------------------------------
The Sentinel Project Part 7
by Lianne Burwell
November 2002
------------------------------

Jeff Ericks pulled up the results from the McCullough 
girl's last blood work and sighed in relief. The toxins in 
her blood system had dropped back down to acceptable 
levels. She'd developed a late allergic reaction to the 
drugs that kept her body from rejecting the fetus as a 
foreign organism, the same way drugs were used to prevent 
rejection of an organ transplant. Thankfully, they'd 
managed to stabilize her long enough to find an alternative 
drug that would do the same thing without risking her 
health.

"What's the report on subject one-five-seven?" Linda Malone 
asked as she came through the door into the lab.

Jeff frowned at her. "She has a name, you know," he said.

The glare she sent his was acid enough to corrode steel. 
"She *had* a name," Dr. Malone said, looking like she'd 
been sucking on lemons. She was in her fifties, but looked 
older; the picture of a Victorian schoolmarm for whom 
anything fun was against the rules.

Jeff turned back to his computer, but she didn't get the 
hint. "She is a test subject now, and if you want to stay 
in this business, you need to learn not to get attached to 
the test subjects. Refer to them by their numbers, do not 
use names. She is test subject one-five-seven, and that is 
what she will remain. Her sole purpose is to carry another 
test subject to delivery. After that, she is expendable. 
Now, what is the report on subject one-five-seven?"

Jeff's jaw tightened, and he tapped a few commands into his 
computer. "She had a build up of the anti-rejection drugs, 
and they stopped working. The new combination has returned 
her blood-work to within normal tolerance. I recommend that 
we test her more often than once a week so that we can 
avoid another crisis."

"Very good," Dr. Malone said frostily. "And I agree. Blood 
samples are to be taken twice a week. If there is any sign 
of rising toxins, they will be done every day. We are 
expected to succeed this time. If not, the project will be 
shut down." With that ominous comment, she left.

Jeff turned back to the monitor, and with a mouse-click 
activated the feed from the girl's bedroom. She was sitting 
up in bed, with a tray on her lap, eating some sort of 
soup. Knowing the standing orders, the soup was laced with 
vitamins, and a few drugs to keep her more docile. Her 
mother was sitting next to the bed, eating her own lunch, 
which probably had a higher than usual dose of sedatives, 
considering her violent outburst when her daughter had been 
rushed to the clinic.

Debi McCullough was a very attractive young woman, Jeff 
noted to himself, watching her face as she talked with her 
mother, although without the sound, he couldn't tell what 
they were saying. It was a pity... He cut off that thought.

Jeff had checked the records, since the last offspring of 
the project had been born before he'd been recruited. What 
he had learned hadn't been good. None of the other mothers 
had survived delivery. In every case, the still soft claws 
of the infants had started to rip at the inside of the 
womb. Unlike their fully feline brethren, the hybrids were 
born *with* functional claws.

He'd watched the tape of one such birth and had been 
horrified, although he'd known better than to let that 
show. The thought of the same thing happening to this 
bright young woman made his stomach clench, even though he 
knew that there was nothing he could do to stop it. In 
fact, by helping in the procedure that had implanted the 
embryo into her, he had, in effect, co-signed her death 
warrant.

For a moment, his eyes prickled and a lump formed in his 
throat. Moving quickly, he closed the window and went back 
to his work.

Perhaps Malone was right: He should be thinking of her as 
just another nameless test subject.

>>>~~~<<<

Even though there were few dress uniforms stored in the 
Cheyenne Mountain facility, and they still didn't have 
permission from Washington to allow any of the staff to go 
home, Hammond's aide had managed to find enough people to 
create a decent looking honor guard to meet the observer, 
who he had been assured spoke with the voice of the Oval 
Office, if not the President. The President was still in 
intensive care, he'd been told, and considering the current 
instability, there were no plans to find a permanent 
replacement, so the Speaker of the House, Jerome Michaels, 
was still running things.

A car was pulling up to the mountain entrance when Colonel 
O'Neill finally showed up. He was in his every day uniform, 
but Hammond decided that it wasn't worth calling the man 
on. He had to be there, as head of SG-1, and while he knew 
for a fact that O'Neill had a dress uniform on base, he was 
obviously making a point to their new supervisor. Hammond 
just prayed that it didn't get the man slapped down.

The driver hopped out of the car and practically ran to 
open the rear door. A pair of legs, long, shapely, and 
definitely female, barely covered by a skirt, emerged 
first, followed by the rest of a very female figure. When 
she stood, the woman was nearly six feet tall, blonde, and 
beautiful. She was immaculately dressed to show that figure 
to full effect, but her expression was coolly professional. 
She wasn't wearing any sort of uniform, which surprised 
him. He would have thought that their new supervisor would 
be military.

"Well, that's definitely not Senator Kinsey," O'Neill said 
lightly from behind him, although he didn't relax at all.

And if Hammond were forced, he would have to admit that he 
was a little relieved. Kinsey had been forced on them a 
couple times, and the man seemed to consider the Stargate 
project a waste of time and money. Even proof of the 
Goa'uld's hostility towards Earth hadn't really convinced 
the man that the Stargate was worth keeping. He'd also been 
trying to force Hammond out, which didn't endear him much 
to the General.

Then the second person emerged from the car, and Hammond 
stiffened. Behind him, O'Neill started cursing, although he 
did so softly. Although he hid his own feelings behind a 
professional expression -- he hadn't made it to General 
without learning to hide his opinion of idiots -- Hammond 
had to agree. Especially when O'Neill started speculating 
about the man's parentage and living habits.

Luckily, he stopped before the two newcomers got within 
earshot. Hammond stepped forward and held out his hand. 
"Welcome to Stargate Command," he said as politely as 
possible. "I'm General Hammond."

The woman's smile was cool, and didn't reach her eyes. She 
did, however, shake his hand. "I am Marita Covarrubias," 
she said with a faint accent. "I believe you know my aide, 
Colonel Maybourne."

Hammond's eyes flickered to the man standing behind the 
woman. There was the faintest of smirks on the man's face, 
but he quickly covered it up. "I was under the impression 
that Colonel Maybourne was considered a fugitive from the 
law," he said flatly.

"Difficult times require difficult measures, General," 
Covarrubias said, letting go of his hand and indicating for 
him to lead the way. "I trust your people can be counted on 
to behave professionally?"

"We can. Can he?"

Covarrubias stopped and turned around to face O'Neill. 
"Colonel, we both have our orders from higher up. If you 
feel that you cannot work with Colonel Maybourne, you are 
quite free to turn around and leave. Your resignation will 
be accepted, regretfully."

O'Neill stiffened. "As long as he stays on the right side 
of the law, I will put up with him. The moment he steps 
over that line, I don't care how high up his friends 
obviously are, he's going down. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly," the woman said.

"If you'll follow me, I'll show you to the office you'll be 
using," Hammond said, deciding to break in before O'Neill 
got himself in any deeper.

"Thank you, General," Covarrubias said with a faint smile.

"Besides, I still remember the coordinates for Hadante," 
O'Neill muttered so quietly that only Hammond could hear 
him as he fell in behind. Hammond didn't call him on it, 
though.

If only because if Maybourne caused any trouble, he'd 
probably help the Colonel pitch the man through the gate on 
the one-way trip to that prison world.

>>>~~~<<<

When the first orders were delivered to the group of 
unwilling operatives, they were all more than a little 
surprised when the first pair tagged was Kowalski and 
Fraser. It had been several days since the meeting with 
Spender, and they'd all passed the time in their various 
ways, whether by reading, or exercising, or watching 
television now that one was made available to them. It was 
almost pleasant, now that they had the run of the level. 
Pleasant, that is, except for the bars and the silent 
guards that made sure that they couldn't leave the level, 
either by stairs or the one elevator. Brian -- the 
firefighter from New York -- had grumbled about the safety 
issues if there was a fire, but for the most part, they all 
pretended not to notice.

They hadn't even realized that there was a speaker system 
on the level until an anonymous female voice had asked -- 
well, maybe ordered was a better term for it -- the two men 
to go to the elevators.

With many eyes on them, Fraser and Kowalski stepped into 
the elevator. Stan winced at the sound of the bars clanging 
shut just before the elevator doors closed. There were only 
two guards with them -- hell, Fraser could have taken them 
both out on his own without even breaking into a sweat -- 
but they didn't try anything. The others were effective 
hostages, even though Stan wasn't sure he trusted those two 
new guys. Ironhorse and Blackwood seemed to know just a 
little too much. Sure, Fraze and the other super-senses 
guys said that the two men weren't lying, but Stan had the 
feeling that they were hiding something. Telling the truth 
didn't mean you were the good guys.

The elevator whisked them up an unknown number of levels -- 
unknown since there were no indicators, and the elevator 
was so smooth that it was impossible to tell that it was 
moving, let alone how fast -- then opened onto a corridor 
identical to the one they'd left except for the lack of  
bars.

They followed one of the guards, while the other one came 
up behind them. A dizzying number of turns later, their 
guide knocked on a door, then opened it and gestured for 
them to go in. The guards stayed out in the corridor.

The office inside was as opulent as the hallway had been 
bare. The walls were wallpapered in rich tones of red and 
gold. The desk in the center of the room was huge, with a 
top that was obviously carved from a single piece of wood. 
The floor was covered in ornate Persian rugs, layered one 
on top of the other, and the chairs were covered in 
expensive-looking leather, not the cheap stuff. Stan felt 
grubby in the middle of all this splendor, but he didn't 
show it as he flopped down in one of the guest chairs. "So, 
what's up?" he asked the man behind the desk.

Spender didn't look happy, but Stan didn't care. Just 
because they'd agreed to cooperate -- for the moment -- 
that didn't mean that he was going to suck up to the 
bastard.

Spender snubbed out the remains of a cigarette butt -- and 
from the nicotine stains on his fingers, he was definitely 
a candidate for lung cancer -- and sat back in his seat. He 
ignored Stan, which was just fine by him. Instead, Spender 
and Fraser stared at each other for a long moment until 
Stan was ready to start fidgeting.

Finally, Spender nodded towards the other chair, and Fraser 
sat down, back perfectly straight, unlike Stan's slouch. 
The formal stuff was usually fine by Stan, but he wished 
Fraser would drop it right now, since it looked like he was 
sucking up to the SOB behind the desk. Still, it was the 
way the man was, and trying to change him was impossible.

Spender pulled out another cigarette and lit, ignoring the 
expression of distaste on Fraser's face. Stan wrinkled his 
nose, but he was used to the smell. No matter what the city 
tried to impose in the way of non-smoking rules at the PD, 
they were never enforced. The smokers smoked, and if the 
non-smokers didn't like it, they could take a flying leap. 
You learned to deal.

No one said you had to like it, though.

"I've received word that a member of the Department of 
Justice is in possession of information I need. You will be 
obtaining it for me."

Stan exchanged frowns with Fraser. "Just what does that 
mean?" he asked cautiously.

The man pulled a folder out of his desk drawer and pushed 
it across the nearly empty desktop. Stan picked it up and 
flipped through it, before passing it to Fraser. It held 
blueprints of a building and information on the security 
system and the guard schedule. One office was marked, as 
was the location of a safe, predictably behind a painting.

Stan's lips were tight with anger. "So, let me get this 
straight: You want us to break into a federal Department of 
Justice building, open the safe in the office of a high 
muck-a-much, and steal somethin' out of it?"

The smile on Spender's face made Stan's hand itch. He 
wanted to slug the creep, if only to wipe the smug 
expression off his face. "That is exactly what I am 
saying."

Fraser was frowning at the contents of the folder. Stan 
could tell that the dark-haired man did not like the idea. 
Fraser was so honest it was almost painful, so the idea of 
actively breaking the law, except in extreme need, was 
distasteful. Hell, he'd sent a girlfriend to jail -- 
although from what Stan had heard, if anyone deserved jail 
it was Victoria. "Why us? Can't you get someone else to do 
it? I mean, we ain't exactly sneak thieves."

"Really? Tell me, Detective Kowalski, what happens to a 
juvenile offender's record when he reaches the age of 
eighteen?"

Stan froze. "They get purged from the system," he said.

"Well, purged does not mean destroyed. Your abilities, 
combined with Constable Fraser's, make the two of you the 
perfect choice. Unless, of course, you are planning on 
going back on your agreement," Spender added coldly.

"What happens if we get caught. I mean, this isn't like 
breaking into the principal's office," Stan pointed out, 
and blushed when Fraser shot him a curious look. "It was a 
dare. I got into the office safe and left a note. Didn't 
take anything. Got one month probation to make sure I got 
that it had been a bad idea," he said softly as an aside. 
The corner of Fraser's mouth twitched in amusement.

"Still, your experience in safe-cracking and the 
Constable's senses make the two of you the perfect choice 
for this job."

"And if we get caught?" Stan asked bluntly, since Fraser 
was obviously ready to let him do all the talking. "This is 
a little different from a high-school building, and no 
matter how good we might be, shit happens."

"I would suggest that you don't get caught. In the current 
climate, any security guard that catches you is probably 
more likely to shoot you than to arrest you. And if you 
think ending up in police custody is a good way to get away 
from me, there is nowhere to get away from my reach, not 
even in jail."

Taking in the man's cold expression, Stan didn't doubt him. 
Hell, just the way he'd ended up with his personal 
collection of Sentinels was evidence enough of that. "Fine. 
How long have we got to prepare?" he asked sourly.

"You leave for DC tomorrow at lunch time. You will have two 
nights to perform the task. If it is going to take longer 
than that, you will have to provide justification. Any 
equipment you need -- within reason -- will be supplied for 
you. Just give a list to your support man."

"At least we get support," Stan muttered to himself, then 
took the folder back from Fraser and flipped it open again. 
He stared at the floor plans for a moment with a frown. He 
didn't want to be doing this, but every statement Spender 
made seemed to have an 'or else' attached at the end, and 
he really didn't want to find out what that might mean.

And he had to give it to the man; they had all the 
information that they could possibly need. And the two ID 
badges inside with their photos actually looked legit. He 
still wondered why *they* were being tagged for this when 
just about anyone could do the job, but put it aside. It 
was probably a test to see if they would actually do as 
they were told.

However, looking at the plans, he had a few ideas, but he 
wanted to run them past Fraser and the others downstairs.

>>>~~~<<<

"Are you sure you want to send them? We have people in 
place who could probably do the job better."

Spender glanced up at his aide. "Perhaps. But I need to 
know what these people are capable of. Both Kowalski and 
Fraser have commendations in their normal field of work, 
but they are no longer in Chicago or Canada, or on any 
police force. This little test should tell us whether or 
not they are... trainable."

The corner of Martin's mouth quirked up. "I take it then 
that you have no intention of letting them go once Michaels 
has been neutralized?"

Spender smirked. "I've been thinking about that. They are 
far too valuable a resource to throw away. And I'm sure 
that with the right incentive, they will prove quite.. 
tractable."

TO BE CONTINUED