------------------------------
The Sentinel Project Part 6
by Lianne Burwell
October 2002
------------------------------

Debi stirred, and moaned as her stomach protested the 
movement. The pain wasn't as sharp as it had been before, 
but it was still bad. She opened her eyes, and was 
surprised to find herself back in her own bed, her mother 
asleep in a chair next to her in a position that had to be 
bad for her back.

"Mom?" she said, and was shocked at how weak her voice was. 
Still, it was enough to wake her mother. Debi reached out 
to her, only to get tangled up in the tubes stuck into her 
arm.

"Careful," her mother said, helping to get the tubes back 
into place. "How do you feel?" she finally asked when 
everything was back where it should be and she was able to 
hold Debi's hand safely.

Debi thought about it for a moment. "Sore. Scared. What 
happened?" She remembered a lot of pain, then bright lights 
and lots of voices, but nothing more.

Suzanne hesitated, which meant that whatever it was, it had 
to be bad. Debi tightened her grip on her mother's hand 
until it had to be painful, but Suzanne never flinched. 
"I'm not sure. They wouldn't tell me anything, even after I 
tore the suite apart after they took you away. They just 
sent in Ceto to clean up. But..." she hesitated again, and 
Debi started to shiver.

"What? Mom..."

"Ceto says you're having a baby," Suzanne said in a rush.

Debi's eyes went wide. "I can't be. I'm not seeing anyone. 
Haven't in more than a year, and I wasn't even sleeping 
with him."

Suzanne reached over with her free hand and rested it on 
Debi's stomach. It heaved slightly, but there was no return 
of the earlier cramps. "I think he's right," she said 
softly.

"But..." Debi paused. "When I woke up here, my stomach was 
really sore." She swallowed hard. "What did they do to me?" 
she whispered, the tears welling up in her eyes. She didn't 
cry much, normally, but she was helpless to stop it. 

It was difficult to arrange with the IV tubes in the way, 
but her mother managed to wrap her arms around her. Debi 
buried herself in the hug and let the tears come.

"I don't know, baby," Suzanne murmured, stroking her hair. 
"But I'm here, and I won't leave you alone."

Debi just continued to cry.

>>>~~~<<<

After the meeting with Spender, the group of Sentinels and 
Guides were herded back to their floor, but this time they 
weren't locked into their rooms. Instead, heavy metal 
grills were dropped from the ceiling to block access to the 
elevators and stairwells, and the armed guards stayed 
behind them. Other than that, they were left to wander 
freely. It was a nice touch on Spender's part, giving them 
the illusion that they were there of their own choice, but 
the cameras were very obvious, and there was no way to get 
to them. Obviously their promises to cooperate didn't mean 
that the man was willing to trust them.

A quick exploration of their expanded domain found another 
dozen or so bedroom-like cells, none of them occupied, a 
small gym with basketball court and workout facilities, as 
well as a generic mess hall nearly identical to the one 
they'd just left. A fridge was stocked with drinks and 
snack foods, but there was no sign of how meals would be 
delivered. Eventually, the twelve men and women assembled 
there.

"So, how screwed are we?" Gordon Eagle asked. He was a very 
self-contained man, who had devoted his life to preserving 
the wild spaces of Canada. He was a park ranger in northern 
Quebec who had been referred to Blair by Constable Fraser. 
His guide, Marie Beaudaire, was a psychiatrist, and unlike 
her lover and partner, a confirmed city girl. Fire and ice, 
and yet they fit together as well as... well, as well as 
the rest of them, Blair thought to himself.

"Badly," Jim said with a grimace. He opened the fridge, and 
finally settled on a jug of some sort of fruit blend juice. 
He held it up, and several people nodded. Glasses were 
filled and handed around. "Blair did some checking after 
trying to contact Brian and David, right before we were 
taken. Officially, Brian died in a fire, David was killed 
by a bomb in his car, presumably because he's Arab. Gordon, 
you and Marie were killed in a small plane crash, along 
with the pilot and three others. My guess is that all of us 
are either dead or gone in a way that won't raise 
suspicions. No one is looking for us, people. We're on our 
own."

"So we play along, do what they tell us? I'm not sure I 
like that." There were several murmurs of agreement from 
around the room. Blair hunched over his glass. As much as 
he hated to admit it, the only thing that the people in the 
room had in common was him, which meant that it was his 
fault that they were there. He wasn't sure how, though. 
After the Alex Barnes disaster, he'd started encrypting all 
his files, using a piece of software Jack Kelso had given 
him. On the other hand, that software was one that the CIA 
used, and if this group was associated with the government 
-- and the guy with the cigarette had implied that -- then 
they would certainly have had the code to decrypt those 
files.

"The problem is, we don't know enough about these people," 
Karen Jeffries said. In her forties, she was a twenty-year 
veteran of the Marine Corps. Her Sentinel abilities had 
emerged when she was in her teens, and she'd used a no-
nonsense attitude to control them until she'd met her 
husband. By the time Blair had met them, they'd figured out 
most of what they needed to know. But they'd been willing 
to let Blair test them for his dissertation. A dissertation 
that was never going to be finished, he swore to himself. 
Assuming that they got out of this in one piece, he was 
burning his papers and getting the strongest magnet he 
could to deal with his disks, videos, and computer. No one 
was ever going to use his research again.

Blair shook his head. Damnit, if Brackett hadn't taught him 
this lesson, Alex should have. Instead, he'd just blindly 
pressed on, ignoring the fact that someone could use his 
research to hurt people. The third time was the charm, 
though. He was going to go into a safer line of research, 
preferably one that involved peoples and societies long 
gone.

"Karen's right," Jim said, squeezing Blair's thigh under 
the table. He had obviously picked up on Blair's anxiety, 
something he'd gotten better at after they'd become lovers. 
"We don't even know where we are, other than that we are 
near the ocean. As much as I hate it, we cooperate. But he 
needs to know that there are limits to what we will do. 
Helping take out the people who attacked the President is 
something I'm willing to do, but I'm not going to do 
anything that would hurt innocents to do it."

"Agreed," Colonel Ironhorse said. He looked tired, and 
Blair wondered what had happened to him and the others 
after they'd left Cascade. The hotel room they'd been 
staying in had been blown up, but Forensics had confirmed 
Jim's instinct that no one had been inside.

"Ya think they're gonna let us go after?" Kowalski said, 
running one hand through his spiky hair, making it stand on 
end.

Everyone was silent for a moment, then Jim shook his head. 
"We'll have to cross that bridge when we get to it."

"So, basically we sit on our asses until the guy with the 
superiority complex tells us what to do, that it? This 
sucks."

It wasn't surprising that everyone agreed with Kowalski.

>>>~~~<<<

The sound of a keycard being inserted into the door lock 
broke Mulder's concentration, and he picked up his gun and 
pointed it towards the door. It was too late in the day for 
it to be house-cleaning -- and considering the shape of the 
place, house-cleaning wasn't terribly conscientious -- so 
if it wasn't Alex, it was trouble.

However, it was Alex, and he was carrying two large, flat 
white boxes that were giving off the most wonderful aroma, 
and Mulder's stomach growled, reminding him that lunch had 
been long ago and rather unappetizing. He set the laptop 
aside and tucked the gun into his waistband before going to 
help the man.

"One meat-lovers and one veggie. Veggie holds up better the 
morning after, I've found, especially considering the fact 
that this heat wave that doesn't seem to want to end." Alex 
wiped a trickle of sweat off his cheek as if to illustrate 
the point. "Anything?"

Mulder glanced to the laptop, still running with the cell-
phone hooked up. "No messages from the Gunmen. Scully says 
Broots has a few possible hits in the database, and they're 
trying to figure out if they're close enough to warrant 
investigation. Other than that, the country is quiet. 
Almost *too* quiet. It feels like everyone is waiting for 
the big one to hit, as if the assassinations weren't big 
enough."

Alex growled softly to himself as he opened one of the 
pizza boxes. "It wouldn't surprise me if something big was 
about to happen," he said, pulling out a slice without 
bothering with plate or napkin. He bit into it, then 
hissed. He fanned his mouth with his left hand, then 
swallowed. "Good," he mumbled. "Anyway, if Michaels is 
behind the assassinations -- and I'd have to be pretty 
damned stupid to think he wasn't -- then he's got something 
else up his sleeve to cement his power. Something that 
would make things too unstable for him to be replaced if 
the President dies. Hell, he may already *be* dead, for all 
we know yet."

Mulder took a napkin for his slice, and carefully blew on 
it so that he wouldn't burn his mouth when he bit into it, 
ignoring Alex's smirk. Instead, he turned over the 
possibilities in his mind. "A terrorist act," he finally 
said. "Something to blame on the same people being blamed 
for the assassinations. He could extend the martial law 
indefinitely, as well as using it as an excuse to launch an 
attack on Iraq, or some other country harboring terrorists. 
No one is going to suggest replacing the top man in the 
middle of a war."

Alex was nodding as he finished off his slice of pizza. 
"That's what I figure too. The only problem is, we have no 
idea what the act might be." He pulled off a second slice 
and ate it quickly.

"Probably a bombing," Mulder mused as he chewed. "But would 
it be something symbolic or high death count? Either one 
would be good for raising people's emotions. The Statue of 
Liberty, maybe."

"Or Grand Central Station, or the Pentagon, or just about 
any skyscraper in the country." Alex grimaced. 
"Unfortunately, the choices are endless."

Suddenly, Mulder didn't feel quite so hungry. "So how do we 
stop them?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"We don't," Alex said predictably. "Not unless we happen to 
stumble across them by accident. There's just no way we can 
find out what their target or targets are without exposing 
ourselves even further." He glanced over at Mulder, and 
from his expression, Mulder knew that just what his face 
must look like.  "I don't like it much either, but that's 
the way it is. Remember, we've probably still got that kill 
on sight order out on us."

That last comment made Mulder wince. While Alex was back to 
nearly full strength, the scar on his abdomen was painfully 
vivid whenever he took his shirt off. Most of the scar was 
surgical, but the surgery had been necessary because Alex 
had come between him and a bullet meant for him. According 
to the would-be assassin -- a Corporal assigned to the 
Stargate Project, and a Consortium plant -- a kill order 
had been issued for both of them, as well as Scully, almost 
as soon as they had met with Agent Debi McCullough and 
started to learn the truth about the alien conspiracy and 
all its many tentacles.

"So what *can* we do?" he finally asked, putting aside his 
second slice.

"I called my contact from a pay phone while I was getting 
the food," Alex said, grabbing a third piece. His stomach 
obviously wasn't affected by the idea of war and 
destruction. "We meet with him tomorrow at lunch time. He's 
not part of the Consortium, but he is an information broker 
with an in to their computers. We need to know if Michaels 
is working on his own, or if he's got the full weight of 
the Consortium behind him. Then we need to find out where 
they've got the President stashed, assuming that he isn't 
already dead. Third, we need to find proof that what 
they're feeding the public is a lie. If we can get that, 
then maybe we can send it to people in the government that 
I *know* aren't involved in Michael's little coup. Then, 
which Michaels deals with a revolt in his ranks, we go 
after Spender and his cronies."

"Shit," Mulder breathed. "You don't ask for a lot, do you?"

Alex shrugged. "It's either that or we get the hell out of 
the country and hope that Michaels is working on his own. 
If that's the case, then the Consortium will take care of 
him for us. Eventually. Do you really want to do that?" 
Alex's voice didn't betray anything but mild interest, but 
the slight tensing of his shoulder's told Mulder what he 
really thought of that idea.

"No. Screwed up though it may be, this is my country, and 
I've been fighting these people far too long to just give 
up and run away."

Alex smiled a predator's smile. "Good. Now, are you going 
to finish that? Cause if not, I will."

Mulder glanced at the remains of his pizza, and suddenly 
realized that he was hungry again. He finished it in three 
bites, then waved towards the box. "Pass me another slice," 
he said.

>>>~~~<<<

"You wanted to see me, General?"

George Hammond looked up from his computer screen. Even his 
favorite subordinate -- or perhaps that should be 
insubordinate -- couldn't raise his spirits, though. "Sit 
down, Colonel," he said, waving O'Neill towards one of the 
two chairs on the other side of his desk. O'Neill sat, and 
they both winced at the piercing squeal of metal against 
metal. Unfortunately, the other one wasn't any better, and 
he kept forgetting to nag maintenance about oiling the 
chairs. Still, it encouraged visitors to keep it brief.

O'Neill looked tired, but then they all did. Since the 
assassination of the Vice-President and the wounding of the 
President, Stargate Central had been under lockdown 
conditions. No one came into the base, and no one left. 
They were all living in spare uniforms kept in lockers, and 
one of the gyms had been set up with army cots and sleeping 
bags, and the staff slept in shifts, since there weren't 
enough bunkrooms for everyone.

At least some of them -- including the Stargate teams and 
Hammond -- had private quarters in the base. But tempers 
were starting to fray, and there'd already been two fights 
that had nearly become brawls. The only thing keeping them 
sane was the continued off-world missions, since travel via 
the Stargate did not exactly break the lockdown orders.

Hammond saved the document he was working on -- another in 
the long list of reports he'd been ordered to make out 
recently -- then shut down the laptop computer. He still 
didn't like having to work with the damned things all the 
time, but at least the laptops took up less of his desk 
surface. "I've had news from Washington."

Immediately, O'Neill's eyes narrowed suspiciously. His 
feelings about politicians in general were well known, if 
only because he tended to express them at full volume, but 
considering recent events, they'd been keeping their heads 
down. Not that they wouldn't jump at the chance to help 
nail the people behind the assassination; it was just that 
with an unknown quantity in the seat of power, their own 
project's future became uncertain. Hammond didn't believe 
that Michael's would be foolish enough to shut them down, 
but beyond that, who knew what the man might do? He'd never 
met the man, but from what he'd heard, Michaels was pure 
politician, and ambitious. A dangerous combination.

And the call he'd received on the scrambled line from the 
capital just made his fears worse. "In light of recent 
events, the White House has decided that they want to keep 
a closer eye on us. They are sending an observer to make 
sure that nothing jeopardizes our operations."

O'Neill winced theatrically. Hammond just hoped that the 
man would control himself better around the observer, 
whoever that was. "Please tell me it isn't Senator Kinsey," 
the Colonel begged.

"They didn't give me a name, I'm afraid," Hammond said.

"Shit. This could be really bad."

"Especially after what happened here recently," Hammond 
said sourly. Washington hadn't been impressed with the fact 
that three outsiders had managed to get into the base, let 
alone the fact that one of their own people had promptly 
tried to murder one of those outsiders. However, 
remembering Agent Mulder's warnings about other possible 
spies in the military, he'd kept the names of the three men 
out of his official report, inventing fake names. Lying to 
his superiors had been galling, but not as much as having a 
man under his care nearly die at the hands of one of his 
own.

He'd been less uncertain about the lying after they shipped 
Corporal Whitaker -- the assassin -- off to Washington, 
though. He'd disappeared en route, and when Hammond 
checked, there was no record of him ever even being *in* 
the Air Force. Mulder's comments about the so-called 
Consortium not liking failures came to mind.

"Anything on Agent Mulder?" O'Neill asked, his words 
echoing Hammond's thoughts almost uncannily.

"Nothing. I did ask an old friend that I trust to check on 
the man, but within a day he was being visited by agents 
from the Department of Justice. It seems that there are 
terrorist ties in the FBI, and Agent Mulder is at the top 
of the suspect list. Luckily, he was able to cover up his 
interest by saying he was reading up on criminal profiling, 
which was true. It seems that Agent Mulder was an excellent 
profiler before he left to work on the X-Files."

"Serial killers to alien abductees? Both loony-tunes, so I 
guess it's appropriate," O'Neill said with a grin. Then he 
sobered up. "You don't think he really *is*..." He trailed 
off.

"Right now, I don't know what to think. We've got a country 
in disarray, an unknown quantity in control, and Goa'uld 
interest in PX15267. And our new observer is arriving 
tomorrow afternoon, and *whoever* it is, they will be 
treated with respect, since I don't need to tell you, now 
is not the time to be making waves."

O'Neill sighed, then stood. "Yes, sir."

TO BE CONTINUED