. Her lips look like she's had one too many trips to the salon for Botox, and those boobs? Every sixteen-year-old boy's dream of a hot date."

  Karen still looked flabbergasted but then; realisation dawned, and she burst out laughing. Cate's expression shifted, and she joined in.

  Questions and answers:

  When the door slid open, it appeared hostilities for Cate weren’t left behind. Two very strange-looking aliens stood there, brandishing guns. Her Zat was in her hand quicker than a blink, and both of them did blink. One was obviously female, and the wet stain around her crotch told Cate she hadn’t been doing whatever it was for very long. A gentle hand from Karen lowered Cate’s arm as she stepped forward.

  "Set, Densa, I’d like you to meet Mahor Rosmalin Soosa. She managed to escape from the Tau’ri on their Alpha Site."

  Set, thick-bodied and broad-shouldered, narrowed his eyes. Oranians weren’t exactly known for their intelligence, but they weren’t fools either. His suspicions rose immediately when Cate had raised her weapon; why would a fellow Lucian Alliance member react like that? It wasn’t as if he and Densa were being overtly hostile. His kind had been allied with the Alliance for years; this dark-skinned woman should know that.

  Karen caught the flicker of doubt in Set’s expression and pressed on quickly. “She’s suffered a severe concussion. At the moment, Rosmalin has amnesia, but I’m sure it’s temporary.” She gave Cate a small shove forward, urging her down the ramp. “She’ll get the right treatment at home.”

  While plausible, Cate wasn’t sure Set was buying it. His next words confirmed her suspicions.

  “I’ve heard the Tooree treat their prisoners well.” He scratched his chin, his gaze lingering on Cate. “Would they not take care of her?”

  Unease prickled at the back of Cate’s mind. This was getting messy, fast. Karen had better come up with something quick, or plan B was about to be activated. That would mean shooting, death, and pain… and it wouldn’t be hers.

  A quick glance at their surroundings revealed no immediate tactical threats. Sandy hills of burnt orange stretched around them, dotted with stunted trees and what looked like ancient ruins about two hundred metres or more from the gate. No other ships. Set and Densa had come via the gate. But why?

  Karen, sensing Set’s hesitation, smoothly layered another level of the lie. Cate exhaled through her nose. God, I hope she has a good memory.

  Then something shifted. A feeling; an instinct buried deep in her bones. The hairs on her arms prickled. Something was wrong.

  Flashback.

  Northwest Afghanistan. Five years ago.

  A wadi, dry and wide beneath the relentless sun. Jack Voor stood beside her, a man just a year or two older, former US Army Ranger turned CIA operative. Together, they approached two Taliban men, a chief and his aide. A prisoner exchange. Twelve Taliban fighters, including Abdul Hassi, one of the worst, for two of their own; a US Air Force combat medic and an Australian Army engineer.

  A crack split the air. The sniper’s shot came from nowhere.

  The ‘Chief’ collapsed, dead before he hit the ground. The 7.62 round passed clean through him, still carrying enough force to punch into Jack’s throat. He staggered. Another shot rang out, and Cate’s world turned black.

  Blink.

  Like replayed footage, she saw the rest. Australian SAS and Navy SEALs had been on overwatch. She woke up in a field hospital, a Kevlar vest the only thing between her and death. The second round had hit her in the chest, the impact stopping her heart just long enough to knock her out. The captives were recovered. The exchange never took place. The Taliban retaliated viciously. Someone, somewhere, had decided that Abdul Hassi would never be set free. Cate had spent weeks wanting a name; someone to blame.

  Blink.

  The memory shattered. Reality snapped back into place. Cate’s breath hitched…

  Crack!

  “Down!” The word escaped before she registered it. Cate shoved Karen back into the Tel’tak, her body reacting before her mind fully caught up. Two paces to Densa. She lunged, tackling the other woman just as another shot split the air. Cloth and flesh tore from Densa’s right calf. Set threw himself over them both, shielding them with his own body. Densa let out a strangled cry.

  Cate rolled free, already barking orders. “Get her inside and stay there!”

  Set hesitated.

  “Move!”

  With Karen’s help, he managed to drag Densa into cover as Cate took off at a crouched run. She had no plan; just a Zat, which wasn’t much good for range. Zigzagging through the scrub, she used the terrain for cover, heading for the ruins. Two hundred metres. Her ribs ached. Her breath came sharp and fast.

  As the shot had rung out, she’d done a mental triangulation. The sniper was moving. Twenty metres to the ruins.

  There. A flicker of movement. Cate surged ahead, using the jagged limestone remains to obscure her approach. A rustle of fabric. Her instincts screamed.

  She struck. Her arm came up, slamming into the sniper’s neck. A body tumbled backward, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Cate stepped forward, Zat raised.

  “What the fu…”

  The would-be assassin was a girl. A teenager, dressed in rough brown clothing, her face smudged with dirt, dark hair matted and unwashed.

  The girl spat at her feet. “You can kill me now, Lucian. I won’t reveal a thing to your filthy kind.”

  Cate exhaled sharply. What in God’s name have I gotten myself into?

  The healer:

  Without hesitation, Cate dropped to one knee, pinning the girl’s chest with the other. She seized the wrist holding the rifle, squeezing until the weapon slipped free. Her eyes flicked to it, widening in surprise. An M24. US Army issue. The kind used by SG teams.

  Why? How?

  Keeping her voice low, she asked, “Who are you?” Immediately, she knew that wouldn’t get the answer she wanted. “I’m not Lucian. I’m from Earth. Tau’ri.”

  “Why should I believe you?” The girl’s voice was hoarse, edged with fear.

  Damn, this was hard. Not exactly what Cate had signed up for. “Because…” She shoved the rifle out of reach. “…I haven’t killed you.”

  She relaxed her grip, grabbed the rifle, and stood. “Get up.” The lack of a direct threat should help. She extended a hand, her gaze sweeping over the shortest column of stunted stone nearby.

  With a grunt, the girl obeyed. “You seem different… why are you with them?”

  Cate didn’t have much time. Set might grow suspicious. She had to make this fast. “I’m here to stop a war; and to stop the Alliance. That’s all you need to know.” She tilted her head toward the little ship. “But I need answers, and quickly, before that creature over there comes sniffing around. Who are you? Why were you shooting at us?”

  The girl hesitated. Something in the dark-skinned woman’s manner put her at ease. Something told her she was telling the truth. “I am Marta. My people are the children of Tefnut.” Her eyes welled with tears. She began to shake. “We are exiles, hunted. The Alliance came to this world offering peace and sanctuary. They brought only death.”

  Pieces of a puzzle. Something for Cate to figure out later. Not now.

  “Where is your home? Your family?”

  “Beyond the plains. A day’s march.”

  Cate exhaled, glancing back toward the ship. The door was hidden from view. Not good. In one smooth motion, she handed the rifle back to Marta. “Go. Run. Tell your people to move. The Alliance will return… and they will hunt you.”

  Nothing more needed to be said. But as she turned, Cate added, “I will be back. I promise.”

  Then, she ran back to where it had all begun. To her relief, all three were still inside. Only Densa’s cries broke the silence.

  “Did you find them?” Set growled.

  They had wrapped a bandage around Densa’s leg, but it was still bleeding badly. She wouldn’t last long; not without proper care. If the blood loss didn’t kill her, infection would.

  “It hurts, it hurts,” the wounded female sobbed.

  Cate felt for her. Technically an enemy, but right now, that didn’t matter. No way in hell was she going to let someone die when she could do something about it.

  “What have you done so far?” she asked, keeping up her pretence.

  Her head tilted half a degree toward Set. “They ran. I tried to catch them, but they were too far ahead, and this... ” she yanked the Zat from its holster “… is useless at range.” She took on an authoritative tone. “Now tell me, what have you done for Densa?”

  “We applied a combined dressing and bandage. I didn’t know what else to do,” Karen admitted, panic in her voice.

  Cate frowned. “From the Tau’ri field dressing kit?”

  “Uh-huh,” Parker confirmed.

  Cate had assumed the Tok’ra would have some idea how to handle a field injury. Apparently not. The green bag lay on the floor, and she grabbed it, turning it upside down. The contents spilled beside her, and she quickly sorted them into order. Everything she needed was there.

  She peeled back the dressing and inspected the wound, just as she had done countless times before. ASIS agents were trained in advanced field medicine. Cate put that training to use.

  Using saline, she cleansed the wound thoroughly, making sure there was nothing left behind that could cause infection.

  “We need to give her pain medication. And I need to numb the wound.” Her hand hovered over the vials of morphine and lidocaine.

  Come on, Karen. Help me out here.

  Cate caught the other woman’s eyes. Two blinks. Affirmative.

  The question remained; was the Oranian physiology close enough to human? Could they tolerate Tau’ri medications?

  Apparently, they could.

  She loaded a syringe with morphine first, slipping the needle into Densa’s arm and pressing the plunger down with steady precision. “This will help,” she said, her tone calm. “It’ll take the edge off, but you’ll still feel pressure.”

  Densa whimpered but relaxed slightly as the drug took effect.

  Cate switched syringes, drawing up the lidocaine next. She pressed the needle into the skin around the wound in measured increments, numbing the area efficiently. Densa flinched at first but barely reacted as Cate finished.

  One stitch at a time, she worked methodically, looping the suture through torn flesh with the precision of someone who had done this before. The wound was deep but clean—easier to close. Almost done.

  She tied off the last stitch, clipped the thread, and pressed a fresh bandage over the wound. “That’ll hold,” she said, securing it in place. “You’ll need antibiotics, but you’re not going to bleed out now.”

  Densa’s eyelids fluttered. Relief? Gratitude? Hard to tell.

  Set watched the entire process in silence before finally scoffing. “Fascinating,” he muttered. “I thought you had no memories. And yet you do this so easily.”

  Karen didn’t hesitate. “Rosmalin serves as a medic with the 43rd Lucian Infantry battalion. This is part of who she is; not something from her past.”

  Set studied Cate for a moment longer before giving a grunt of approval. “Perhaps.”

  Cate ignored him, already focusing on the next step. Densa was stable, but there was still a war to stop.