All That We Leave Behind

[Zed_PM]

Well you deserve it. It really feels like the characters from the show too in the way you wrote their dialogue.
Can't wait to get back to it. Hopefully whoever is hammering away next door won't be hammering away tomorrow. I really hate distractions.

[SF_and_Coffee]

Ugh, I've had loud neighbors before. They're really annoying. I hope yours quiet down!

[Zed_PM]

No chance. I'm praying for storms here. Even when one is brewing the hammering doesn't stop. That hasn't stopped me from reading though.

[SF_and_Coffee]

New chapter up, on both sites.

All That We Leave Behind on Fanfic.net

All That We Leave Behind on my own site

[SF_and_Coffee]

New chapter is up for All That We Leave Behind:

On fanfiction.net: Chapter 20 - Confession

On my own website

[SF_and_Coffee]

New chapter up for All That We Leave Behind

(available in the usual places)

[SF_and_Coffee]

Sample chapter time!


General Hammond gathered his notes from SG-1's debriefing and tucked them into a folder before standing and draining the lukewarm remnants of coffee in his cup. He carried the folder with him into his office to lay it on a corner of his desk as he settled into his chair. O'Neill's impatience had been palpable throughout the meeting, and Hammond completely sympathized. After all that had happened, to be suddenly forced to wait on account of bad weather had to be frustrating, and Jack O'Neill was never the type to take frustration well. The general found himself almost as anxious as his 2IC for the storms on P2A-870 to let up so that SG-1 could get on with the search for Colonel Cromwell. Losing people in the line of duty was an unavoidable fact of military life, but for the moment, Cromwell's status was "missing in action" and Hammond sincerely hoped he would be found alive and returned safely to Earth. The sooner, the better for all concerned.

Over the months since Hammond had first learned of the decision taken by the Pentagon to place three Special Ops teams on standby in case of a foothold situation, and of the identity of the commanding officers of each team, he'd never once considered asking to have Cromwell and his men reassigned. For one thing, Cromwell didn't deserve that sort of negative reflection on his record. From all reports, the man was extremely good at what he did; likewise the men in his command. For another, as of his first briefing on the Stargate Project, Cromwell would have been made aware -- if he hadn't been already -- of O'Neill's presence at and position in the command structure of the SGC. Some inner sense prompted the general to consider that at the very least, affording him the potential opportunity to balance the scales with regard to O'Neill would be kinder than having him removed from this assignment. Of course, it was to be fervently hoped that there would be no need ever to use the external teams at all, but if a crisis arose, the possibility of having someone as capable as Cromwell leading the reinforcements might not be a bad thing. O'Neill might have his issues with the man, but Hammond had faith that should his 2IC ever be in a situation where he was forced to deal with his former teammate, he would manage to do so appropriately.

But that didn't mean he was going to ruffle O'Neill's feathers ahead of time by letting him know that Cromwell was assigned as part of their backup plan. He'd kept the information to himself for months, hoping it would never become an issue. By the time he became aware it might be about to be one, he'd been whisked away aboard a jet for a face to face meeting with his commander in chief, leaving events to play out however they might in his absence.

On returning to the SGC after his unplanned trip to Washington for an all-night session with the President and the Joint Chiefs, Hammond had found the two men face-to-face in the Control Room. Indeed it was Cromwell in command of the strike team. A little grayer, perhaps, but there was no mistaking that stocky build and piercing gaze. Drawing closer, the general noted that something in those eyes was different now. The bleak despair visible across a steakhouse table over three years earlier was gone, replaced by a grim determination. This was truly a man on a mission, Hammond realized; one that went far beyond anything the Pentagon had sent him here to do. God help him. The general meant that thought as sincerely as he'd ever meant anything in his life.

Brazening his way through the situation, he'd addressed Cromwell as though the two had never met, the Special Ops colonel snapping him a salute and responding in the same innocent vein. And when, moments later, Cromwell volunteered to remain behind in the Control Room with O'Neill to set the auto-destruct, Hammond knew he had no choice but to accept the man's action. To do otherwise would not only risk letting O'Neill know that he suspected there was something wrong between the two officers, but would also send the message that he considered one or both men incapable of laying aside their differences and handling the current crisis in a fully professional manner. Not to mention that he had no desire to deprive Cromwell of the opportunity to at least attempt to redeem himself in the eyes of his former friend and teammate. If volunteering to face along with him the danger of setting and then hopefully outrunning the auto-destruct before it destroyed the Stargate and a portion of the surrounding base might do anything to rehabilitate their friendship, then Hammond was certainly not going to stand in the way. Besides, if there were an outside chance that Captain Carter could come up with a better solution — unlikely as he'd thought it at the time — then he needed her topside and working on it. That left O'Neill and Cromwell as the only two officers present in the Control Room itself who could be left to set the auto-destruct. He wasn't about to put a call out through the entire base to find someone to take Cromwell's place. O'Neill would just have to cope.

Of course, Carter had indeed devised a better solution, though it put the two colonels in an even trickier situation, and in the end resulted in Cromwell's loss through the misbehaving wormhole. Whatever had happened between the his leaving the two of them alone in the Control Room and Cromwell's fall was something the general could only speculate on, but clearly, O'Neill was keen to find his former teammate and rescue him. From his 2IC's demeanor, Hammond inferred that this was not only a matter of professional duty, but a personal desire as well. Now if only the weather on P2A-870 would clear and let him get on with it, they would all breathe easier.

***

Jack O'Neill leaned back in his office chair, stretching his arms above his head, until pain across his shoulder blades reminded him that he still had healing injuries. Grimacing, he yanked open his top desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen, shaking three tablets from the bottle and swallowing them dry. Returning the bottle to the drawer, he paused, his eyes drawn to the coin sitting on the corner of the desk, next to his mouse pad. Frank's coin. He picked it up, force of habit prompting him to rub it between thumb and forefinger — 'for luck' — as he'd always done with its twin during the years he'd carried it. Tucking the coin into his palm, he pulled the drawer out a little more and rummaged around in its farthest recesses with his other hand until his fingers closed on the item he sought. He drew out a length of chain the same as the one holding his dog tags. From this one depended not a set of tags, but a small leather pouch not much larger than the coin itself, with a zippered opening. It had been hiding in his desk since he'd first taken up occupancy of this office upon his permanent assignment to the SGC, having traveled here in a box of the sort of personal odds and ends no office seemed complete without but half of which were rarely if ever used. A couple of similar pouches lived in the back of a different drawer at his house, one of them holding the twin to the coin he'd found on P2A-870. This one, however, was empty, and O'Neill unzipped it, placing Frank's coin inside and closing the zipper again. He slipped the chain over his head, tucking the pouch inside his T-shirt to lie flat against his chest.

He shut the drawer and glanced at his clock. In another twenty-five minutes, the control room techs were due once again to query the MALP left on P2A-870. The previous two queries had only confirmed that the storms were still going on. According to the MALP's camera, their little camp near the stargate was taking a real beating from the rain, its tents flattened and water pooled in every dimple of the ground. And that was at the top of a hill. O'Neill wondered what kind of effect the incessant downpour was having on the streams he and his team had encountered in the woods, not to mention the river they fed. He wouldn't be surprised to find major flooding once they returned to the planet, and he sincerely hoped that Frank had found shelter on some sort of high ground. Damn this storm, anyway.

It was nearly lunchtime, and with any luck, this time the MALP would tell them that the rains had abated and SG-1 could return to the planet and resume the search for Frank. If that was going to happen, he might as well grab a sandwich while he waited out those remaining twenty-five minutes, because he sure as hell wasn't going to find time to eat again for a while. Pushing himself away from the desk, he unfolded his lanky frame from the chair, wincing at the twinge in his right knee, and headed for the commissary.

Arriving, he discovered he hadn't been the only one to have that thought. The other three members of his team were already present and in line for food. He joined them, collecting a nod of greeting from Teal'c, and quiet 'hellos' from Daniel and Carter. Having obtained their meals, the four retreated to a far table.

Daniel was the first to speak. "Do you think the rains will have stopped this time?"

O'Neill eyed him over a ham sandwich. "How would I know?"

"Even a storm that big has to blow itself out sometime," offered Carter, picking at a plate of chicken salad and greens. "It's been several hours, so hopefully it's run its course."

"What concerns me is that those woods are likely to be flooded," O'Neill said. "There were a lot of little streams in there. We'll be lucky to be able to even use the trails."

"Indeed there will likely be some flooding," agreed Teal'c, "but anyone in the flooded areas will have moved to high ground, including your friend. This may make the search easier."

"If we can get to him," said O'Neill darkly. He fell silent, addressing himself to his lunch so as to be finished by the time the techs were due to dial the gate and take weather readings from the MALP. Following his lead, his teammates did likewise.

A half-hour later, they stood in the Control Room, watching as the gate was shut down. The storms on P2A-870 continued unabated. If anything, they'd grown more intense as the morning wore on. O'Neill walked silently from the room. Reaching the corridor, he drove his fist against the wall with a muffled curse, the physical pain serving to distract him for a moment from the feeling of utter helplessness that threatened to envelop his mind. Feeling eyes on him, he glanced up in time to see one of Janet's medical techs paused at the intersection of the cross corridor, watching him curiously. "If you tell Doc you saw me do that —"

"Do what, sir?"

"Thank you."

"Yes, sir." The tech nodded and continued on his way.

A polite cough came from behind him, and O'Neill turned to find Daniel watching him, a sympathetic look on his face. "Jack…" he began.

"I know. 'It has to stop sometime.' Right?"

The archaeologist appeared uncomfortable. "Well, yeah." At his team leader's look, Daniel blinked, pushing up his glasses. "Listen, Jack, I know this is difficult for you. I know how it feels to want to go out and find someone you've lost, and to not be able to do it right away."

The colonel took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Of course Daniel understood, if anyone did. "Thanks, Daniel."

[SF_and_Coffee]

Another sample passage, since the question of Tok'ra-human interaction was brought up on another thread:

Cadogan moved one of his knights and sat back, listening to the pop and crackle of the fire in the hearth. Lamplight painted the study with a golden glow, and the fragrance of mulled ale rose from the mug at his elbow, all three helping to dispel the chill that he hoped would prove to be winter's last gasp. He'd had about enough of snowy evenings for a while.

Across the table, the man known as Neirin surveyed the chessboard, looking for the best answering move. Having only begun to learn chess a mere two weeks ago, the cadlywydd knew himself to be still very much a novice, but every once in a while he managed a move that caused his teacher to pause and think for a few moments before countering it. Of course, having two minds available to address the game gave Cadogan something of an unfair advantage, and after the first couple of games, he'd informed his symbiote Sabar that they would have to alternate, each playing a game solo, while the other merely observed rather than actively offering advice. After all, Neirin -- Frank, Cadogan remembered, though no one called the quiet, dark-eyed man by that name anymore -- had only himself to rely on.

{Himself and many years of experience in playing this particular game, you mean,} Cadogan's symbiote reminded him drolly.

Hush. Maybe I just want to see how well I can learn this on my own, quipped his host in response. I would think you would, too, even though I know you've played many others like it.

On those occasions when Sabar took control and played, it was still Cadogan who did the talking, or at the very least, on the few occasions where Sabar uttered a comment of his own he was careful to do it in Cadogan's voice, as the cadlywydd sensed that Neirin was still somewhat uncomfortable with the Tok'ra. As far as he could tell, Neirin didn't suspect he was interacting with anyone other than the purely human half of the blended pair.

{I would think that he's known us long enough by now to perhaps grow accustomed to me,} Sabar opined silently. {It's been more than half a year.}

Cadogan chuckled inwardly. It took longer than that for me, if you'll recall. When I first met you and Berwyn, I wasn't sure what to think about the idea of two beings in a single body. I spent nearly a year and a half serving under the pair of you before I was really used to the concept.

The cadlywydd thought back to his early days with the rebel group that Sabar and his previous host had begun quietly building, a little over a century earlier. He'd been a young man then, barely into his twenties, and fired up by the ideals of Sabar's host Berwyn, a Pridanic man who'd spent some time as a slave at Bel's court before being given as a gift to Sabar, a Tok'ra operative doing deep cover work, posing as the emissary of yet another Goa'uld. Sabar had taken Berwyn with him when he returned to the Tok'ra, settling him among other humans on a free world whose inhabitants occasionally provided the Tok'ra with hosts. Years later, as Sabar's host was dying of old age, Berwyn had come forward and offered himself as a replacement, out of gratitude for his freedom. Sabar was reluctant at first to accept the offer, feeling that having formerly been enslaved, Berwyn deserved to live a fully independent life, but the Pridani man persisted. Once blended with Sabar, he'd managed to convince the Tok'ra operative to turn his energies to directly aiding the Pridani people in gaining their freedom, and Cadogan had been among the second generation of Pridani recruited to that fight. Later becoming the pair's aide, he'd eventually become Sabar's host as well, when Berwyn sustained battle injuries too severe to be healed on the fly and there'd been no time to do anything else. Eighty years had passed since then, during which the fortunes of the rebels had alternately risen and fallen, sometimes precipitously. Only in recent years had the movement once more gathered enough strength to dare engage in operations on the scale now being employed, and even so, much of its work was still of a covert, hit-and-run nature.

{He seems so... adaptable, otherwise,} Sabar observed. {And he does all right with most of the other Tok'ra he's met.}

He is adaptable, but I can tell when someone is less than comfortable with us, and Neirin's still at that point. He doesn't interact all that much with the other Tok'ra, and in most cases, he only knows the symbiote, rather than the host. You and I are the only pair he really spends appreciable time with, let alone having cultivated any sort of connection with either partner. He's had a lot else to cope with, don't forget. It can't have been easy, being thrust into in a strange place by whatever incident it was that sent him here, and he still won't talk about it. We're just fortunate he's comfortable enough with me to have taken charge of a team when I asked him to, since he's a good officer. It would have been a shame for his skills to go to waste when we need people like him.

{At least he's gotten to know you. If he's going to continue working closely with us, at some point he really should get to know me as well.}

He will, if you give him time. Though it does occur to me that while we're playing this game with him, we're more firmly on his ground, which is perhaps the best place for it to happen. Cadogan paused, thinking. I feel a bit duplicitous over this, but I doubt Neirin realizes that part of the time he's been speaking with you during these lessons, rather than with me directly. I wonder what he'd think if I told him you wanted to learn the game yourself?

{Try it,} suggested Sabar, just as Neirin completed his answering move.

Cadogan returned his full attention to the board. I will, once I finish this game. Right now, though, let me concentrate. And no, I don't want help.


[...]

Cadogan had played White this time around, and pretended to brush a piece of dust from a captured Black pawn as he spoke. "You know, Neirin, Sabar follows along when we play." He looked up, gauging the other man's reaction. "He finds it fascinating, and tells me he would enjoy learning the game from you himself, directly, rather than merely observing." He held out the pawn.

Neirin reached to take it. "I wasn't aware the Tok'ra enjoyed games."

Cadogan grinned. "Oh, absolutely, they do. They're really not so different from you and me, despite being another species entirely. Among themselves, they play several different types of games, some quite similar in nature to this one. Any intelligent species is going to have a concept of play, I think, and also a need for entertainment and intellectual challenges of some sort. The Tok'ra certainly have those, and what's more, they've lived in such close relationship to human hosts for such a long time that we've surely rubbed off on them a bit as well."

Cadogan could see his friend mulling this over as he set up the board again for another game. "I guess I never really thought about it that way," Neirin allowed. "I suppose I should have, since it makes a lot of sense. I'm just not used to Tok'ra, even now. I never encountered one before --" He paused, seeming to discard whatever he'd been about to say, before continuing, "--well, before coming here."

The cadlywydd nodded. "I understand, Neirin. We both do. You've had to make a lot of adjustments over the past three seasons since you arrived. And you seem to have done so quite well, you know."

"That's largely thanks to you, and to your family," Neirin told him. "And if Sabar has had any hand in whatever moved you to do what you've done for me, then I owe him a debt of gratitude as well."

Cadogan shook his head. "You don't owe anyone anything, Neirin."

"That's where you're wrong."

"Neirin, I don't know what your people's customs are, and unless you want to tell me, I don't need to. But you already know that as far as I'm concerned -- or anyone else, for that matter -- you've been a Pridano yourself ever since you decided to throw your lot in with us. Everything since that time has been no more than what we'd do with anyone like you. You're useful to the Am Rhyddid, so we placed you where we can benefit from your talents. You're a member of this community, so you have your share of its resources, and you know as well as I do that you've never failed to handle your share of the work that goes into its functioning. I really don't know what other explanation to offer you." Cadogan shrugged. He couldn't for the life of him fathom just what it was that made the other man insist on seeing himself as an outsider after this long, when so many had taken it on themselves to treat him as one who belonged here.

The brown eyes that met his across the chessboard held a depth of some feeling Cadogan couldn't put a name to. Whatever it was, though, it seemed to be at the core of Neirin's struggle. "I don't mean that, Cadogan." He gestured around the study. "I'm talking about here. This house; or rather, the household. You. Tesni. Anwen, Idris, everyone else. I'm not family, but you treat me like I am, and it's been a huge help, though I have no idea why you do it. But it occurs to me that with you and Sabar linked as you obviously are… he's family as well, isn't he?"

Ah, thought Cadogan. Now we're getting somewhere.

{Perhaps,} put in Sabar.

Hush. Aloud, Cadogan said, "You're right about that, Neirin. Sabar is part of this family, as much as anyone else is. He has an equal share in my life; hard not to, when he goes wherever I go, and experiences what I experience."

"He's been awfully quiet about it, then." Neirin picked up the black king, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger like a worry-stone. "Please tell me this is normal, and that he's not been staying in the background for my comfort when I'm around."

Cadogan stared at him a moment. The man had hit the truth squarely on-target. "Tesni made me aware early on that you seemed uncomfortable dealing with both a host and a symbiote in the same body, and since you've had to deal with me more, Sabar and I thought it best if perhaps — at least as much as possible — you only had to deal with me for a while, at least until you'd adjusted to some of the other aspects of being here among us."

{I did? I seem to recall this being primarily your idea.}

You're not helping, Sabar, Cadogan told his symbiote. He could see Neirin observing his face, and knew he could probably tell there was an exchange of some sort going on.

[SF_and_Coffee]

New chapter up!

On my site

On FF.net

[WraithRichard]

I read the first half of the first chapter (too much to do and too many people want my attention at the moment. ARG!)

I'm going to keep reading, but I felt the wording made things seem distant and feel less urgent than the should.

Also, why is the DHD not called a DHD? Did I miss something?

[SF_and_Coffee]

Cromwell has never been through a Stargate before, and has only had a rather bare-bones briefing from the Air Force on its details, along with being given selected mission reports -- or excerpts from them -- from some of the SG teams... just enough to know what the Stargate Program is up against in the Goa'uld. Most of the information he was given would have centered on the Goa'uld themselves and how to A) recognize them and B) kill them. That was the basic mission the Air Force intended for him, and it was all expected to take place on Earth, within the confines of Cheyenne Mountain.

He's never encountered a DHD, and while he may have been given the term, he may not have fully retained it among the mass of information he was given in one big lump. He probably wouldn't have considered knowing anything about DHDs a high priority, since he would never have expected to encounter one. In fact, he was never intended to travel through the Stargate at all, since his Special Ops team was designated as a secondary line of defense for Earth should an alien incursion happen within Cheyenne Mountain. His job, and that of his men, was to buy time for the Pentagon brass to mobilize a full-scale plan to deal with such an invasion, and most likely, to die in the course of that duty. He led his men into the mountain expecting hostile aliens, and instead found a gravity well, time dilation and a connection to a black hole... along with his first face-to-face encounter with his former best friend (Jack) in over eight years.

You've seen the episode "A Matter of Time", right? Cromwell is the Special Ops colonel from that episode. He's not a member of the SGC itself. If you haven't seen it, watch it on Hulu or DVD before you read any more. (It's in Season 2, episode 15 or 16 depending on your DVD set.) It will clear up a lot of confusion. If you try to read this story without having seen that episode, you won't understand it. Trust me.

There's a reason why Chapter 1 (and some of the others) are written as reflective and less-than-urgent. Cromwell is rather bemused by his sudden change in circumstance, and doesn't really have much option other than to wait for rescue, because he doesn't know any way of getting back to Earth on his own right now. The urgency is all on SG-1 in the early chapters, but I had to lay a lot of background, since Cromwell, who is the central character, was only ever seen in one episode. There's no way to just dive right into an action/adventure scene with him from the outset, because other than what little information we are given about him in the episode he was in, the audience has no idea who he is as a person or what his background is.

I promise that if you've seen the episode, and you keep reading, all things will become clear. At the halfway point of Chapter 1, everyone is pretty much still trying to figure out what the hell happened, including Cromwell and everyone at the SGC.

Oh, and since the chapters are broken out differently on FF.net than they are on my website, would you be kind enough to tell me which site you are reading the story on? It will make it much easier for me to figure out where you are. Thanks!

[WraithRichard]

Oh, and since the chapters are broken out differently on FF.net than they are on my website, would you be kind enough to tell me which site you are reading the story on? It will make it much easier for me to figure out where you are. Thanks!

I'm reading it off your site at the moment.

I still figured that he'd be briefed on stuff similar to 'That's a stargate, that's a DHD. Don't touch either of them." But I'll buy he forgot that or someone forgot to give him that line. It's nothing big.

[SF_and_Coffee]

Like I said, DHD's weren't something he'd ever have been expected to encounter, so even if they did mention it, he'd have likely filed it under "too much information". Basically, I'm leaning toward him not having been told its name, though, or much of anything about it. Remember, the Stargate in the SGC doesn't even have one, and when dealing with Top-Secret information, the US military tends to function very much on a "need to know" basis.

One recurring theme of Cromwell's experience is going to be his frustration with the limitations and gaps in what the Air Force told him. This is actually part of what drives the plot. In the past, he's managed to get information on some things via back-channel sleuthing, but when it came to the facts of the Stargate program, he depended on his briefings. Now that he's actually fallen through the gate, he's finding out that the Air Force really could have informed him better, although he sort of understands why they didn't.

[Starfist]

Cool new chapter.
And I can understand why 'wormhole physics' gave SF&C a headache.

[WraithRichard]

Like I said, DHD's weren't something he'd ever have been expected to encounter, so even if they did mention it, he'd have likely filed it under "too much information". Basically, I'm leaning toward him not having been told its name, though, or much of anything about it. Remember, the Stargate in the SGC doesn't even have one, and when dealing with Top-Secret information, the US military tends to function very much on a "need to know" basis.

One recurring theme of Cromwell's experience is going to be his frustration with the limitations and gaps in what the Air Force told him. This is actually part of what drives the plot. In the past, he's managed to get information on some things via back-channel sleuthing, but when it came to the facts of the Stargate program, he depended on his briefings. Now that he's actually fallen through the gate, he's finding out that the Air Force really could have informed him better, although he sort of understands why they didn't.

That makes a lot of sense, especially when a motif of the story. I can see this happening (or, more precisely, not happening) now.

One thing I forgot. While I can't say anything about the majority of planets, nor how much Cromwell would know, given how he's an uninformed flunky, but not all planets rotate the same way. West isn't always the direction stars, suns, and moons (they seem too close from the description) set.

Admittedly, this is just nitpicking and ignoring this won't hurt the story; it's just something to consider.