Chapter 10 : THE FIRST EXTRACTION
[P3X-797 Mining Complex — Day 8, 0700 Hours]
The primary extraction drill seized on the third test cycle.
Sergeant Siler lay on his back beneath the Goa'uld machinery, half his torso swallowed by an access panel, cursing in a steady monotone that had the cadence of prayer. Oil — or whatever the alien equivalent was, amber and faintly luminescent — dripped onto his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his glove and kept working.
"The drive coupling's corroded," he called up. "Not rusted — corroded. Whatever this alloy is, it doesn't oxidize the same way. I need to fabricate a replacement from the spares we brought, but the threading's non-standard."
"Can you adapt?"
"I can adapt anything." A wrench clanged against something deep inside the machine. "Give me four hours."
I wrote DRILL REPAIR: 4 HRS — SILER on the operations board I'd nailed to the processing facility wall. Below it, a dozen other tasks tracked the extraction trial's first forty-eight hours: conveyor system calibration (complete), power generator restart (failed twice, succeeded third try), water reclamation restoration (in progress), perimeter sensor network (installed, operational), predator deterrent emitters (two of four active).
Two days in. Everything behind schedule. Nothing catastrophic.
"This is what project management looks like on an alien planet. Same problems, different gravity."
The engineering team — four specialists pulled from SGC's maintenance division — worked in shifts across the facility. Siler ran them with the quiet competence of a man who'd been fixing military hardware since before most of his team could shave. He hadn't asked why a civilian consultant was directing operations on another world. He'd looked at the task list, grunted, and started checking items off.
I liked Siler. He reminded me of the senior technicians at Raytheon — the ones who made impossible deadlines work by ignoring management directives and doing what actually needed doing.
[TERRITORY P3X-797 — STATUS UPDATE]
[RESOURCE GENERATION: 10 NQ/DAY, 2 TR/DAY — EXTRACTION INFRASTRUCTURE: 35% OPERATIONAL]
[DEFENSE RATING: 12 (SENSOR NETWORK + PARTIAL DETERRENT COVERAGE)]
[CURRENT STOCKPILE: 20 NQ, 4 TR]
Twenty naquadah. Two days of passive generation from the territory node, plus whatever the system counted from having operational infrastructure. Not much. Enough to start thinking about what to build, not enough to build it.
Kawalsky appeared at the processing facility entrance, P-90 slung across his chest, dust from the perimeter patrol coating his boots. SG-2 rotated security in eight-hour shifts — Kawalsky had taken the dawn watch himself, establishing the precedent that officers shared the worst rotations.
"Perimeter clear. The pack's holding position about two klicks northeast — Greer found fresh kills near the ravine. They're hunting away from us."
"The deterrent emitters?"
"Working on the east and south approaches. North and west are still gaps." He checked the operations board, scanning each item with the practiced eye of a man who understood logistics from the supply-and-demand end of combat operations. "Drill's still down?"
"Siler's fabricating a replacement coupling. Four hours."
"That puts first extraction at..."
"Tomorrow morning, if everything else holds." I tapped the board. "Water reclamation comes online this afternoon. Once we have a reliable water source, the team can extend shifts without depending on purification kits."
Kawalsky nodded. The dynamic between us had shifted since his visit to my office. Not warmer — Kawalsky wasn't a warm person in operational contexts — but more direct. He'd stopped wrapping his observations in the careful language of conditional trust and started treating me like what I was: the civilian project lead on a military-escorted operation. He offered tactical input. I offered strategic direction. The overlap worked because neither of us pretended to be the other.
"Ramsey." He lowered his voice, though the nearest team member was thirty feet away inside the conveyor housing. "Hammond's going to want a progress report by Day 10. Two days from now. What are you going to tell him?"
"The truth. We're behind the original timeline but within acceptable variance. Infrastructure repair is more labor-intensive than projected because the Goa'uld used non-standard engineering conventions." I paused. "And I'll tell him the first naquadah extraction sample will be ready for transport by Day 11."
"Will it?"
"If Siler gets that coupling fabricated and the drill doesn't throw another fault? Yes."
"And if it does throw another fault?"
"Then I'll tell Hammond Day 12 and hope the margin holds."
He studied me. That measuring look again — but different now. Less suspicion, more calibration. He was learning how I worked, the same way I was learning how he commanded.
"Fourteen days," he said. "That's what you promised Hammond."
"That's what I promised."
He walked back to the perimeter without another word.
---
[P3X-797 Mining Complex — Day 8, 1800 Hours]
The water reclamation unit sputtered to life at 1743, coughed out a stream of rust-brown liquid, then gradually cleared to something approaching potable. Corporal Mendez tasted it, made a face, and declared it "better than Iraq."
Small victories. I logged the milestone on the operations board and let myself feel the satisfaction for exactly thirty seconds before the next problem demanded attention.
The next problem was the conveyor system's secondary motor, which had developed a vibration pattern Siler described as "not good." The repair added six hours to the extraction timeline. I recalculated, adjusted the schedule, and moved the first drill test to Day 9 at 0600.
"Six days since I woke up on a concrete floor in a storage closet. Six days since Andrew Callahan died on a highway and Drew Ramsey opened his eyes in a mountain full of secrets."
The thought came unbidden, sitting on an alien workbench eating an MRE that tasted like cardboard soaked in enthusiasm. The amber sky had shifted to deep bronze as P3X-797's star descended toward the ridge. Two moons — one large, one small — were already visible in the east, pale crescents against the darkening sky.
It was beautiful. Genuinely, startlingly beautiful.
Andrew Callahan had never seen anything like this. Andrew Callahan's most exotic travel experience had been a conference in Reno. Now Drew Ramsey sat on another planet watching twin moons rise while an engineering team rebuilt alien machinery and a military squad patrolled for predators.
The coffee from the field kit was terrible. The MRE was worse. The blister on my heel had formed a callus. My back ached from lifting equipment I wasn't trained to carry.
"Best dinner I've had in two lifetimes."
The system text pulsed in my peripheral vision — a quiet notification I'd been tracking all day:
[XP STATUS: 950/1000 — LEVEL 2 THRESHOLD: 50 XP REMAINING]
[PROJECTED COMPLETION: TERRITORIAL PRODUCTION MILESTONE + CURRENT MISSION PROGRESS = THRESHOLD WITHIN 24-48 HOURS]
Close. Another day of extraction progress, another milestone achieved, and the system would tip over into Level 2. Hero Recruitment. Mission Board. Holographic interface. The tools I needed to start building something real instead of managing one territory and one conditional ally.
Kawalsky found me staring at the twin moons with an empty MRE tray on my lap and an expression he probably read as contemplation.
"Shift change in thirty," he said. "Greer's taking overnight. You should sleep."
"In a minute."
"That's what you said an hour ago."
I looked at him. The amber twilight caught the scar on the back of his neck — visible now, with his collar loosened in the off-duty heat. The mark where Janet Fraiser had cut into him and pulled out a parasite that would have eaten his mind.
"That scar exists because I watched a TV show. Because Andrew Callahan ate pad thai alone and binged eight seasons of a science fiction series about a stone ring. Because a project manager from Colorado Springs died on a highway and woke up with an alien AI in his head and twenty-four hours to save one person."
"Goodnight, Major."
"Goodnight, Ramsey."
I slept on the stone bunk in the barracks. The predators didn't test the perimeter that night — Greer reported their eyes reflecting at the tree line, watching, but holding distance. The deterrent emitters hummed their subsonic warning into the dark.
The system ticked toward Level 2, and I dreamed of Ancient cities burning in a war I didn't understand.
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