Some more of that crossover thing.
So easily distracted by the shiny. I'm pathetic. Yes, I will work on the Five Things story. Yes I will work on Thunder.
I still don't really have a plot. Well, not much of one. Where's Harry in season 7, anyway? Gone for good, right? Damn.
Part 1 is here.
"Translator what?" Daniel let his jaw drop open.
"Microbes. They inject you," Crichton tapped his arm, "and they colonize at the base of the brain. They don't work for everybody, but it helps a lot."
Jack shrugged and stirred his coffee. "No weirder than what the Gate does, and we don't even have an explanation. Unless you really think all those people are speaking English?" He lifted a sardonic brow at Daniel.
"Yeah, well --" After the first year, and too many arguments -- one of them involving thrown tapioca pudding, if he recalled correctly -- Daniel and Sam had sworn off trying to explain the language issues, pending new data. It was a sore spot. "I still don't understand why it doesn't work for written language--" he trailed off at a cold look from Sam. The pact, right.
"Nice to hear someone else bitching about the mysteries of alien technology." Crichton leaned back in his wicker chair, stretching his back. He looked a lot more relaxed than he had ninety minutes and three cups of coffee ago. "I spent the last four years busting my brain against this stuff, and all I'm getting from the DoD and IASA guys is whining cause I can't explain it in words of one syllable."
Sam snickered. "God, yeah. One time, we had this box -- you remember, Daniel, from PT3-984, with the neon squiggles on the cover --"
"Carter."
She closed her mouth and straightened. "Sir?"
Jack had put his sunglasses back on as the sun rose above the roof of the coffee shop. Even in civilian clothes he didn't look like a man on vacation. "Much as I'd love to indulge you in a science-geek bonding moment, we have jobs, Commander Crichton has a job, and T is probably frying in the van. Let's get moving here."
"So, what *is* your issue, folks? You've danced around it long enough."
Daniel sat up: this was his cue. He was pretty sure it wasn't going to go over well. "We don't want you to share any of your alien tech with the defense agencies."
Crichton blinked. "The hell? I thought you guys said you were Air Force! And you just spent an hour telling me about the Big Bads out there!"
"Well, Daniel overstated it, a little," Sam said. "We just don't want you to share it with the NID."
I still don't really have a plot. Well, not much of one. Where's Harry in season 7, anyway? Gone for good, right? Damn.
Part 1 is here.
"Translator what?" Daniel let his jaw drop open.
"Microbes. They inject you," Crichton tapped his arm, "and they colonize at the base of the brain. They don't work for everybody, but it helps a lot."
Jack shrugged and stirred his coffee. "No weirder than what the Gate does, and we don't even have an explanation. Unless you really think all those people are speaking English?" He lifted a sardonic brow at Daniel.
"Yeah, well --" After the first year, and too many arguments -- one of them involving thrown tapioca pudding, if he recalled correctly -- Daniel and Sam had sworn off trying to explain the language issues, pending new data. It was a sore spot. "I still don't understand why it doesn't work for written language--" he trailed off at a cold look from Sam. The pact, right.
"Nice to hear someone else bitching about the mysteries of alien technology." Crichton leaned back in his wicker chair, stretching his back. He looked a lot more relaxed than he had ninety minutes and three cups of coffee ago. "I spent the last four years busting my brain against this stuff, and all I'm getting from the DoD and IASA guys is whining cause I can't explain it in words of one syllable."
Sam snickered. "God, yeah. One time, we had this box -- you remember, Daniel, from PT3-984, with the neon squiggles on the cover --"
"Carter."
She closed her mouth and straightened. "Sir?"
Jack had put his sunglasses back on as the sun rose above the roof of the coffee shop. Even in civilian clothes he didn't look like a man on vacation. "Much as I'd love to indulge you in a science-geek bonding moment, we have jobs, Commander Crichton has a job, and T is probably frying in the van. Let's get moving here."
"So, what *is* your issue, folks? You've danced around it long enough."
Daniel sat up: this was his cue. He was pretty sure it wasn't going to go over well. "We don't want you to share any of your alien tech with the defense agencies."
Crichton blinked. "The hell? I thought you guys said you were Air Force! And you just spent an hour telling me about the Big Bads out there!"
"Well, Daniel overstated it, a little," Sam said. "We just don't want you to share it with the NID."