After the Fire:

  The aftermath of the battle had been brutal in more ways than one. The defeat of the Lucian Alliance had come at a terrible cost and nowhere was that more apparent than in the eyes of Cate MacGregor and her sister.

  Neither Cate nor Tyra attended the celebrations that followed. While others raised glasses in the officer’s mess, the two of them disappeared into the quiet. Cate especially had withdrawn, brittle and tense, her silence sharp enough to draw blood. When Ariel “Angel” asked gently if she was coming to the mess, Cate didn’t even look up, just muttered “piss off,” and walked away.

  Angel hadn’t taken it personally. Everyone could see Cate was breaking in her own quiet way.

  She wandered the base aimlessly, boots crunching over the half-melted snow outside the northern hatch. It was still cold, bitterly so, and all she wore was her flight suit. She didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

  Tyra found her an hour later, sitting on a frosted bench just beyond the hangar line. She hadn’t said anything when she left, but something in her chest told her where Cate would be. So, she came prepared, with Cate’s fleece-lined jacket folded under one arm.

  Without a word, Tyra sat beside her, wrapped the jacket around her sister’s shoulders, and took her hand. Together, they sat in the stillness as pale winter sunlight broke through thinning clouds. The war was over, but the grief was only just beginning.

  Finally, Tyra whispered, “We should go see General Jack, huh?”

  Cate nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

  The surface hospital was barely standing. A temporary ward had been set up on sublevel two of the Ancient complex, stocked with salvaged equipment and spare beds donated from Vegema. Allienna had sent sixty herself. Jack O’Neill was there, sharing space with five others. No private room, no special rank. Just another wounded soldier.

  He looked up as they entered. A deep bruise marred his temple, but his eyes were clear. And when he saw them, Cate and Tyra together, his face lit up with something softer than a smile.

  He patted the mattress. “C’mon. Sit. Both of you.”

  They took a side each.

  “You wanna talk about it?” he asked gently. “Cate? Munchkin?”

  Two identical “Nopes.” answered him.

  Jack sighed. “Right. Great start.”

  Jack shifted carefully against the pillows, wincing as the bandage around his forehead tugged. His voice was lower now, more gravel than usual, concussion had left him weary, but not dulled.

  "Listen, Cate," he said, locking eyes with her, "your old man's recommended you take some time off. I'm not gonna argue. You’ve earned it. Both of you."

  Cate’s hands curled into the fabric of her flight suit. She stared down at the floor.

  "Fine," she muttered. "We can wallow in each other’s pity."

  The second the words left her mouth, regret flashed across her face.

  Jack raised one hand lazily, dismissive. "No need, kiddo."

  He let the silence stretch, comfortable in it. Then he added, almost offhandedly, "Why don't you take Tyra home for a while? Colorado Springs. That place with the horses. Take a week. Hell, take a month. Sort yourselves out."

  Cate lifted her head slowly. Tyra was already nodding, quiet and certain.

  "Yeah," Cate said hoarsely. "I think we should."

  They stayed a little longer after that, letting the conversation drift to safer things, base gossip, who'd won the last poker game in the officers' mess, the ridiculous snowstorm that had buried half of O'Neill Field under a metre of powder.

  When Sam entered the ward with a clipboard tucked under one arm, the girls rose automatically to leave.

  But Tyra lingered.

  "Since you're all here..." she said, voice a little too bright, a little too careful, "there's something I need to say."

  Cate, already edgy, narrowed her eyes. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

  Tyra shot her a sideways glare, then laughed.

  "You're one to talk," she quipped back. "You’re the one who fainted during training last month."

  Cate gave an exaggerated gasp, and even Jack managed a slow chuckle, resting his head back against the pillows.

  Tyra chuckled too, but then drew herself up, serious again.

  "No. Nothing like that. It's just..."

  She drew a deep breath, steadying herself.

  "I'm leaving the pilot training program. After this term."

  For a second, no one moved.

  Jack’s brow furrowed. "Tyra," he said slowly, "you could be the best damn fighter pilot the SGC ever produced."

  "I know," she said softly. "And I'm grateful. But I never wanted to fight. Or kill. I thought maybe if I could protect people, it would be different..."

  She trailed off, shaking her head.

  "But everything that happened back home..." She gave a tiny, haunted shrug. "I just know I can’t."

  Sam’s voice was gentle. "What do you want to do instead?"

  Tyra shifted her weight awkwardly, looking at Cate, seeking silent permission. Cate only smiled and touched her shoulder.

  "I’ve been talking to... Mum," Tyra said, stumbling slightly over the word, but smiling through it. "She’s going to help me apply for the Air Force medical graduate program."

  Her brow scrunched. "I did ask... don’t you have to be a citizen? And she said yes."

  Tyra turned to Cate with wide, hopeful eyes. “I am an Aussie citizen, right?"

  Cate let out a soft laugh, wrapping her arm around Tyra and pulling her close.

  "Of course you are, Tyra. Always."

  Jack gave a quiet grunt of approval. "Best damn decision Australia ever made."

  Sam didn't say anything, but her smile was all pride and warmth.

  And for the first time in days, the walls around them didn’t feel quite so heavy.

  Ashes and Stars:

  A week after their last long talk with Jack O’Neill, Cate and Tyra took their leave of the Alpha Site. No ceremony. No fanfare. Just a few duffel bags slung over their shoulders and the quiet understanding that some wounds didn’t heal under fluorescent lights.

  They stepped through the gate into the familiar concrete embrace of the SGC, the place where it had all begun nearly two years ago for Cate, and where a new kind of beginning now waited for Tyra.

  No cheers greeted them. No friends waiting at the ramp. Only General Landry, standing in his usual crisp blues, and Walter Harriman beside him, clipboard in hand, met them.

  A small welcome, but somehow, it was enough.

  Landry gave them a nod that managed to carry both respect and sympathy.

  "Good to have you back," he said simply. "We'll keep the paperwork light, at least for a few days."

  Walter, ever dependable, handed Cate a slim envelope. Inside was a handwritten note from Sam Carter: Make time for your father.

  Cate tucked the note into her jacket without speaking. She already had.

  In the week before leaving the Alpha Site, Cate and Tyra had spent quiet, healing days with the Admiral, as Cate always referred to him. They even managed to steal a few cold, brilliant mornings ice fishing on 'The Flood', the broad, twenty mile long lake that bordered the northern edge of the Alpha Site. It wasn’t about the fishing. Half the time, they barely baited hooks. It was about stillness, the shared silence between a father and daughter finally learning to live in the same breath.

  William had spoken of his plans simply, between sips of lukewarm coffee poured from a dented thermos.

  "I'll be heading back soon," he said, his voice carrying easily across the frozen air. "Aurora’s due for Earth orbit in a month. The Invincible too, once she finishes babysitting the Chekov through repairs. SG-1 will return with me." He added.

  Cate had nodded, the frost catching in her hair. A quiet promise sat between them: they would find their way, together, no matter how far the stars stretched.

  Now, back at the SGC, the future still felt uncertain. But maybe, Cate thought as she looked over at Tyra, uncertainty wasn’t something to be feared anymore.

  Maybe it was just the next door opening.

  At the base gates, an airman waited beside a battered government-issued SUV, tossing keys idly from hand to hand.

  "MacGregor and... MacGregor?" he called, checking the clipboard like he thought it had to be a typo.

  Cate grinned. "That’s us. Family plan."

  The airman blinked once, shrugged, he'd seen weirder, and tossed her the keys. "Full tank. Happy trails, ladies."

  Tyra caught them one-handed with a grin, then tossed them to Cate like it was a relay race.

  Cate cranked the engine, the dark blue Chevy SUV rumbling to life with a sound like a tired bear and swung them out onto the highway.

  They didn’t even have a plan, not yet. Only the road ahead, the endless blue sky, and the thrum of freedom buzzing in their veins. For now, that was enough.

  Home:

  The Silverado rumbled onto I-25 like a warhorse who'd seen better days. Cate slouched back in the seat, one arm hanging out the window, hair tugged loose by the wind.

  "Full tank," she muttered. "Miracle."

  Tyra laughed softly from the passenger side, sunglasses perched slightly askew on her nose. She watched the mountains roll past, the craggy ridges of the Front Range glinting under the hard Colorado sun. There were still streaks of snow higher up, stubborn against the late summer skies.

  They passed through the outskirts of Colorado Springs, traffic thinning as they skirted the edge of Peak Valley Manor, all manicured lawns and imported stone driveways. Tyra craned her neck a little, absorbing every second.

  "You ever think about living in one of those places?" she asked.

  Cate snorted. "Yeah. About as much as I think about joining a beauty pageant."

  They laughed together, and for the first time in days, it was real.

  It took another hour and a quarter before Cate flicked on the blinker and turned onto a narrow dirt road framed by leaning fence posts and low, wild scrub. A new mailbox leaned drunkenly toward the sun, the name "MacGregor" stencilled in sharp blue letters.

  Cate’s house came into view, a low, solid build of hand-laid mud bricks, weathered log accents softening the angles. It looked like it belonged here, rooted to the land. No pretension. Just strength and comfort.

  Beside the house stood a big red barn, its sliding doors cracked open to reveal three curious bay horses nosing out into the afternoon light. They whinnied softly at the familiar truck.

  Tyra climbed out slowly, her boots crunching on gravel. She turned in a full circle, taking it all in, the empty sky, the fields that rolled away to the horizon, the scent of dust and hay on the wind.

  Parked neatly under a lean-to beside the barn sat a car that gleamed like a promise. A 1969 SS Camaro. Metallic light blue. Immaculate.

  Tyra whistled low. "Cate... that's yours?"

  Cate just grinned. "One day I’ll tell you how I got her for half price and didn’t get arrested doing it."

  "Figures," Tyra muttered, but her smile stayed wide.

  Cate grabbed their bags from the truck, tossing Tyra's at her with a casual flick of the wrist.

  “C’mon. Let’s get inside before we freeze our butts off. It might be July, but damn, it gets cold here at night.”

  Tyra glanced once more around the open land, breathing it in. Freedom. It smelled like hope.

  Cate grabbed their bags from the truck, tossing Tyra’s at her with a casual flick of the wrist.

  “C’mon. Let’s get inside before we freeze our butts off. It might be July, but damn, it gets cold here at night.”

  Tyra chuckled, catching her bag awkwardly, already familiar with the rough paths and wide, open yard from her last visit. The barn loomed off to the left, shadowed under the rising moon, and Cate’s cozy mudbrick house welcomed them with a faint glow spilling from the porch light. She looked up at the beams, motion sensors. That’s handy, she thought.

  Inside, the place smelled of woodsmoke and old leather. Familiar and safe. Tyra dumped her bag near the sofa and pulled off her coat, stretching with a groan.

  “What's for dinner?” she asked, hopeful.

  Cate grinned tiredly. “Gourmet,” she said.

  Baked beans and toast, straight out of the pantry.

  They didn’t complain. They ate perched on the floor, plates balanced on knees, the only sound the occasional snap from the fireplace. The heat from the flames, the simplicity of the moment, it was enough.

  Later, curled under an old patchwork throw, Tyra leaned her head against Cate’s shoulder. Both, too drained to move, they drifted into sleep right there on the couch, boots still on, plates abandoned nearby.

  Around eleven, Cate stirred, stiff and grumbling. She slipped free to use the bathroom, her bare feet cold against the wooden floor. On her way back, she found Tyra curled awkwardly, the fire down to embers.

  With a sigh, Cate crouched, shook her sister gently. Tyra barely stirred, mumbling something unintelligible.

  “Lazybones,” Cate whispered, scooping her up. It wasn't easy, Tyra was all legs and elbows now, but Cate managed to carry her into the nearest spare room. She tugged off Tyra’s boots, dropped them by the door, and tucked the girl in, pulling the thick quilt up to her chin.

  “Sleep well, kiddo,” she murmured.

  The house settled into silence once more.

  Bonding 1:

  Morning came sharp and cold.

  At six on the dot, Cate cracked an eye open to the smell of something warm and faintly sweet. She staggered into the kitchen, yawning, to find Tyra perched on the counter, legs swinging, proudly setting out bowls.

  “All-Bran and peaches for you, boss lady,” Tyra said, grinning. “Yoghurt, too. Porridge for me.”

  Cate blinked at the table, a little stunned. “You remembered.”

  “Of course,” Tyra said, shrugging. “You kept muttering it on Vegema every morning: ‘If I don’t get my bloody bran, someone’s dying.’”

  Cate laughed, the first real one in weeks.

  The days stretched out lazy and healing.

  They rode the trails Cate had carved across her hundred acres, the horses happy to run free again. They fished lazily by the slow, meandering river out back, the water so clear you could see the stones at the bottom.

  There was even some reckless skinny-dipping, Tyra squealing as she hit the cold water, Cate howling with laughter from the bank before cannonballing in after her. For a few golden afternoons, they were just sisters. Not soldiers. Not saviours. Just two women with the world far, far away.

  At night, they camped under the stars, a battered old tent pitched in a hollow near the river. Cate’s battered guitar made an appearance, the same one she’d dragged halfway across the galaxy, and Tyra teased a few songs out of her before they surrendered to the cold and dived for their sleeping bags.

  The two Annes:

  By the second week, Cate found herself in a quiet, second floor office of the 10th Medical Group Hospital, sitting stiffly across from Lieutenant Colonel Annie Horowitz.

  Army psychiatrist. Chicago accent. Eyes like she’d seen a hundred wars and wasn’t impressed by any of them.

  Horowitz didn’t offer pleasantries. She just looked up from her tablet and said, “MacGregor. You want to be here?”

  Cate shrugged. “I want a strong coffee and a working time machine. This was third on the list.”

  Annie didn’t blink. “Fair enough. Let’s start with that.”

  The first session was friction and frost. Cate deflected, danced around anything real. Horowitz didn’t push. Didn’t need to.

  By the second, Cate walked in uninvited and dropped herself into the chair. Arms folded. Less defensive, more… wary. Still sparring.

  “You always sit like that?” Annie asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re expecting a punch that never comes.”

  Cate didn’t answer. But she stayed the full hour.

  And in the third session, something cracked. Not a breakdown. Just a shift. A breath held too long finally released.

  Annie leaned forward near the end. “You know, MacGregor, it’s not weakness that makes you show up. It’s awareness. Even soldiers have to bleed somewhere.”

  Cate stared at her hands. “I don't know how to bleed quiet.”

  “Then bleed loud. But bleed real.”

  Cate didn’t say goodbye when she left. But she did stop at the door, glanced back once.

  Horowitz raised a brow. “See you next week?”

  Cate paused. “You’ll get my sarcasm on Tuesday.” And left.

  But instead of heading for the elevator, Cate found herself heading down a nearby staircase, she instinctively turned left.

  A few minutes later, she was whistling as she walked through the corridors of the Academy Hospital, hands tucked into her pockets. Something old, vaguely Celtic, maybe a lullaby remembered from childhood.

  At a nondescript office door, she knocked twice and peeked in. “Mum, are you free?”

  Anne MacGregor looked up from her desk, startled at first, then smiling. “Of course.”

  Two hours later, Cate was driving back to her place beneath a Colorado sunset, wind through the open window, a takeaway coffee and a cheeseburger in a cardboard tray on the passenger seat, and the ache in her chest just a little lighter.

  For the first time in years, she felt like herself again. She wheeled into the driveway, smiling like the proverbial Chesire Cat.

  As she went through the lounge room, she hollered loudly. “Tyra!” Cate tossed two printed tickets onto the coffee table.

  “Pack your crap, kiddo,” she said. “We’re going home for a bit.”

  Sydney, Australia. Another beginning.

  Flying High:

  Tyra pressed her forehead to the window, nose smudging the glass slightly as the plane banked.

  “Second time around... I see new things,” she said, wide-eyed. “Are we on the same flight path?”

  Cate leaned back in her seat, arms folded loosely. “Pretty close. After leaving Suva, we’re swinging a little more south this time. That tiny dot out there…" she pointed at a barely visible speck against the endless blue, "… that’s Norfolk Island. So... sort of the scenic route.”

  Tyra grinned, soaking it in. Beneath them, the endless expanse of the Pacific stretched away, pure and empty and vast. It felt... different this time. Freer.

  They touched down in Sydney in the pale gold light of a winter afternoon. The air was crisp, but mild compared to the biting cold of Colorado Springs winters.

  Cate had splurged, booking them three nights at the Park Hyatt, nestled right against the harbour. Even at over $800 a night, Cate had simply shrugged. After everything, they deserved it.

  Their room overlooked the water. Tyra stood by the balcony doors, silent for a long moment, watching ferries carve soft white wakes across the glittering blue.

  "This is... beautiful," she said quietly.

  Cate smiled. “Not bad, huh?”

  The next morning, they decided to explore.

  Westfield’s Tower wasn't far, a ten-to-fifteen minute walk, Cate said, but Tyra begged to take the tram. She sat forward excitedly the entire short ride, staring out at the bustle of George Street, the sandstone of old buildings sliding past.

  Cate had barely finished tapping her ticket off, when she turned to find... no Tyra. Gone.

  It took fifteen minutes and two frantic calls across the mall before she found her, browsing serenely on the second floor, entirely unbothered. Apparently she had found a new love, his name was Yves St Laurant.

  “Seriously, munchkin?” Cate grumbled, but there was no real heat behind it.

  Tyra just shrugged innocently. “I’m new.”

  Cate ruffled her hair roughly. “Come on, rookie. Time for a real education.”

  First stop: R.M. Williams on George Street. Cate picked out a new belt, Tyra fell in love with a pair of hand-stitched riding boots.

  Then: yes, back to Yves Saint Laurent. Cate steered Tyra past racks of designer clothing with a smirk, only to stop dead as Tyra pointed out a pair of black patent leather stilettos, elegant, deadly-looking, and French. $900.

  “Are you serious?” Cate asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “They’re an investment,” Tyra said, deadpan.

  Cate burst out laughing. “Kid, you’ll break an ankle.”

  “Worth it.”

  Cate paid for it, rolling her eyes. “An early birthday present.” She tapped her lip. “Speaking of which, since I wasn’t there when they filled out the forms, when is your birthday?"

  She could see Tyra working her mind. She had to calculate the months on Earth, compared to those of Vegema’s. “I’ll be eighteen on August nine.”

  Two weeks away. “My timing is impeccable!”

  “It is.” Tyra said softly. This is truly what it was, to be sisters.

  By the time they staggered back to the Park Hyatt, arms laden with bags, the sun was dipping toward the horizon.

  They dumped their haul unceremoniously on the bed, grabbed their sunnies, and drifted down to the hotel’s poolside café.

  They sat together under a wide umbrella, sipping iced tea, lazily picking at a platter of seafood and chips. Across the water, the Opera House gleamed, ferries bustling back and forth like worker bees.

  Tyra watched it all, chin in her hands, completely absorbed.

  “It's so... alive,” she said.

  Cate leaned back in her chair, letting the winter sun warm her face. “Yeah,” she agreed.

  And for once, she allowed herself to believe it.

  Sydney Airport – Departure Hall:

  Airports were strange places. Full of goodbyes and beginnings, of tearful embraces and tired reunions. A thousand small dramas unfolding all at once.

  Cate stood at the United Airlines check-in desk, her duffel slung carelessly over one shoulder, filling out customs forms with mechanical efficiency. She was used to it, all the stamps, all the security pat-downs. Just another day.

  But beside her, Tyra was different.

  Tyra moved with an unconscious grace now. She had blossomed almost overnight, long-limbed, golden-haired, nearly elfin in the way she turned her head to catch the overhead announcements. In soft jeans, a cream sweater, and heeled ankle boots Cate had insisted she needed (“You are not wearing combat boots through Sydney International!”), she looked like she had stepped off a catwalk.

  It was, in short, a problem.

  A young Australian Army corporal, no more than twenty one, nearly walked into a barricade trying to catch another glimpse of her. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs. Bloody hell. Who was she?

  He dropped his duffel bag, tripping over it as he lurched toward the check-in desk, elbowing past an irate businessman and a woman corralling three toddlers. He leaned in over the counter, barely remembering his manners.

  "That girl, the tall one with the blonde hair," he stammered to the agent. "What flight is she on?"

  The agent blinked. Smiled thinly. "Flight UA12C. Los Angeles, then Colorado Springs connection."

  He nearly sagged with relief. Same as him.

  He thanked her, or thought he did, and bolted for his own boarding gate.

  Onboard the Boeing 777, the fates smiled again: he found himself just four rows behind her.

  He spent most of taxiing trying not to stare, failing miserably.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Cate, for her part, noticed everything. She nudged Tyra with her elbow, grinning.

  "Pretty sure you just caused a minor international incident."

  Tyra blushed furiously. "I wasn’t doing anything!"

  "Kiddo," Cate said, amused. "That’s the problem."

  The engines roared to life, and the plane leapt skyward, heading east into the night, two young women heading into the unknown, and perhaps, unknowingly, changing lives around them with every step they took.

  Flight UA12C – Somewhere Over the Pacific

  The aisle seat stayed empty through boarding, despite the murmurs of the overworked crew trying to reshuffle late check-ins. Cate noticed it, cataloguing it with the casual tactical awareness she couldn’t quite turn off. Good. Space was always at a premium on these long hauls.

  But halfway through climb out, Cate caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

  A young corporal stood awkwardly in the aisle, his uniform jacket crumpled from his backpack, hands flexing at his sides. Curly ginger hair, freckles galore, and the kind of earnest nerves that practically screamed ‘first overseas posting.’

  "Excuse me, ma'am," he said, voice a little tight. His accent was pure Queensland. "Is that seat taken?"

  Cate flicked a glance at Tyra, who blinked wide blue eyes , not quite rabbit-in-headlights, but close, then back at the corporal. She smiled, easy and open.

  "Be our guest."

  He slid into the seat gratefully, buckling in with unnecessary force.

  For a few minutes, they flew in silence, save for the low rumble of the engines and the occasional chime from the seatbelt sign. Cate sipped her water. Tyra stared fixedly out the window at the endless ocean below.

  It was Cate who broke the ice, because Cate could never resist a poor soul floundering in social awkwardness.

  "Heading stateside for work?"

  He nodded, looking almost relieved she’d started the conversation. "Yeah. Cross-training and exchange posting at Camp Pendleton. Two years."

  "Good spot," Cate said. "Beach, sunshine, bad coffee."

  He laughed, more relaxed now. "Corporal Tim Knowles, 4RAR."

  Cate leaned back, propping her boot against the seat rung. "Cate MacGregor," she said, then nodded at Tyra. "And my sister, Tyra."

  Tim's gaze lingered a little longer on Tyra, not disrespectfully, just... caught. Tyra blushed and looked away, fumbling with her headset.

  "You two military too?" he ventured, trying for casual.

  Cate shrugged. "Sort of, air force. Stargate Program."

  He stared at her for a beat too long. Then the words burst out in a rush: "You're kidding. I applied three times. Got knocked back every time."

  Cate grinned, the kind that could be both sympathetic and wicked. "It’s not as glamorous as it sounds."

  "Still..." Tim rubbed the back of his neck. "That’s... pretty damn cool."

  They talked more. Slowly, over the long arc of the Pacific night, Tim relaxed, the stiffness bleeding out of his shoulders. He and Cate swapped stories, training screw-ups, horrible COs, dumb injuries. Tyra said almost nothing at first, answering with one-word replies or small smiles. But about ten hours in, sometime over Hawaii, she finally cracked a real laugh at one of Tim’s self-deprecating tales involving a homeless man, a route march, and a very angry warrant officer.

  After that, the conversation flowed.

  By the time the plane began its long, slow descent into LAX, Cate had made up her mind.

  As they collected their gear and shuffled toward the immigration lines, she pulled Tim aside briefly.

  "You get leave anytime soon?" she asked.

  He looked confused. "I... yeah? After initial orientation. Why?"

  Cate grinned. "Come visit us. Colorado Springs. Bring your swimmers."

  He reddened instantly, but the smile that broke across his freckled face was pure gold.

  He and Tyra exchanged numbers, fumbled and awkward and sweet, before the crowd swept them apart into the chaos of customs and baggage claim.

  As they disappeared in opposite directions, Cate slung her bag higher on her shoulder and winked at her sister.

  "Not bad for a first flirt," she teased.

  Tyra blushed so hard she nearly tripped over her own boots.

  LAX Customs Hall:

  The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The line inched forward in tired, irritated bursts. Cate shifted her backpack onto one shoulder, glancing behind to make sure Tyra was still close.

  When it was their turn, the customs officer, a broad-shouldered man in his forties, gave Cate’s passport a quick glance, then Tyra’s.

  He frowned.

  "MacGregor and... MacGregor?" he said, suspicious.

  Cate smiled, easy and bright. "Sisters."

  He gave Tyra a long look. She stood rigid, hands tucked behind her back, hair tucked neatly under a blue Lakers cap.

  "From Wales," Cate added, smoothly. "Adopted when she was thirteen. Family paperwork’s all in order."

  The officer flipped back and forth between the pages. Tyra swallowed hard, but kept her mouth shut.

  Finally, he stamped both passports with a heavy thud. "Welcome to the United States."

  Tyra exhaled only when they were well past the line, heading for baggage claim.

  "Did he believe me?" she whispered, wide-eyed.

  Cate slung an arm over her shoulders. "Mate, you looked like you were about to faint. Good thing I'm a bloody excellent liar."

  Tyra snorted, half nervous, half amused.

  They collected their bags, two battered duffels and one suitcase, Cate’s patched with an old RAAF roundel sticker and the Aussie fighting kangaroo, then made their way through the chaos of LAX to the domestic terminal.

  American Airlines. Flight AA35 to Colorado Springs, back onto the 737, it was like going from a Cadillac to a Mini.

  At the gate, they found a pair of half-empty seats near the window. Tyra collapsed into one with a sigh, her legs stretched out in front of her.

  Cate laughed, checking her watch. "Only another four hours, Short Stack."

  Tyra made a wounded noise. "I thought America was supposed to be small."

  "That's Europe. Here you can drive twelve hours and still be in the same bloody state. A lot like Oz."

  Tyra groaned.

  Cate laughed and leaned back, letting the fatigue soak in. Her muscles ached, her mind fuzzed at the edges. But a warmth sat in her chest, stubborn and growing.

  They were home, well her ‘other’ home.

  The Quick Return:

  The taxi turned up the long paved driveway, tyres crunching lightly on the gravel apron in front of the house.

  Cate leaned forward between the front seats. "Here," she said, pointing.

  Raj grinned, bringing the car to a halt with a little lurch. "Nice place. Very peaceful."

  "Thanks," Cate said absently, already popping her seatbelt.

  They scrambled out, stretching sore limbs. The air had a bite to it despite the bright sun. Colorado in late summer, cool, dry, restless.

  Tyra jammed a cap over her wild blonde hair, her newest obsession, a royal-blue Lakers cap she'd found in Sydney.

  Cate fished a wad of cash from her jacket, paying the driver with a half-hearted grumble at the fare. Raj winked, tipped his cap, and rattled away down the driveway.

  “Jesus! One hundred and twenty dollars!” She said bitterly as the tail lights of the taxi disappeared.

  “Tight arse!” Tyra quipped, they both laughed at that.

  "Alright," Cate muttered, dragging the bags toward the front door. "Quick change and back to base. Let’s move."

  The house was perfect, even after weeks away, clean, sturdy, warm. Built less than five years ago, it blended modern ranch-style charm with practical simplicity: honeyed timber floors, wide open living spaces, and windows that framed the sprawling hills beyond.

  Inside, they dumped their shopping haul, most of it Tyra’s, in the lounge room. Caps tumbled out of one bag like an avalanche.

  Cate smirked. "You officially have a problem."

  Tyra just grinned, flicking the brim of her cap down cheekily.

  In their rooms, they dressed quickly. Cate pulled on her pressed day blues, dark trousers, blue shirt, tie perfect, jacket sharp. Tyra, more tentative, adjusted the dark-blue cadet uniform she'd brought from the Alpha Site: light shirt, dark pants, service shoes polished to a mirror.

  Cate caught her reflection in the hallway mirror and gave a satisfied nod. Her hair was starting to look respectable now. All the black was gone, replaced by her natural darker ash blonde locks, almost shoulder long now.

  Downstairs again, she thumbed the key fob. Outside, the Camaro’s headlights blinked in greeting.

  Tyra opened the passenger door carefully, sliding in. "This thing is ancient!" she said with pure wonder, running her hand lovingly over the leather seats.

  Cate grinned proudly. "A Chevy Camaro, 1969. SS. Faithfully restored. She’s, my girl."

  Engine roaring to life, the Camaro peeled out down the driveway, tyres spinning slightly on loose stones. The road into the Springs unrolled before them, golden and clear. A sweet rumble of the six litre V8, blending in perfectly with nature, as if it were mean to be.

  When they reached the SGC checkpoint, the guard barely glanced up before his head jerked in a double-take.

  A long, low whistle escaped him.

  Cate pulled the sunglasses off her face slowly. "Man, that is so 1960, sergeant."

  The poor kid blushed beet red. "Sorry, ma'am. It’s just…" he stammered, clearing his throat, "as pretty as y’all both are, the Chevy is a sure sight fer sore eyes."

  Cate couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. "Well, thanks. But next time, just say 'nice car' and save yourself the heart attack."

  He saluted awkwardly. "Yes, ma'am."

  Tyra giggled the whole way through security.

  The Bad News:

  The heavy blast doors yawned open as they stepped into the familiar corridors of the SGC.

  It felt… strange. Like returning home after a long trip, but the furniture had been rearranged when you weren't looking.

  Sam was waiting just past security, arms folded but smiling warmly. She opened her arms, and Tyra rushed in first. Cate followed a beat later, allowing herself to be wrapped up in the kind of hug only Sam Carter could give: all strength and fierce pride.

  Behind Sam stood Cam Mitchell, and he was suspiciously formal. His stance was pure regulation: hands behind his back, shoulders square, gaze unnervingly steady.

  Cate knew that look.

  Her smile faltered. "Sir?"

  Cam cleared his throat, shifted his weight slightly. "Cate, if I could steal you for a moment."

  Warning bells clanged in her head.

  Sam gave her a supportive pat on the shoulder, but Cate barely felt it. Tyra watched her anxiously as Cate followed Cam a few paces away, out of earshot.

  Cam spoke quietly. "Cate... there's been a change."

  Her heart dropped.

  "You’re not going back to the Buzzards."

  For a second, Cate just stared at him. Like the words hadn't landed properly. Then they did.

  "What...?" Her voice cracked. "Sir?"

  She whirled around instinctively, searching for Sam, for Landry, for someone to tell her this was a joke. She spotted Landry standing down the corridor, his hands folded behind his back, face impassive.

  Sam offered only a sympathetic shrug.

  It was real.

  "Shit!" Cate barked, voice louder than she intended. She saw several heads turn from nearby offices. She spun back toward Cam, her eyes blazing. "What a bloody welcome home!"

  Before he could say anything more, she turned on her heel and stormed away, boots echoing sharply on the concrete floor.

  Tyra hesitated only a heartbeat before chasing after her.

  They caught up at Cate’s assigned quarters, a simple room tucked away in one of the lower levels. Cate slammed the door behind them with a force that made the frame rattle.

  She dropped heavily onto the bed, burying her face in her hands.

  Tyra stood awkwardly for a moment, then moved to sit beside her.

  "It’s not fair," Cate muttered into her palms. "After everything. After… " Her voice caught.

  "I know," Tyra said softly. She placed a hand on Cate’s shoulder.

  For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence settled around them, not uncomfortable but weighted.

  Then the phone on Cate’s desk buzzed sharply.

  She nearly ignored it, but Tyra nudged her. "Could be important."

  Grumbling, Cate snatched it up. "MacGregor."

  A familiar voice crackled over the line. Dusty Dixon.

  "Hey, Cate. Just a heads-up, there’s a little… gathering tonight. In Springs. The Rabbit Hole. Be there or be square."

  Cate opened her mouth to decline, but Dusty cut her off smoothly, he could hear the sigh. "You need this, Cate. Trust me."

  He hung up before she could argue.

  Cate dropped the handset with a sigh, rubbing her forehead. "Bloody Dusty."

  Tyra gave her a look. One of those stubborn, don’t-you-dare-say-no expressions.

  Cate sighed again, then told Tyra what was going on. Resigned to it, she finally said "Fine. We’ll go."

  Tyra beamed. "Good. Because I already picked out what I’m wearing."

  Cate managed a weak chuckle, and for the first time since landing back on Earth, something in her chest loosened just a little.

  Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad after all.

  The Rabbit Hole:

  Cate adjusted her black slacks with a tug, eyeing her reflection critically in the Camaro’s side mirror. The pastel blue angora jumper softened her sharp lines, and the mid-sized black heels gave her just enough height to feel dressy without looking like she was trying too hard.

  Tyra, standing beside her in a sleek black pencil skirt, white T-shirt, black leather jacket, and those outrageous French stilettos, looked every inch the young fashion queen. She flipped her hair out of her eyes, grinning.

  “You ready?” Cate asked.

  Tyra smirked. “Born ready.”

  The Rabbit Hole wasn’t your average Springs dive. The old sandstone building had been restored beautifully, wide timber floors, a lounge bar to one side, a dining hall to the other, and a live country band already tuning up on the far stage.

  Cate stepped through the entrance and immediately froze.

  Cheers erupted.

  “Surprise!” Dusty, Nugget, Ghost, Batman, Viking, Angel, and the rest of the 56th Buzzards were all there. SG-1, Landry, Jack (standing very carefully because of his concussion), William and Anne MacGregor, Elle McFearson, Lily Radovic, everyone who mattered.

  Tyra beamed at her.

  Cate blinked. “You traitor," she muttered.

  Tyra only grinned wider and looped her arm through Cate’s, steering her deeper into the crowd.

  Dusty handed Cate a glass of something amber and strong. “Welcome home, boss." The man just couldn’t get over the fact, he outranked her now.

  She couldn’t help it , she smiled.

  The evening slid into a warm haze. Toasts were made. Stories shared. Even Jack, despite his bandaged forehead, told a gloriously exaggerated tale about Cate’s “heroic tactical retreat” from a malfunctioning coffee machine in the officer’s mess.

  During a quieter moment, Nugget pulled Cate aside, his usual grin softened into something more serious.

  “I know you’re ticked off, Cate,” he said, leaning casually against the bar. “But look at it this way: Buzzards are the best... but you? You’ve got the chance to fly even higher. SG life’s different. Hell, it’s harder. But you’ll own it. You’ll do things pilots only dream of.”

  Cate stared into her drink for a moment, then gave him a sideways look. “Did you rehearse that?”

  He shrugged. “Only for three days.”

  She chuckled despite herself. “Thanks, Nugget.”

  He clinked his glass against hers. “Go show ‘em, boss.”

  The live band kicked into a slow song then, the smooth, familiar drawl of Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain, and to her horror, Cam Mitchell was suddenly standing in front of her, hand outstretched.

  She started to shake her head.

  Tyra elbowed her sharply. “Chill.”

  Cate sighed dramatically but took Cam’s hand.

  They moved onto the floor. At first Cate was stiff as a board, holding herself like she expected Cam to drop her at any second. But Cam was steady, strong, leading easily.

  Slowly, she relaxed.

  As they swayed, Cate cleared her throat, voice low so only he could hear.

  “I’m sorry, sir. For being such a shithead earlier.”

  Cam chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest.

  “I would’ve been just as pissed off,” he said simply. “Probably worse.”

  Cate smiled up at him then, a real one, and in the pause that followed, Cam leaned a little closer, his breath warm against her ear.

  "Ya know, MacGregor... if you stopped scowling for just a minute, you're quite a beautiful woman."

  Cate blinked, cheeks flushing hotter than they had any right to.

  She tilted her head, giving him a look. "Colonel... are you flirting with me?"

  Cam grinned, slow and easy. "Yep."

  Still flushed, Cate changed the subject quickly before her brain could melt entirely.

  “I met someone,” she said, voice low enough only Cam could hear. “On the way back. A young corporal, Tim Knowles, from 4RAR. Ginger hair, freckles, heart on his sleeve. Wants into the Stargate program more than anything. Been knocked back three times.” She hesitated. “He impressed me, Cam. Good heart. Good instincts.”

  Cam nodded thoughtfully, tucking that information away with a smile.

  "Good people deserve a chance. We'll see what we can do."

  The next song kicked into something faster, Boot Scootin' Boogie… and Daniel didn’t waste a second, dragging a surprised Tyra onto the floor. She squealed, then found the rhythm like she’d been born to it. Elle dragged Dusty out next. Then Batman and Viking tried (and failed spectacularly) to do some kind of synchronized cowboy shuffle. Vala grabbed Hank Landry without a pause, and to many, he could actually dance.

  Even William got Anne up, and Jack, grinning like a fox, swept Sam into a gentle two-step.

  It was a night none of them would forget.

  Later, after the dancing and after the last toasts, Landry stepped onto the stage.

  The room fell into a respectful hush.

  "I won't make this long," he said, voice carrying easily over the crowd. "But tonight, we honour two people who saved us all. For acts of extraordinary bravery, and a little reckless genius, Squadron Leader Cate MacGregor and Cadet Tyra MacGregor are hereby awarded the Star of Gallantry."

  Applause exploded. Cheers rang out.

  Cate blinked as Landry motioned them forward. Tyra squeezed her hand as they walked to the front together. Landry pinned the silver-gold medal to each of them, with genuine pride.

  There were a lot of photos after that. A lot of back slaps. And a lot of gruff “Well done, kid” from pilots who rarely showed emotion.

  But in the end, it wasn't the medal or the applause that stuck with Cate.

  It was Tyra’s arm looped through hers as they left the Rabbit Hole, walking side-by-side into the cool Colorado night.

  Sisters, not just in name, but in heart.

  And whatever came next... they would face it together, or apart, they’ll always be as one.

  Departure at Dawn:

  The morning was still and cold, mist clinging low over Cheyenne Mountain as if the Earth itself were reluctant to let go.

  Cate and Tyra stood side-by-side near the embarkation room, the blue glow of the active Stargate casting long shadows across the polished concrete.

  It wasn’t a big ceremony, but somehow, that made it all the more poignant.

  General Landry was there, crisp in his dark blue dress uniform. Jack O’Neill stood beside him, relaxed but immaculate, one hand loosely hooked over his belt, still sporting a faint shadow where the concussion had knocked him. Sam Carter and Cameron Mitchell were in full blues. Teal’c, towering in his tailored sports jacket and pants, inclined his head solemnly. Vala wore appropriate slacks and pull over, Daniel much the same as Teal’c.

  The Buzzards had turned out in force: Dusty Dixon, Francis “Nugget” Bianchi, Juliette “Ghost” Ramirez, Ariel “Angel” Speckman, all standing tall and proud. Batman Kalowski, in his marine khakis, winked at Tyra when she glanced his way.

  And there were two more, Vice Admiral William MacGregor, resplendent in Navy whites, and Elle McFearson, crisp and commanding beside him.

  Cate, in her own sharp blues, shifted from foot to foot, feeling strangely hollow inside.

  This was it.

  The last few weeks had been a breath of fresh air, laughter, quiet healing, tiny new dreams taking root. And now reality was here to reclaim them.

  General Landry stepped forward first.

  “Cadet MacGregor,” he said, voice carrying clean and true. “You return to the Alpha Site today, not just as a cadet , but as one of the finest young women this command has ever seen.”

  Tyra blushed scarlet.

  Jack moved next, tugging something from behind his back, a black ball cap, slightly worn at the edges, SG-1’s old team logo stitched across the front.

  He offered it to Tyra with a smile that was part mischief, part pride.

  “Wasn’t much good at keeping it clean,” he admitted. “But I figure... it’s seen a lot. And so have you.”

  Tyra took it with reverence. She didn’t speak, just hugged him fiercely, the cap clutched tight in one hand.

  Cate stepped forward next, breathing hard through her nose to keep her own tears in check. She straightened Tyra’s collar gently, brushing invisible lint from her jacket

  .

  "Go make your own mark, kid," she whispered. "We’ve all got your back."

  Tyra laughed wetly, hugging her sister so tight Cate thought her ribs would crack.

  And then, at Landry’s nod, Tyra turned.

  The gate technician dialled the Alpha Site coordinates.

  The chevrons lit one by one. The great event horizon blossomed open with a thunderous whoosh.

  Tyra paused just at the threshold.

  She turned, one last look , at her sister, at her new family, at this strange, beautiful world she had been given.

  Cate lifted two fingers in a salute. Dusty and Nugget echoed her. Even William, stiff and formal, nodded once.

  With her SG-1 cap pulled low over her golden hair, Tyra MacGregor squared her shoulders, took a deep breath , and walked through the gate.

  Gone.

  The event horizon shimmered for a moment longer, then snapped closed with a heavy, hollow sound.

  No one moved for a few seconds.

  Cate just stood there, hand slowly falling back to her side.

  Jack broke the silence with a sniff. “God, I hate goodbyes.”

  The SGC – Briefing Room:

  Cate didn’t have long to catch her breath. Barely ten minutes after the gate closed on Tyra’s departure, she was called upstairs.

  The briefing room was familiar ground, wide windows overlooking the Gate Room, the long polished table already occupied. General Landry stood near the head of the table, arms crossed.

  Three faces turned as she entered.

  Major Marcus Larkin rose to his feet immediately, offering a handshake. He was athletic, solid without being bulky, sandy blond hair cropped short. His handshake was firm, his blue-grey eyes steady.

  “Squadron Leader MacGregor,” he said. “Welcome to SG-11.”

  Cate shook his hand, sizing him up with a pilot’s instinct. Larkin’s stance spoke volumes: professional, confident, but without arrogance.

  “Thank you, Major,” she replied.

  The others followed. First Lieutenant Allen Kirby, a wiry Air Force man with quick, intelligent eyes. Then Sergeant Dillon O’Hare, broad-shouldered, sharp-edged, clearly a Marine down to his boots.

  Walter appeared like a magician, carrying a tray of coffee, setting it down without a word. Cate caught his slight smile before he vanished again.

  As they all sat, Cate glanced at Marcus. “Major, if you don’t mind me asking… what happened to your last XO?”

  A shadow flickered across Marcus’s features. He folded his hands loosely on the table.

  “Captain Marcia Douglas, USMC. She was wounded during an ambush on PG7-U84 about a month ago. Lucian Alliance remnants.” His jaw tightened slightly. “She’ll be out for at least six months. Longer, if the rehab doesn’t go well.”

  Cate nodded quietly. She knew better than most what wounds could do, to body and mind.

  Landry stepped forward, his voice brisk but even. “You’ll have some time to get familiar with your team, Cate, but not much.”

  He tapped a folder onto the table.

  “This is a joint mission. SG-1 and SG-11. You’re headed to Lucia.”

  The room sharpened immediately. Lucia. The stronghold of Hallam, one of the so-called 'allies' who had helped turn the tide against the Alliance.

  Landry continued. “After the war, Hallam promised cooperation. Trade, tech sharing. But we’ve had no contact for over a month. Nothing. Not a single ping from their end. Command wants to know if it’s a case of radio silence… or something worse.”

  Marcus leaned forward, flicking a glance at Cate. “We’re backup, I take it?”

  “You’re eyes, ears, and boots on the ground,” Landry said. “SG-1 will handle diplomacy, if there’s any diplomacy left to handle.”

  He paused, letting the weight of the assignment settle.

  “You leave in 36 hours. Spend the time wisely. Gear up. Read the briefs. Get to know each other.”

  Cate exchanged looks with Kirby and O’Hare. They both gave small, acknowledging nods.

  This was it. No squadrons. No afterburners.

  A new chapter.

  And ready or not, it had already begun.

  SG-11:

  Cate met Marcus and the rest of SG-11 the next morning in the SGC training centre. Dressed down in standard issue PT gear, Cate stretched idly by the side wall, arms over her head, watching the others size her up. Marcus stood beside her, clipboard in hand, expression neutral.

  “Alright," he said, his voice carrying easily over the assembled group. “First up, standard fitness assessment. Same for everyone. Push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, then a three-mile run. Let’s see where you’re at.”

  Cate nodded, dropping smoothly into a push-up position without hesitation. Across from her, Sergeant O'Hare raised an eyebrow at Lieutenant Kirby, muttering something that made Kirby chuckle under his breath.

  Marcus gave the order. "Go."

  Cate moved like a machine, steady and controlled. She hit fifty without so much as a tremor. At seventy, O'Hare’s joking smile faded. By ninety, Kirby was staring. Cate tapped the ground one hundred times and popped to her feet, barely breathing hard.

  O'Hare shook his head in disbelief. “Holy… ”

  “Save it, Sergeant," Marcus cut in, amused. "Keep going.”

  Sit-ups next. Cate breezed through another hundred, then forty pull-ups with smooth military precision. When they moved to the run, she paced herself just behind Marcus, who seemed both resigned and quietly pleased to see her keeping up without strain.

  After a quick water break, Marcus led them outside the mountain perimeter. A patch of rough forest waited beyond the access roads. Marcus handed Cate a map and compass.

  “Find your way back to checkpoint Delta. No GPS, no shortcuts. You get one radio call if you get lost. Don’t make me come find you.”

  Cate offered a wry grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She took off into the trees at a brisk pace. The others followed a few minutes later, running staggered routes for practice. It was a good hour before they regrouped at the checkpoint. Cate was already there, sitting on a fallen log, calmly peeling an energy bar open.

  Kirby arrived panting, sweat dripping. “You gotta be kidding me."

  “Hope you brought snacks,” Cate said cheerfully, tossing him a spare granola bar.

  Weapons testing followed in one of the secured armouries. Marcus lined up a series of field weapons: M4 carbine, Beretta M9, a compact FN SCAR, and the venerable P90.

  “Break down and reassemble each. Speed matters, but no points for breaking anything.”

  Cate rolled up her sleeves and got to work. Clean motions, no wasted time. She reassembled the Beretta in under forty seconds. The M4 in just over a minute. Marcus made a few quiet notes. Kirby, who was still fiddling with the safety on the SCAR, muttered something about superhumans under his breath.

  Finally, they moved to the live fire range.

  Cate fired tight, controlled groups with both rifle and sidearm. Marcus watched carefully. Nothing showy. No bravado. Just precision, instinct, and discipline.

  Afterward, as they packed up, Marcus clapped his hands once, sharp and final. “Good enough for a warm-up. Debrief at fourteen hundred. You’ll want a shower first.”

  Cate slung her rifle over her shoulder, grinning. “I was starting to think you were going easy on me, Major."

  “Wait till tomorrow," Marcus said, smiling faintly. “Tomorrow’s the fun part.”

  Are we good enough:

  The gym was cool, concrete walls bouncing the echoes of boots and barked orders. Marcus Larkin stood in the centre, arms folded loosely.

  "MacGregor, you're up," he called.

  Cate stepped forward without hesitation. "Sir. Who's my lucky date?"

  Marcus nodded toward the broad-shouldered figure tying on gloves. "Sergeant O'Hare."

  Cate eyed him. Two-thirty, easy. Solid muscle. He grinned at her, rolling his shoulders.

  "Any style you want," Marcus said, giving her the choice.

  Cate smiled faintly. "I'll take freestyle."

  O'Hare moved like a boxer, light on his feet despite his size. He came in fast, a quick jab, testing. Cate ducked, pivoted. Her training took over, a blur of kickboxing precision and Taekwondo speed. She weaved past his heavy swings, slipping inside his guard. A sharp knee to his gut, a twist of her body, and O'Hare slammed onto the mat with a thud that rattled the rafters.

  Silence.

  Marcus smirked. "Round two."

  O'Hare grunted, pushing up, game to try again.

  The second bout lasted less than thirty seconds. Cate feinted left, hooked right, and dropped him flat again, pinning his arm behind his back with clean efficiency.

  As she helped O'Hare up, dusting off his pride with a grin, Kirby muttered to Marcus under his breath.

  "Who the hell did they recruit? Superwoman?"

  Marcus chuckled. "Nah. Just a former ASIS operator."

  Kirby stared after her as Cate gave a short nod to Marcus, breathing easy despite the scrap. He shook his head in admiration. "Remind me never to piss her off."

  Infiltration Exercise - SGC Training Grounds, 1400 hours:

  The briefing had been short and brutal. Their task was simple in theory, vicious in practice: infiltrate the designated structure, fight their way past the Red Force team, SG-1. Locate and disable a mock naquadah bomb, then exfiltrate to a waiting transport, a Blackhawk standing in for a 402, configured for medevac.

  "Remember," Marcus said as they geared up, strapping on mock rounds and non-lethal taser tags. "This isn't just about firepower. It's about working as one unit. We move together or we fail together."

  Cate finished lacing her boots, checking her vest. "Understood."

  Above, observing from a glassed-in platform, General Landry leaned forward, arms crossed. Beside him, Brigadier Michelle Bixby, Alpha Site commander and Cate's old sometime-boss, was studying the setup with a critical eye.

  "Your team’s on the clock the second they enter," Bixby said. "And if they're anything less than perfect... we'll see it."

  Landry gave a dry chuckle. "Mitchell's been looking forward to playing Red Force for weeks."

  The horn blared. Go time.

  Cate was first through the breach, low and fast. Kirby covered the rear, O'Hare stacked behind Marcus. Smart tech HUDs glowed faintly on their visors, displaying internal building schematics, but the map wasn't complete. They’d have to adapt.

  SG-1 waited like wolves.

  Daniel ambushed them in the first corridor, tagged Marcus with a glancing shot. Cate pivoted instantly, returning simulated fire and 'killing' Daniel with two precise tags to the chest. Marcus barked a move order even as he yanked the tag sensors from his vest to indicate 'injured but mobile.'

  Down the next stairwell, Teal'c appeared, hulking and implacable. He bowled into O'Hare like a freight train. The sergeant grunted, taking the hit. Cate whirled around, launched into a flying tackle that knocked Teal'c off balance just long enough for Kirby to zap him with a stun tag.

  "You have learned," Teal'c rumbled approvingly as he slumped to the ground.

  Room by room, hall by hall, they fought their way forward.

  Near the target room, Sam Carter sprang a technical ambush, triggering a fake EM pulse to fry their HUDs. Cate cursed under her breath but moved by instinct, motioning Kirby to reboot and Marcus to breach manually.

  They hit the target door with a breaching charge. Inside: a dummy naquadah bomb, its countdown blinking in harsh red.

  Cate dropped to her knees, tools flashing in her hands. Years of ASIS training guided her fingers. Wire here... resistor there... don't cross the circuit...

  The timer froze at 00:01. "Bomb defused!" she shouted.

  No time to breathe.

  O'Hare stumbled, tagged as 'wounded.' Without hesitation, Marcus barked to Kirby. The smaller man swung O'Hare's arm over his shoulders, hauling him bodily.

  "Move, move, move!"

  They pounded down corridors now swarming with the remaining Red Force members, mostly marines from SG detachments. Cate led them through fire, deflecting two more taser tags on her armour.

  At the final stairwell, the UH60m, dull black, sat in the parking lot below, engines hot.

  The rotor wash flattened the dry grass. As they sprinted the last hundred metres, Cate half-dragged O'Hare's bulk alongside Kirby, Marcus clearing the path. With a final burst of speed, they tumbled aboard.

  The exfil doors slammed shut, Timer stopped.

  Above them, Landry smiled grimly and turned to Bixby.

  "That," he said, "was textbook."

  Michelle nodded, scribbling the final score onto her clipboard. "I knew she’d raise their game."

  Down on the field, the team collapsed into laughter, gasping for breath, the adrenaline crash hitting hard.

  Marcus turned to Cate, grinning through the sweat. "Welcome to SG-11, Squadron Leader."

  Cate wiped her forehead, grinning back. "Glad to be here, Major." She thought of her sister, wondering what she was up to? And to Nugget, she whispered a silent thank you.

  Bonding part 2:

  The Blackhawk thumped with vibration, rotor wash echoing through the airframe as it lifted through the tree line. SG-11 and SG-1 were already crammed into the rear compartment, bodies slouched against their packs, gear askew, breath still catching in their chests after the final sprint.

  Cate exhaled slowly, helmet resting on her lap, sweat plastering stray strands of hair to her face. O’Hare stretched out his legs, groaning audibly as he leaned back.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered.

  “You’re twenty-eight,” Kirby shot back, elbowing him.

  “That’s my point.”

  From the opposite bench, Vala Mal Doran crossed her arms dramatically, chin high.

  “Well! I must say, that was easily the most neglectful infiltration I’ve ever taken part in.” She tilted her head at Cate. “Not one of you came looking for me.”

  Cate raised an eyebrow. “Wait, where were you?”

  “Hiding under a table,” Vala said primly. “Which, for the record, did not work. I threw a shoe at one of the ‘bad guys’. Pretty sure it was Kirby.”

  Kirby looked up. “That was you? I thought it was a prop!”

  O’Hare snorted, cracking up.

  Marcus, stoic as ever, allowed himself a tired smile. “We’ll make sure your shoe gets a commendation.”

  Vala beamed. “I want it framed.”

  SG-1 chuckled. Cam leaned forward, rubbing his knees. “Sam, next time we leave building-clearing to the next generation, huh?”

  Sam quirked an eyebrow. “These…” Her gloved hand swept across SG-11. “… are the next generation.”

  “Oh lord!” Cam face palmed himself.

  O’Hare piped up, smirking. “How old are you, sir?”

  Before Cam could answer, Teal’c’s voice rumbled across the cabin, serene and amused.

  “I am one hundred and seventy-six years old.”

  O’Hare blinked, then let out a low whistle. “...Right. Respect.”

  More laughter filled the Blackhawk as it banked westward, the last traces of sunset fading across the Colorado Springs skyline.

  The Hammond Cup:

  The Blackhawk landed with a heavy thud on the pad behind Cheyenne Mountain. By the time SG-11 and SG-1 trooped up the long, familiar corridors and into the briefing room, most looked half-dead on their feet.

  General Landry and Brigadier Michelle Bixby were already waiting, coffee mugs in hand. Walter hovered near the back, an extra tray ready, he knew the drill.

  “Welcome back,” Landry said. “I hear you gave my maze a proper thumping.”

  Michelle grinned. “Not just thumped, Hank. They topped the month.”

  She turned to SG-11. “On behalf of Stargate Command, it’s my pleasure to present this—” She held up four smaller replicas of the Hammond Cup, glinting softly under the fluorescent lights, “—to this month’s highest-scoring SG team.”

  Applause broke out. Even SG-1 joined in without their usual grumbling.

  “You beat the old dogs by point-one,” Michelle added with a smirk.

  Cam groaned. “That damn shoelace I tripped on…”

  “You’re not supposed to bring props, Vala,” Sam added dryly.

  Vala looked entirely unbothered.

  Walter passed out coffee. The debrief proper began, with Landry running through the performance metrics. Praise was shared, critiques light. As the conversation wound down and the others began to stir, Cate remained seated, her eyes drifting to the glass case in the corner of the room.

  She stood and wandered over, drawn to it.

  The original Hammond Cup was magnificent, silver chased with gold detail, its base wrapped in polished plaques bearing the names and scores of every team that had claimed the title since the program began.

  Cate leaned in slightly. “SG-1… SG-1… SG-1 again…” she murmured, then paused. “SG-4?”

  Marcus had been watching. He stepped up beside her, arms folded, voice quiet. “Yeah. Been giving them a run the past few years.”

  “SG-4,” she repeated. “Who are they?”

  “Used to be the Russians. SGC black ops team now. Still led by a Russian, Lieutenant Colonel Elena Ovcharenko.”

  Cate gave a low whistle. “I’ve heard stories. I thought she was a myth.”

  “She’s real. Brilliant. Ruthless. Chews through XOs like we go through MREs. Landry calls her the Cold War in heels.”

  Cate looked back at the latest plaque: SG-4. 98.9.

  Cate tapped a finger against the glass. “If that’s what I need to aim for… I certainly bloody well will.”

  Marcus leaned closer, a wry smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “Good luck with that, Cate.”

  It was the first time he’d used her name, easy, unforced… and something in her posture shifted, just slightly.

  She nodded once, but replied with a crisp, “Thank you, Major.”

  Landry stepped forward as Michelle turned to leave, her next gate jump already waiting.

  “Right,” he said briskly, shifting into commander mode. “Since you’re all so brilliant, time to put you to work.”

  Groans echoed around the room, but he bulldozed through them without mercy.

  “You already know the mission briefing, so I’ll keep it short. SG-1 and SG-11, you’ll move out at 0500 hours sharp. Gate to PXB-332 first, gear up in appropriate clothing, and from there to Lucia. You’ll contact them by secure radio ahead of your arrival.”

  He gave them a look that brooked no argument.

  “See the quartermaster at 0430 to collect your weapons and final supplies. Sleep well. You’ll need it.”

  Cam leaned sideways in his chair, shooting Cate a lopsided grin. “First mission as a ground-pounder, MacGregor. Welcome to the glamorous side of Stargate travel.”

  Ghosts and Scars:

  The debrief was over. Orders were given. Sleep was advised, but everyone knew damn well no one would turn in without a shower and at least one hot meal.

  Cate turned to her team. “1800 hours. Cafeteria.”

  “Copy that, ma’am,” Kirby replied, stretching his shoulders with a wince.

  SG-1 echoed the sentiment, peeling off in separate directions. Everyone had the same idea: scrub off the mud and sweat before the food.

  Cate made her way to her quarters, grabbed a fresh BDU set, towel, flip-flops, and a small shower caddy. Her body ached in the familiar, satisfying way that followed a hard-earned mission. Still, her muscles felt like iron rods from the crawl, sprint, and final hoist into the chopper.

  The locker-room-style communal showers weren’t glamorous, but they were hot, clean, and nearly empty at this hour. Cate entered, dropped her gear at the nearest bench, and began stripping off. Her boots dropped heavily to the tiled floor. Her BDUs was damp with sweat and grime. She peeled it away, piece by piece, until she sat on the bench in just a towel, letting the cool air touch her skin for a moment before stepping in.

  A tentative knock broke the silence.

  “Anyone in here?” Vala’s voice called with casual alertness, more out of habit than concern. “It’s me. Promise I’m not a soldier with awkward timing.”

  Cate chuckled faintly. “All clear. Come on in.”

  Vala appeared, towel over one arm, already slipping off her top. She paused when she saw Cate, her eyes caught on the latticework of scars etched across her back. Not fresh, but angry in shape. Raised, pale against the rest of her skin. Some long, some jagged. Others, like whip marks.

  “Oh,” Vala said softly, before she could stop herself.

  Cate didn’t turn around. “Yeah,” she said simply.

  Vala blinked, realising she might have overstepped. She turned away with graceful tact and began undressing in silence, heading for the far cubicle. Water hissed as she twisted the knob.

  Cate stood and followed her into the adjacent stall. She let the towel drop and stepped under the stream. The hot spray stung against bruises she hadn’t known were forming.

  For a while, the only sound was water. Steam curled around their heads like smoke from a long-forgotten fire.

  Then Cate spoke.

  “My last life was with ASIS. Special Operations.”

  There was a pause. Vala didn’t answer, sensing Cate didn’t need prompting.

  “Three years of my life vanished into that world,” Cate continued, her voice barely louder than the water. “I did a job in North Korea… retrieve stolen plans for a Navy sat-nav system. We were sold out by a CIA double agent. I was captured. Kept in a basement for two months.”

  She exhaled sharply, the heat and memory burning equally. “They had a man there. Enjoyed his work too much. Liked whips. Took it personally when I wouldn’t break.”

  Vala said nothing. Cate could hear her breathing, slow and steady, just a metre away.

  “I escaped,” Cate went on. “With a dislocated shoulder and a rusted knife. Walked four miles through minefields and icy rivers. I got out with the help of some locals, crossed over to China and then home. About a month later, three men were sent to kill me in Melbourne as I was undergoing a very long debrief and court hearing. Two are at the bottom of Port Phillip Bay. The third’s probably fertiliser behind a café in Frankston.”

  The water hissed. Neither moved for a long time. Then Cate heard a soft sniffle.

  “Vala?”

  “I hate that,” Vala said. “That anyone had to do what you did. To live like that.”

  Cate shut off the water and stepped out, towelling off quickly. Vala did the same. They met back at the bench, both wrapped in cotton, hair damp and clinging.

  Cate sat beside her and, for a long moment, said nothing.

  Then she slipped her arm around Vala’s shoulders.

  “They’re just ghosts now,” Cate said quietly. “They can’t hurt me anymore.”

  Vala leaned into the touch, silent. And for the first time, perhaps ever, she let someone else’s scars speak louder than her own.

  Bonding part 3:

  By 1800 hours, the cafeteria had filled with a steady churn of personnel, all in variations of the same standard day uniform, sort of a mid-blue cargo pants, untucked matching shirts, and name tapes stiff with starch. The smell of something halfway decent, roast chicken maybe, or Laksa soup, hovered over trays and steam trays alike.

  Cate stepped inside, hair still damp, uniform crisp. She spotted SG-11 already seated near the far wall, with SG-1 just settling at the adjacent table. The easy, familiar banter between the two teams was already underway. She chose the roast chicken.

  O’Hare waved a fork in her direction. “Boss! You missed the good dessert. The lemon sponge is gone.”

  Cate raised an eyebrow, grabbing a tray. “Tragedy.”

  “Should’ve led with that,” Kirby said around a mouthful. “Might’ve moved faster.”

  She joined them, sliding into the seat next to Marcus, who handed her a bottle of water without comment. His own tray was spotless, and he was halfway through a cup of coffee.

  Across the way, Cam Mitchell leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room.

  “You know,” he said, nudging Sam beside him, “this might be the quietest meal we’ve had in months.”

  “Don’t jinx it,” Daniel murmured. “The last time you said that, the Stargate opened mid-bite.”

  Teal’c inclined his head. “Indeed. It was a Thursday.”

  “Of course it was,” Vala added, delicately spearing a carrot. “Everything awful happens on Thursdays.”

  There was a lull, comfortable, content. Plates were passed, hands reached for condiments. A normal meal after an abnormal day.

  Cate let herself relax into the rhythm, letting the quiet camaraderie settle into her bones. She glanced around the table, then to Marcus.

  “So,” she said, nudging his arm with her elbow. “Lemon sponge, huh?”

  He didn’t look at her, just sipped his coffee. “Could’ve been yours.”

  “Cruel.”

  But the corner of his mouth tugged upward, just slightly.

  I love Lucy:

  After dinner, with the hour still early and stomachs too full for immediate sleep, Cam suggested what everyone had been circling around.

  “Let’s hit the staff lounge. We’ve earned a laugh or two.”

  No one objected. Within minutes, both teams had filtered down the corridor, still in uniform but decidedly more relaxed. The staff lounge wasn’t much, two battered couches, a scattering of armchairs, a vending machine that sometimes behaved, and a large flatscreen mounted on the wall. Someone, likely Walter, had already queued up the classics. On the top of the stack was ‘The Lucy Show’

  Cate blinked. “You’re kidding.”

  “Oh no,” Cam grinned as he dropped into a recliner. “It’s tradition.”

  “I do enjoy Lucy,” Teal’c intoned, lowering himself onto a couch with a reverence typically reserved for battle.

  Vala kicked off her boots and curled into a corner of the other couch. “That woman was a genius. Ethel too. And Desi? So misunderstood.”

  Kirby and O’Hare claimed the floor, backs against the coffee table. Cate found herself beside Marcus again, legs stretched out, water bottle in hand. Sam claimed a more than comfortable lounge chair.

  The screen flickered to life. The familiar coloured intro rolled. Cue laugh track. Cue chaos.

  Within seconds, the room was in stitches.

  On screen, Lucy and Ethel faced down a conveyor belt of chocolates with the resolve of women going to war. The belt moved faster. The wrappers flew. The chocolate disappeared, into hats, down bras, stuffed into cheeks. Lucy’s eyes widened with every beat, pure panic and mischief.

  Cate doubled over, laughing so hard she nearly choked on her water. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen!” She was loving it though. To her, the best humour always fell into the stupid category.

  “It’s art,” Marcus replied, deadpan.

  Daniel was wheezing. “I forgot how good this one was.”

  Even Teal’c let out a low, rumbling chuckle.

  By the time the episode ended, half of them were crying from laughter, cheeks sore, shoulders relaxed in a way only shared humour could offer. For a fleeting moment, war, duty, and burden fell away… replaced by slapstick and sugar-stuffed chaos.

  Cam stood, stretching. “Alright, troops. 0430 comes early.”

  Groans all around.

  But as the two teams wandered off in twos and threes, smiles lingered. In the quiet glow of the staff lounge, the spirit of camaraderie was sealed, not just with shared missions, but with laughter, tradition, and a conveyor belt full of chocolates.

  Zero Dark Idiots:

  Most of them were awake by 0400, except two. Cate and Daniel.

  After knocking yielded no response, Cam gave up and said, “Screw it, I’m not babysitting a pair of grown adults.” Vala, ever the solution-finder, grinned and pulled out her phone.

  She dialled Cate first.

  From inside the room, a thump, a groan, and then the door creaked open. Cate appeared, bleary-eyed, in oversized blue pyjamas that gave her an almost childlike appearance. Her hair was a mess. She squinted at the hallway full of people.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly half four,” Marcus said. “We’ve got a date with destiny.”

  Cate yawned. “Well, tell Destiny to knock next time.”

  Vala smirked and immediately rang Daniel’s number. No answer. She called again. Still nothing.

  Cam raised an eyebrow. He thumped lightly on the door. “Jackson!” Then he realised he was whispering, damned useless. Then he heard a few choice words. “He’s awake.”

  Vala shrugged, stage-whispering, “He sleeps naked.”

  Marcus, deadpan: “You know this because…?”

  She reddened. “Classified.”

  Armoury – 0430:

  In the depths of the base, Gunnery Sergeant Max Kleiber, USMC, grunted as he unlocked the steel cage of the armoury. A mug of hot coffee steamed in one hand.

  “Four-thirty,” he muttered. “Bloody glory boys.” Max looked up. “… and girls.”

  Sam clapped him on the shoulder as she walked by. “Oh, come on, Max. We all know you sleep in here with your toys.”

  “Yeah, but 0400, Colonel? Come on.”

  Kirby, already inspecting an M4, grinned. “It’s not a fucking boarding school, Gunny.” He quickly checked himself as he looked around. “Sorry ladies.”

  Sam held back a girlish giggle. “No offence taken, Lieutenant.”

  Weapons were handed out with clockwork precision. Cate checked her sidearm, then snapped the action on the M4 closed with a satisfying click. Teal’c selected his staff weapon with quiet gravity. Vala fussed over which vest didn’t clash with her uniform.

  At precisely 0459, they assembled in the gate room, all in matching desert camouflage BDU pants and short-sleeved shirts. Gear slung, weapons secured, and eyes sharp, well, mostly, except Cate. She was still yawning.

  Stargate Departure – 0500:

  Cam took one look at the sleepy faces and hollered, “Dial it up, Walter!”

  A grumble rolled through the group, collective and resigned.

  “Does that man ever sleep?” Kirby muttered.

  “Never,” Sam replied, not even looking up.

  Chevron after chevron locked into place as the gate spun, humming with latent power. The control room lights dimmed slightly. Then the seventh chevron engaged. “Chevron seven locked!” Came the familiar call.

  With a thunderous whoosh, the Stargate came alive, shimmering blue and loud as a waterfall.

  Up in the control room, Landry leaned into the mic.

  “SG-1 and SG-11, you have a go. Good luck.”

  They moved as one: weapons checked, packs secure, minds focused. Cate gave Marcus a crisp nod; he returned it with the same tight efficiency.

  No words were needed. Cate paused, in a reflection to Sam Carter so many years ago, she touched the event horizon with her finger. And while it wasn’t her first time, being the nerd she was, the whole thing, never ceased to amaze her.

  They stepped into the light, and into the unknown.

  Committed:

  The cold air of PXB-332 hit like a slap, thin, dry, and edged with mountain chill. SG-1 and SG-11 emerged onto a windswept plateau ringed by granite peaks, the Stargate nestled in the cradle of a frost-scoured valley. Early morning mist clung low to the ground, curling around their boots as they spread out in silence to secure the clearing.

  Cam swept the tree line, scanning with steady eyes. Teal’c moved like a shadow beside him. Marcus took the flank. After a moment, Cam called it: “Clear.”

  He nodded toward a cleft in the dark stone wall nearby. “Our stash should be over there.”

  The supply cache, hidden months earlier by SG-9, was tucked neatly in the remnants of an ancient volcanic tube. Ten minutes later, the teams had changed into civilian gear—layered jackets, neutral tones, and sturdy boots. “Blending in with the locals,” Sam explained as she passed Cate a canvas coat. That part of Lucia was heading into mid-spring, the weather mild but unpredictable.

  Weapons weren’t the issue; Lucians tolerated them. It was Earth attire that raised suspicion. Especially in the capital, where nearly seventy percent of the population remained wary of off-worlders. Suspicious of Earth, yes, but not of Earth-made rifles.

  Cate adjusted the sling of her weapon, scanning the horizon beyond the gate. Her posture was calm, practiced. This, she understood. Walter’s voice broke in through the comms, clear, clipped, professional.

  “SG-1, SG-11… you are clear for outbound dial. Coordinates confirmed for PXL-472. Awaiting final check.”

  “Confirmed, Walter. We’ll see you soon,” Sam responded.

  The gate cycled down as the wormhole disengaged.

  Cam raised a hand, the signal crisp. “Let’s go wake our friends up, shall we?”

  Kirby moved to the DHD, tapping in the coordinates for Lucia with practiced ease. The glyphs lit one by one. As the final chevron locked, the Stargate burst to life once more.

  Capitol Ashes:

  Sam stepped forward and keyed the radio mic again, her voice measured. “Lucia control, this is SG-1. We are requesting confirmation before entry.”

  Silence.

  Five long minutes dragged by. The only sound was the rhythmic thrum of the active wormhole, pulsing faintly with residual charge. Static hissed.

  Cate stepped up beside her. “Let me try.”

  Sam nodded. “Go for it.”

  Cate took the mic. “Lucia, this is MacGregor. We need to speak to Hallam. Please respond.”

  A pause. Then finally, a crackle of life, gritty and sharp.

  “MacGregor… acknowledged. Proceed.”

  But through the transmission, faint and unmistakable, came the sound of distant gunfire. A low thud. Another. Explosions.

  The two teams exchanged glances.

  No one said a word.

  Weapons were checked. Packs tightened. Cam gave a short nod. “You heard them. Let’s move.”

  They stepped through.

  The Stargate on Lucia was housed within the grand Capitol Building, what little remained of it. A jagged hole had been torn through the roof; one entire wall was gone. Smoke curled through fractured columns and broken glass. Once-pristine marble floors were scored with soot and rubble.

  Beyond the ruined archways, the skyline of Lucia City smouldered. Buildings had collapsed, fires burned unchecked. Sporadic gunfire echoed through the streets, punctuated by the deep whump of artillery in the distance.

  Two ragged Lucian soldiers crouched behind a makeshift barricade just beyond the gate. One gestured urgently.

  “Come! This way!”

  They moved fast, hugging the inner walls of the shattered structure. Shouts rang from somewhere nearby, panic, commands, pain. They passed shattered statues, scorched flags. Once down the staircase, the noise above dulled, though it never vanished.

  The tunnels were narrow, twisted. Power flickered dimly in broken fixtures. The air smelled of burnt wiring and blood.

  Finally, the soldiers stopped at a rusted blast door. One rapped sharply. The other pulled it open.

  Inside, in what had once been a secured planning room, now turned to a field infirmary, Hallam lay on a stretcher. His tunic was half off, soaked in dark blood, his face grey but determined. A doctor worked quietly beside him, wrapping a compress around his abdomen.

  Hallam’s eyes flickered open.

  When he saw them, a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “About time you showed up.”