Help Us, Sergeant Siler, You're Our Only Hope! (G)
This 400-word ficlet is for sallymn, who wanted a story where Siler has to go offworld for some reason. Here's a reason of sorts, anyway. :) No spoilers, any season, and cracky in an in-character sort of way. Rated G.
Help Us, Sergeant Siler, You're Our Only Hope!
"You understand, Sergeant, this is strictly on a volunteer basis," General Hammond stressed.
"Yes, sir," Siler replied blandly. Then he waited. He was good at waiting people out. But Hammond stared back, lips pressed together, refusing to rise to the bait. With a slight inward sigh, Siler caved and spoke. "I'm sure there are plenty of qualified engineers on base, sir, who already have experience off-world."
"There are," Hammond conceded.
A full minute passed in strained silence before Siler reluctantly asked, "In that case, sir, why do you need me, specifically, to go to P3X-557 to help SG-8 with repairs? Is there a reason Captain Parelli can't take care of it herself?"
For the first time, Hammond looked slightly uncomfortable. "It's a cultural problem, Sergeant."
Siler's eyebrows shot up, and he winced. "General, that's not exactly my area of exper-"
"No, that's not what I mean," Hammond said hastily. "The problem is how the natives of P3X-557 perceive anyone who works with mechanical devices. 'Metal artists,' they call them. They'll only allow a fully-qualified metal artist do the repairs on that shield device. If we can get that fixed, they're perfectly willing to allow the SGC to mine for trinium. But they won't accept Captain Parelli as a metal artist."
"Because she's a woman, sir?" Siler blinked. "There are plenty of male engineers and repairmen available."
"No, they don't have a problem with Parelli because she's female." Hammond cleared his throat. "But they refuse to believe she's qualified because... Well, because she's too healthy."
"I - what?"
Hammond grimaced. "She's in good health, Sergeant. The natives don't believe that a person without any scars, wounds, or burns could possibly be a metal artist. They look at injuries as a mark of pride, a sign of experience. At least, that's what Doctor Abrams said," he added morosely.
Siler cleared his throat, desperately hoping he wasn't flushing. "You mean..."
"I mean, Sergeant, that there is no other qualified expert at the SGC wearing quite so many, ah, badges of honor," Hammond said, the first glint of humor in his eyes. "We could try cosmetics and stained bandages, of course, but that carries a risk."
Siler looked down at the two splinted fingers of his right hand, then raised his left hand to gently finger the stitches over his eyebrow. "Got it, sir," he said, resigned. "Consider me volunteered."
Help Us, Sergeant Siler, You're Our Only Hope!
"You understand, Sergeant, this is strictly on a volunteer basis," General Hammond stressed.
"Yes, sir," Siler replied blandly. Then he waited. He was good at waiting people out. But Hammond stared back, lips pressed together, refusing to rise to the bait. With a slight inward sigh, Siler caved and spoke. "I'm sure there are plenty of qualified engineers on base, sir, who already have experience off-world."
"There are," Hammond conceded.
A full minute passed in strained silence before Siler reluctantly asked, "In that case, sir, why do you need me, specifically, to go to P3X-557 to help SG-8 with repairs? Is there a reason Captain Parelli can't take care of it herself?"
For the first time, Hammond looked slightly uncomfortable. "It's a cultural problem, Sergeant."
Siler's eyebrows shot up, and he winced. "General, that's not exactly my area of exper-"
"No, that's not what I mean," Hammond said hastily. "The problem is how the natives of P3X-557 perceive anyone who works with mechanical devices. 'Metal artists,' they call them. They'll only allow a fully-qualified metal artist do the repairs on that shield device. If we can get that fixed, they're perfectly willing to allow the SGC to mine for trinium. But they won't accept Captain Parelli as a metal artist."
"Because she's a woman, sir?" Siler blinked. "There are plenty of male engineers and repairmen available."
"No, they don't have a problem with Parelli because she's female." Hammond cleared his throat. "But they refuse to believe she's qualified because... Well, because she's too healthy."
"I - what?"
Hammond grimaced. "She's in good health, Sergeant. The natives don't believe that a person without any scars, wounds, or burns could possibly be a metal artist. They look at injuries as a mark of pride, a sign of experience. At least, that's what Doctor Abrams said," he added morosely.
Siler cleared his throat, desperately hoping he wasn't flushing. "You mean..."
"I mean, Sergeant, that there is no other qualified expert at the SGC wearing quite so many, ah, badges of honor," Hammond said, the first glint of humor in his eyes. "We could try cosmetics and stained bandages, of course, but that carries a risk."
Siler looked down at the two splinted fingers of his right hand, then raised his left hand to gently finger the stitches over his eyebrow. "Got it, sir," he said, resigned. "Consider me volunteered."