Chapter 5: The General's Grilling
The infirmary door hissed shut behind Cameron, locking with a soft electronic click that echoed in Jill's ears. She lay perfectly still on the sterile gurney, the IV drip cold in her arm, her fingers curled around the crumpled ultrasound printout hidden beneath the thin blanket. Footsteps retreated down the corridor – Landry’s, Davis’s, Cameron’s. The air tasted like disinfectant and dread. Outside her glass-walled isolation room, two armed guards stood rigid, eyes forward, weapons cradled. Hostile biological asset. The label scraped raw against her thoughts. She pressed a palm flat against her abdomen. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Alive. Hers. Not Kestrel’s. Not Landry’s chess piece. The fluttering beneath her ribs was the only truth in the suffocating silence.
The debriefing room door slammed shut. Hard. Cameron flinched, the sound cracking through the tense air like a gunshot. Landry stalked to the head of the table, not sitting, his posture rigid, hands planted on the scarred laminate surface. Major Davis stood near the door, a silent, uncomfortable witness. The harsh overhead light carved deep shadows under Landry’s eyes, turning his face into a mask of granite anger and suspicion.
"Start talking, Colonel," Landry commanded, his voice low, devoid of any warmth. "How long have you known about Doctor Tallentire's condition?" His gaze was a laser sight locked onto Cameron’s face. "And don't insult my intelligence with evasions. That collapse wasn't stress. It was textbook first-trimester syncope. You knew."
Cameron stood at parade rest, spine straight, chin up. The air felt charged, thick with the unspoken accusation: You compromised us. He saw Jill’s ashen face, felt the tremor in her body as he'd held her. Duty warred with something deeper, fiercer. "Sir," he began, voice carefully neutral, "Dr. Tallentire’s health is privileged medical information. HIPAA regulations—"
Landry slammed a fist on the table. A coffee mug jumped. "HIPAA?" He barked a humorless laugh. "Don't lecture me on civilian niceties inside a mountain built on classified alien tech and interstellar threats! That ‘health condition’ is tied to Kestrel!" He leaned forward, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "'Mine.' That's what he said. That child is a target. A weapon. A vulnerability he owns. And you knew she was carrying it, and you kept it quiet." His eyes narrowed to slits. "Why? Because you're sleeping with her?"
Cameron’s jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. The crudeness landed like a blow. He saw Jill flickering on the ultrasound screen, the tiny heartbeat pulsing. Saw the bloody 'K' spray-painted on P3X-512's ruins. Protecting her meant protecting them both now. Protecting it. He dropped the parade rest stance, leaned forward slightly, meeting Landry’s glare head-on. His voice, when it came, was rough-edged, stripped bare. "No, General. Not sleeping with her." He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting Landry absorb the denial. Then, deliberately, quietly: "But the baby? That’s mine."
Davis’s sharp intake of breath was audible. Landry froze. The only sound was the relentless hum of the fluorescent lights.
"Yours?" Landry echoed, disbelief etching deep lines around his mouth. "Mitchell, are you seriously claiming paternity? Right now? To cover for her? For it?"
"It’s not an 'it', Sir," Cameron shot back, a flicker of raw protectiveness cracking his controlled tone. "It's a baby. Human." He gestured sharply towards the corridor leading to the infirmary. "Jill Tallentire is a decorated officer and a brilliant doctor. She was isolated on P3X-512 with SG-9 and Kestrel for weeks before his betrayal. Things… happened. Before anyone knew what he was. She came back. He vanished. She thought he was dead. So did we." He drew a ragged breath. "What happened later… between us… that was separate. Months later. After she was reassigned stateside."
Landry’s eyes bored into him, searching for cracks. "Convenient timing, Colonel. The father conveniently swaps from genocidal maniac to decorated Air Force officer?"
"It's the truth!" Cameron snapped, frustration boiling over. He fought it down, forcing his voice lower, calmer. "Sir, Kestrel’s transmission? It’s psychological warfare. Pure manipulation. He knows Jill’s loyal. He knows how Command would react to news of a pregnancy linked to him. He wants her isolated. Scared. Vulnerable. He wants us questioning her loyalty, doubting her child’s origin. He's using her fear and ours." Cameron slammed his own fist lightly on the table, mirroring Landry. "Calling that child his? It’s a lie designed to fracture us. To make us see a threat where there is none. To turn us against one of our own!"
Landry didn’t blink. He studied Cameron with cold, reptilian calculation. "And your proof? Beyond your… romantic declaration?"
"DNA testing," Cameron stated flatly. "Run it discreetly. Off-world genetics division. Isolate fetal cells. Compare them to mine. To archived samples from Kestrel's last known bio-matter, if we have any." He held Landry’s gaze. "I’m confident, Sir." The words hung, heavy with unspoken challenge.
Silence descended again, thick and oppressive. Landry slowly straightened, his expression unreadable. He glanced at Davis, who looked profoundly uncomfortable. "Major, arrange the test. Ultra-quiet. Eyes only." Davis nodded jerkily and slipped out, leaving the two men alone in the stark room.
Landry walked around the table slowly, stopping directly in front of Cameron. The scent of old coffee and stale air intensified. "Let’s say your little paternity story checks out, Mitchell," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft. "That still leaves Kestrel. He believes that child is his prize. His leverage. He slaughtered SG-9 to send a message. He’s coming. He will target her." Landry’s gaze was relentless. "Your… relationship… makes you compromised. Objectively."
Cameron didn’t flinch. "It makes me motivated, Sir."
A ghost of something – grudging respect? calculation? – flickered in Landry’s eyes. "Motivated men make mistakes. Passion clouds judgment."
"My judgment is clear, General," Cameron countered, his voice low and intense. "My priority is neutralizing Kestrel. Protecting every asset on this base. Especially vulnerable ones." The implication hung heavy: especially her.
Landry stared at him for a long moment. The fluorescent hum seemed to grow louder. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Alright, Colonel. Here’s your play. You lead SG-1 back to P3X-512. Immediately. Find Kestrel. Find out how he survived. Find out his exact capabilities. And then," Landry’s voice hardened to ice, "you end him. Permanently." He leaned in, his breath brushing Cameron’s ear. "Succeed… and perhaps your doctor’s security clearance, her career, her freedom… remain intact. Fail…" Landry straightened, his expression grim. "...and that child she carries will spend its life in a Level 5 containment lab. Understood? The mission clock starts now."
Cameron’s salute was sharp, automatic. "Understood, Sir." His mind was already shifting gears – schematics of P3X-512, SG-1 team readiness, Kestrel’s known tactics. But beneath the tactical surge, a cold dread settled in his gut. Landry held Jill’s future, and their child’s, hostage to his success. Failure wasn’t an option. It was annihilation.
Back in the infirmary, Jill heard the muffled clatter of boots changing shifts outside her door. The new guards exchanged terse whispers she strained to catch. "...Kestrel...gate activation protocols..." "...Tallentire's quarantine indefinite..." "...Mitchell's leading SG-1 out..."
Cameron was leaving. Panic, sharp and acidic, clawed up her throat. He was going back to Kestrel’s hellscape. Alone. Landry was sending him into the teeth of the monster who claimed her child. She needed to warn him. Tell him… tell him everything Kestrel had said in those desperate, isolated moments on P3X-512, things she’d buried deep, things Landry didn’t know. Weaknesses she’d glimpsed behind the monstrous facade.
Her medical bag lay on a chair just out of reach. Inside, tucked beneath spare scrubs, was a small, personal comm device – non-standard issue, a relic from her field medic days. Low power, short range, but untraceable on the SGC’s main network. She’d smuggled it in, a habit from her SG days she’d never broken.
Feigning a wave of nausea worse than her actual queasiness, Jill groaned softly, curling tighter on the gurney. One guard glanced in, his expression bored. She coughed weakly. "Water?" she rasped. "Please? So dry..."
The guard hesitated, glanced at his partner, then unlocked the door with a swipe card, stepping just inside. "Cup’s on the side," he said gruffly, nodding toward a small table near the door, well away from her bag.
Jill pushed herself up slowly, exaggerating her dizziness, letting the blanket slip slightly. She took two shaky steps towards the table, stumbling deliberately against the chair holding her bag. It tilted. The bag thudded to the floor, contents spilling slightly. "Oh, clumsy..." she murmured, bending down with a gasp, pretending the movement pained her.
The guard took a half-step forward. "Ma'am, let me—"
"No, it's fine!" she insisted, her voice breathy with feigned exertion. Her hand darted into the jumbled mess of bandages and pens, closing around the cool, familiar shape of the comm. She palmed it instantly, clutching it against her thigh as she straightened, holding the water cup she’d grabbed. "See? Fine. Thank you." She took a small sip, her grey eyes wide, innocent.
The guard grunted, eyeing the spilled bag suspiciously, but backed out, relocking the door.
Alone again, heart hammering against her ribs, Jill slid back onto the gurney, turning her back to the guards. Under the thin blanket, she thumbed the comm device alive. Its tiny screen glowed faintly. She entered Cameron’s personal frequency – a number she’d memorized months ago during late-night briefings. Her fingers trembled as she typed, rapid and desperate:
> CAM. KESTREL’S WEAK SPOT. LEFT TEMPLE. NEURAL BOOSTER IMPLANT. OVERLOAD VULNERABLE. MAG PULSE >5 GHZ. HE TOLD ME. TRUST ME. BE SAFE. J.
She hit send. The device pulsed once, confirming transmission. A tiny flare of hope ignited amidst the crushing fear. Had it gone through? Would he get it before stepping through the Gate? She clutched the comm hidden beneath the blanket, the ultrasound printout crumpled beside her, waiting in the humming stillness, willing Cameron to survive the trap Landry was forcing him to walk into. The fluttering heartbeat beneath her hand felt impossibly fragile against the enormity of the storm gathering beyond the infirmary walls. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. A countdown echoing Kestrel’s distorted promise.
The comm device remained silent and cool beneath Jill’s palm. The infirmary air hung thick with antiseptic and dread. Outside the glass, the guards shifted, their boots scraping softly, eyes scanning the empty corridor. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. The tiny heartbeat felt like a frantic bird trapped within her ribs, each flutter a counterpoint to the suffocating stillness. Landry’s words echoed: Hostile biological asset. Containment. Her knuckles whitened around the crumpled ultrasound image. Yours, she thought fiercely at the tiny shape. Only yours.
The silence stretched, broken only by the low hum of the IV pump. Nausea coiled like a serpent in her gut, a familiar, unwelcome greasy tide. She swallowed hard, the taste of bile bitter on her tongue. She needed water, but reaching for the cup meant moving, attracting attention. The guards’ vigilance was absolute, unnerving. Every rustle of the blanket felt amplified. Did they see the comm? Did Cameron get the message? The questions looped, sharp and unanswerable. She closed her eyes, focusing on the steady thu-thump beneath her hand, willing Cameron strength across the silent mountain.
In the corridor, Cameron moved with controlled urgency, the sterile air tasting flat after the charged atmosphere of the debrief. Landry’s parting words vibrated in his skull: End him. Permanently. The cost of failure – Jill locked away, their child dissected under microscopes – was unthinkable. His mind raced, assembling SG-1, requisitioning gear, reviewing P3X-512’s fragmented MALP feed. The bloody ‘K’ symbol glared from his memory. His prize. His leverage. Cameron’s jaw tightened.
As he neared the main briefing room, a faint vibration buzzed against his thigh. His personal, encrypted comm. Subtly, he angled his body, shielding the screen from view. Jill’s ID flashed. His breath hitched. He thumbed it open.
> CAM. KESTREL’S WEAK SPOT. LEFT TEMPLE. NEURAL BOOSTER IMPLANT. OVERLOAD VULNERABLE. MAG PULSE >5 GHZ. HE TOLD ME. TRUST ME. BE SAFE. J.
The words seared into his mind.Left temple. Neural booster. Mag pulse. Information Landry didn’t have. A chink in Kestrel’s monstrous armor. Relief warred with a deeper chill. Kestrel had told her. Confided. In the isolation of that cursed planet, before the mask fully slipped. The intimacy of that knowledge felt like a violation. He erased the message instantly, the comm going dark. Trust me. He did. Wholeheartedly. This changed the equation.
He pushed into the briefing room. Teal’c stood impassive near the Stargate schematic, Carter was already buried in a tablet, adjusting settings, and Vala leaned against the wall, examining her nails with exaggerated nonchalance. "Colonel," Carter acknowledged, looking up. "We're prepping for P3X-512. MALP telemetry confirms the gate’s active but unstable. Energy signatures are… chaotic."
"Chaotic is Kestrel’s middle name," Cameron replied, his voice tight but focused. His gaze swept the team. "Listen up. Intel update. Kestrel’s got a hardware weakness. Left temple. Neural booster implant. Susceptible to magnetic pulse overload above five gigahertz." He saw Carter’s eyes snap to his, sharp and analytical. "Integrate a mag-pulse emitter into the MALP probe array, Carter. Highest priority. Set it to trigger on proximity or remote command."
Carter was already typing furiously. "Neural booster? That explains the enhanced reflexes. Overloading it… could cause catastrophic neural feedback. Effective, but messy."
"Messy works," Cameron stated flatly. "Teal’c, Vala – expect heavy resistance. He’s slaughtered SG-9. This isn’t reconnaissance anymore. It’s termination." He met Teal’c’s steady gaze. "Maximum prejudice."
Teal’c inclined his head once. "He will be stopped."
Vala stopped examining her nails."Termination? Sounds positively exhilarating. Much better than inventorying naquadah generators. Do we get hazard pay?"
"Focus, Vala," Cameron snapped, sharper than intended. The image of Jill, pale and guarded, flashed behind his eyes. "This isn’t a game. Kestrel’s fixated. He’s targeting personnel." He didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t. "Suit up. We dial in ten."
The infirmary door hissed open. Jill tensed, expecting guards, Landry, another interrogation. Instead, Nurse Wilkins bustled in, her usual brisk efficiency softened by a flicker of sympathy. She checked Jill’s IV, her touch gentle. "How’s the nausea, Doctor Tallentire? Any better?"
"Waves," Jill managed, forcing a weak smile. "Comes and goes." She watched Wilkins’s eyes dart nervously towards the guards outside. "They treating you okay?" Wilkins asked quietly, adjusting the saline drip.
"As well as prisoners get treated," Jill murmured, the bitterness leaking out.
Wilkins leaned closer, pretending to check the monitor. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "Heard Colonel Mitchell’s taking SG-1 out. Right now. Through the Gate." She glanced meaningfully at Jill. "He stopped by the supply bay earlier. Looked… intense. Grabbed some extra medpacks himself. Said they were ‘heading somewhere messy’." She squeezed Jill’s arm briefly. "He’ll be okay. They all will." She straightened, her voice returning to normal volume. "Try to rest, Doctor. Small sips."
The door hissed shut behind her. Jill closed her eyes, clutching the hidden comm. He got the message. He was going, armed with her secret. Relief washed over her, cold and sharp, followed immediately by a fresh wave of terror. Messy. Termination. The fluttering beneath her ribs felt impossibly fragile. Be safe, Cam. The sterile lights glared down, the guards’ shadows unmoving against the glass. The mountain itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the gate to spin.
In the Gate Room, the event horizon erupted with its familiar unstable shimmer. Cameron stood before the ramp, geared up, P90 gripped tight. Carter gave a thumbs-up from the control booth. "Mag-pulse emitter integrated and primed, Colonel. Ready on your signal."
"Dial it up," Cameron ordered, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. The chevrons locked with decisive clangs. The unstable vortex swirled, streaks of sickly green flashing within the blue. Cameron adjusted his helmet, the image of Jill’s ultrasound printout vivid in his mind – the tiny, pulsing light. Beside him, Teal’c radiated stoic readiness, Vala bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, eyes gleaming with dangerous anticipation. The wormhole stabilized with a final, sucking roar. Kestrel’s Gate.
"SG-1," Cameron barked, stepping onto the ramp. "Move out!" He plunged into the shimmering blue-green light, the cold energy washing over him, carrying the weight of Jill’s secret, Landry’s ultimatum, and the desperate need to silence Kestrel’s claim forever. The wormhole swallowed him whole.
The wormhole’sucked Cameron whole, the usual disorienting the familiar blue swirl replace replacedd replaced by the nauseating lurching lurch of molecular disassembly. reassembly. Then, impact – icy, thin air smellingair tatsting of ozone and and burnt ozone and something else, beneath it, like old blood. P3X-512. He staggered slightly on disembarkation, boots crunching on blackened, crystalline debris. The silence screamed. No wind. No birds, no hum of alien life. Just the oppressive, heavy quiet pressing down.
" after the wormhole shut down behind them with a final, sickly-green flash dying away.
"Green static," Carter murmured, voice tight in hissing through helmet comms, her scanner whirring."Environment stable but... wrong. Residual energy signatures match the MALP distortions. Atmosphere breathable barely. Recommend masks for particulates." She gestured at the haze of fine, glittering ash swirling in the weak light.
Cameron scanned the devastation through his gut tightening. Shattered crystal structures jutted like broken teeth against a bruised purple sky. Scorch marks radiated from a central point near the DHD, blackened and cracked. And there, the bodies bodies SG- intact. Pieces. Familiar tan fatigues torn, melted into the crystal shards. His gloved hand tightened on the P90 stock. "Spread out. Carter, deploy the MALP. Prioritize the mag-pulse emitter positioning. Vala, Teal'c – sweep perimeter. Flanking patterns. Watch for traps."
Teal’c moved with silent efficiency that bypassed words, his staff weapon unfolding with a low hum. Vala sighed dramatically, "Charming venue, Cameron. Reminds me of that delightful Goa’uld pleasure moon after the ion storm. All the atmosphere, none of the amenities." She unslung her own weapon, eyes suddenly sharp, scanning the jagged shadows with professional intensity. Her fingers drummed a rapid tattoo on the stock.
Jill’s breath hitched as a sudden, sharp cramp knifed through her lower abdomen. She pressed a hand hard below her navel, curling inward on the gurney. The fluttering beneath her palm felt frantic, erratic. Thu-thump-thu-thump. Too fast? The sterile light glared. Nurse Wilkins had left. The guards’ silhouettes against the glass partition hadn’t moved. Isolation pressed in, cold and absolute. She fumbled under the blanket for the crumpled ultrasound image, the tiny bean-shape blurring. Hold on, she thought desperately, just hold on. Landry’s voice slithered back: Hostile biological asset. A fresh wave of nausea washed over her, sour and thick.
Carter crouched by the MALP, her fingers flying over the integrated controls. "Emitter is hot and synced," she reported. "Proximity trigger set for fifty meters. Remote activation ready. Readings are... Colonel, the energy spike that did this..." She gestured grimly at the carnage. "...it originated from the gate. Not through it." She looked up, her face pale under her helmet visor. "He used the wormhole itself as a weapon. Channeled destabilized energy back through the event horizon as SG-9 tried to dial out."
Cameron froze. That wasn't just brutality. It was terrifying technical precision. Kestrel wasn't just strong; he'd evolved. Adapted. "Can he do it again?" The question hung, cold.
"Unlikely without massive preparation," Carter replied, her brow furrowed. "The Gate system here is fried. Capacitors blown. But if he has another power source..." Her voice trailed off as a low, guttural groan echoed from a nearby pile of rubble.
Teal’c moved instantly, silent as shadow, his staff weapon aimed. Vala flanked left, covering. Cameron approached, P90 raised, heart pounding against his ribs. "Identify!" he barked.
A bloodied hand emerged, clawing at the blackened crystal. An SGC patch, scorched but visible. A face, half-melted, contorted in agony, emerged. "M-Mitchell..." the man choked, blood bubbling at his lips. SG-9's medic. Lieutenant Hayes. Barely recognizable.
"Hayes!" Cameron knelt, ignoring the gore, pressing a hand to the man's ruined chest, finding no purchase. "Report. Where's Kestrel?"
Hayes’s remaining eye focused with immense effort. "N-not... here... trick..." He gasped, a wet, rattling sound. "He... left... before blast... back... gate..." Each word was agony. "Said... Tell... Jill..." His hand spasmed, grasping Cameron's arm with surprising strength. "...watching... her... now..."
A chill colder than P3X-512's thin air shot down Cameron’s spine. Watching her? Now? Before Hayes could finish, his body arched violently, a final, silent scream tearing from his ravaged throat, then went utterly, terrifyingly still. Teal’c scanned the body, his expression grim. "No life signs. Neural activity ceased catastrophically. Remotely triggered."
"Remote?" Vala hissed, scanning the oppressive skyline. "He’s playing with us. From where?"
"Back gate," Carter whispered, eyes wide with dawning horror. "Hayes said 'back gate'. He meant Earth. Kestrel dialed out from here... to Earth."
The infirmary wall comm crackled to life with a burst of static. Jill jumped, her hand instinctively covering her belly. The voice that emerged wasn't the base intercom. It was digitally distorted, stripped of humanity, robotic and chillingly intimate in the small room.
"Vital signs stable. Fetal heart rate elevated. Stress response noted." It paused. "Unnecessary, Jillian. The child thrives."
Jill froze, blood draining from her face. The guards outside snapped to attention, weapons half-raised, scanning the empty corridor in confusion.
"Isolation is... quaint. Pointless." The distorted voice continued, devoid of malice, simply stating fact. "The infirmary systems provide an adequate vantage. Tell Cameron Mitchell... the hunter hunts shadows. The prize remains within his grasp."
A low hum emanated from the diagnostic panel beside Jill's bed. The display flickered, numbers scrambling before resolving into a single, pulsing line – a perfect, steady heartbeat rhythm. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Her baby's heartbeat, amplified and displayed on the machine Kestrel now controlled.
"Observe," the voice stated. The screen zoomed in, impossibly, showing a grainy, real-time ultrasound image – the tiny, curled form, limbs shifting slightly. "Perfect."
The comm clicked off. Silence slammed back, thick and suffocating. Jill stared at the screen, at the undeniable proof Kestrel was inside the mountain, watching her, watching her child. The guards were shouting into their radios, panicked. Landry's protocols meant nothing. Containment was a joke. Kestrel was here. The fluttering beneath her hand synced perfectly with the pulsing line on the screen, a grotesque echo. Mine, the silence screamed.