Mathématique: Chapter 67

This little sidearm-stealing pianist was gonna be a fight to stay clear of.

Chapter warnings: Stressors of all kinds. Grief. Physical injuries. Mental health challenges.

Text iteration: Witchingest hour.

Additional notes: I am delighted to return to this.

Chapter 67

Young woke with the vibration of his phone alarm. The only light came from the crack beneath the bedroom door of VIP Suite #4. He swiped his buzzing phone off the bedside table and checked the display. 0700.


He let out a slow breath and dropped back against his pillow, trying not to wake the guy next to him.

Eighteen inches away, Nick Rush was dead asleep in USAF sweatpants, a T-shirt from the NORAD gift shop, and tape-covered technoswag. Diffuse light did the guy all kinds of favors he didn’t need, glowing off his skin, turning his gray shirt white.

Young ached for the man, caught between two sides of a galactic war, brain hijacked by Ancient tech, waiting to inherit a boatload of grief he couldn’t recall. And god, the way he’d looked, canvassing a New York twilight, the last of the sun in his hair. Like he had all kinds of range Young had never given him credit for. Ordering wine and stealing guns and half out of his mind with quantum mechanical questions he wouldn’t share.


Young ran ops by the book. There was no one who could outlast him on a slog, break his discipline, or match him when it came to playing defense. But it wasn’t the steadfast hold itself that he loved. It was the process of consolidation. Deep down, he had the linebacker’s envy for the wide receiver. Because for all he valued routine, order, predictability—he liked edge when he saw it. Wanted to touch it, cut himself on it, smooth it down.

He’d ruined the solidity of his marriage for a coolly professional medic with water in her eyes and polish on her nails.

This little sidearm-stealing pianist was gonna be a fight to stay clear of.

Already it was hard. Already Nick Rush had plowed through Young’s defenses, thrown him off his game, drawn him in, locked him down.

Shit, the man had taken him to dinner in the middle of his own extraction. Incredible. 

Young stared sightlessly into the dark of the room, trying not to remember the way the man had offered up his arm for the transponder. The way he’d stepped into Young’s grip during the beam-out. Leaned into him, eyes closed, on the Odyssey’s transport platform.

It was easy to imagine friendship sliding into something deeper with the guy who’d coached and coaxed Young through a surreal candlelit dinner. The guy he’d been trying to bring home for months.

But the man was completely unmoored, with no memory of his life. With no memory of anything personal except—

Somehow, he knew Young. Or thought he did.

That had to mean something.

Didn’t it?

He’d appreciated the man on an aesthetic level for a while now. The way he carried himself. His personal style, his hatred for shoes, the way he rolled his eyes and wrote on walls and sliced an onion and wore the hell out of the one pair of jeans he seemed to own. He was nice to look at, but there’d been something wild about him. Untouchable. Unreachable, even.

But without his memory—

Something had changed. The thousand miles between Nick Rush and the rest of humanity had been cut to zero by an LA drug.

He didn’t understand it.

He was honor-bound to reverse it, if he could.

But, already, he was worried a reversal was gonna be nothing but cruel to this wide-open, resourceful, graceful little math professor who knew culture like Young knew war.

And the way Rush had looked at him in that alley. Warm. Worried. Complicated as hell. Like they’d already navigated the eighteen inches still between them. Somehow, Young was sure, based on nothing more than the way Rush had offered him Shep’s sidearm, that if he reached over and pulled Nick Rush in, he’d come. Settling into Young like he knew him, like he was sure he should be there.

But what did Young owe the tangle of live wire who’d passed out in his apartment from a mix of heat and grief and symphonies of alien math? 

Jackson would know what to do. Jackson would know what was owed. Jackson would understand the ethics of stripped memory. He was the one who’d called it. Who’d called this exact thing, days back. The way loss of self made the true self shine, stripped of defenses, stripped of control.

Turned out, under all his layered armor, Nick Rush had some kinda place in his heart for a broken, brainwashed, USAF colonel. And Young was gonna do right by the guy. As right as he knew how.

Easing himself from beneath the covers, Young stepped onto the carpeted floor. He used his phone to find his fatigues. He changed in the bathroom, squinting in the fluorescent light.

The day was gonna come on like a tidal wave. His nerves tingled with it.

In the adjacent room, he found Sheppard seated at a desk. One hand rested over a sidearm. The other held a pencil. He was writing notes in the margin of a book. His hair was a spiked mess. His split lip had finally stopped bleeding. His eyes were red. The cut near his hairline had been stitched, but it was unbandaged. Dried blood was crusted at his hairline and behind his ear. He was still in his dress slacks. Beneath the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt, Young saw the upper edge of his Kevlar.

“You were supposed to take the couch,” Young growled.

“Can’t sleep.” Sheppard didn’t look up. “I’m gatelagged.”

“Gatelagged? That a word?”

“It’s a word if we use it like a word.”

“Where’s McKay?” Young eyed the text Sheppard was reading. It looked like a hybrid between a physics textbook and a military field guide.

“He stayed with Carter.” Sheppard looked up at Young. “Gatebridge brainstorm session went late.” There was a bruise around the stitches at the man’s hairline. He looked haunted and dehydrated and like he was still pushing himself toward an op that’d ended a day ago.

Young snagged his cane from the kitchenette counter and opened the fridge. He pulled out a bottle of water and crossed over to the desk.

“What ya got there?” He set the water bottle directly atop the book, right under Shep’s face.

“Thanks.” Sheppard planted his sidearm atop the open book to hold his place, then cracked open the water. “The contractor doing Jackson’s classified book series wants to work with McKay to create something similar.” The man stifled a yawn, then pressed his sleeve to his re-split lip. “Shit. Because McKay’s McKay, he’s envisioning something like the Feynman Lectures. I think this one’s gonna be called: Basic Principles in Energetic Shielding. He wants me to give him notes.”

“Who’s the audience for this?” Young asked, frowning at a giant block of math.


“Oh. Yeah. Looks like it’ll be real popular.”

“Maybe after I pull all the Ancient out of his notation for him,” Sheppard said. Either Young’s sarcasm had gone over his head, or Atlantis really was full of math junkies. “He’s forgotten all his own quirks. He’s such a tyrant; everyone in Pegasus has adopted his hybrid style. Zelenka read this entire thing through and gave it a pass. Can you believe that? Even Zelenka’s forgotten we don’t use standard notation. I mean, look at this.” He tapped an incomprehensible line of symbols with a few numbers scattered here and there.

“So you’re editing a series of classified math books. On your Earth vacation.”

Sheppard looked up at Young, rubbing at a cortical suppressant. “Gotta say, I’m feeling a little judged.”

Young drew his hand away from his head. “Hey, I’m a fan of math. But I need someone to stay sane around here, and I’ve picked you.”

Sheppard saluted sloppily with his pencil. “How’s our guy?”

“Still asleep,” Young said.

Sheppard eyed the closed bedroom door with quiet amusement. “Can’t believe he dialed Atlantis from a Boston public library.”

I can’t believe he pulled your own sidearm on you.”

“I can.” Sheppard grinned, and his split lip began to bleed.

“He’s gonna be trouble like this.” Young leaned into his cane.

Sheppard nodded. “Does he, uh, have any entanglements in the Milky Way we need to, uh, take into account?” The man looked down at his hands.


“Uh, y’know. Friends. Family. Other relationships, maybe.”

Young shook his head. “He’s not close with his family. Not sure if you know this, but his wife died a few months back.”

“He told me.”

“He told you?” Young repeated.

“Last night. Came outta nowhere,” Sheppard whispered. “Just a fact he knows about himself. Read it online.”

Young released a shaky breath. “Hope we can get this thing reversed.”

Sheppard gave him a sick-looking smile. “Keller’s pretty damn talented. Rodney’s on it. But, uh, even if they figure out what happened to our brains on Altera—there’s still a Tok’ra recall device standing between him and his memories. Not sure how well he’d do with that.”

Young nodded.

They looked at one another under the harsh fluorescent light.

“Everything’s gonna be better on Atlantis,” Sheppard said.

“I hope so,” Young rasped. “Because it’s been one hell of a fall.”

“I know.” Sheppard fixed Young with his sea and stone eyes.

“So, you gonna be my new CO?” Young asked.

Sheppard snorted. “Right.” He looked back at his math.

“I’m serious,” Young said. “We’re posted at Atlantis and—”

“Atlantis is a civilian expedition,” Sheppard said, a wistful edge to his words. “Always has been. Always will be. I run base security. SG-68 is on special assignment. I’m not incorporating you into operations.”

Young raised his eyebrows.

“Nick’ll have to report to Woolsey, though,” Sheppard said speculatively. “We’ll see how that goes.”

“What’s Woolsey like?”

“Eh,” Sheppard said, “pretty new. He comes off as a stuffed shirt. He was a lawyer. Worked his way up through the NID then through the IOA.”

“NID?” Young grimaced.

“I know, but—he’s—maybe okay.”


“Yeah. Jury’s still out, but he, uh, he authorized a Hail Mary that saved McKay. Lotta risk. No other gains. Just McKay.” Sheppard stared at his math. “Woolsey’s got heart, I think, under all those law degrees.” He shook himself and looked up. “How he takes to Nick is anyone’s guess.”

“Yeah. He’s—” Young eyed the closed bedroom door and fought to shape what he wanted to say. “He’s, uh, he’s pretty charming. Considering everything. After everything.” Hell, the guy was charming full stop. There’d been glimmers of it in the months Young had known him, but now the guy hit like a brick to the face. He’d walked all over Young the previous evening and the only reason the guy was on the base now was that he’d decided to come.

“That’s what Rodney says,” Sheppard replied, riding neutral. “Not sure I believe it.”

“That he’s charming?” Young said.

“No,” Sheppard brought his shift cuff to his face and pressed against his mouth before his smile could split his lip open. “That he’s ‘more’ charming.”

“I’m with McKay on this one,” Young began, but stopped at the change in Sheppard’s expression. “What?”

“Careful. Don’t—” Sheppard stopped. Started again. “McKay’s spinning out on this one. And, uh, there might be real implications. Don’t put McKay in the driver’s seat, okay? Make up your own mind.”

Young frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Sheppard dropped his voice. “McKay thinks the LA drug might be affecting more than just his memory. I disagree. Keller has enough common sense not to let McKay railroad her, but let’s just—we have enough problems, dammit. We don’t need to dig up another one.”


“McKay gets like this,” Sheppard whispered. “We just ride it out, stop Nick from volunteering himself to science before we can get these things off,” he flicked his own cortical suppressor, “and restore his memory. We’ll be fine.”

Sheppard could handle a car like a dream while breaking every traffic law in the book. He kept his intellect under wraps, he’d attend a dinner party while bleeding out under his clothes, he defied his own orders, and he didn’t talk about his feelings. Or his anxieties.

For his part, Young was more than a little worried that McKay might be onto something. But that worry would have to wait. “I gotta go see about Jackson. Check in on Vala. You need anything?”

Sheppard shook his head. He rolled back his bloody shirt cuff, pulled his sidearm off his book, and picked up his pencil.

“Shep, half of SG-68 is posted outside this room. You can shower. Get changed. Hell, get breakfast.”

“I will.”

Young gave the man a searching look. “You okay?”

“‘Course.” Sheppard dropped his eyes.

“You need McKay in here to do a little calibrating?” Young motioned at the devices at Sheppard’s temples.

“I’m fine,” Sheppard insisted. “Just figure I might as well keep my day/night cycles reversed, since we’ll be shipping out as soon as we get the go-ahead. Besides, we’re both gonna feel better about it if someone keeps a direct eye on our Planetary Asset.”

Young snorted. “True.” He eyed Sheppard, trying to guess what the man was thinking, knowing he didn’t have a prayer of working the guy out. “How was it? Going up against David in the field?”

Sheppard studied his pencil. “Weird. Confusing. Not sure if he was trying to kill me or not. Not actually sure how hard he was going for our guy. I expected him to go for Rush. But he didn’t. He let Dale Volker do that. It wasn’t luck. The second the shooting started, they split. Volker went for Rush.”

“And Telford went for you?”

Sheppard shook his head.

“He went for Vala,” Young said grimly.

“That’s the party line.”

“Party line?” Young asked.

“Been thinking it over.” Sheppard traced the math notes he’d penciled into the margins of McKay’s book. “I’m wondering if he might’ve been targeting your little LA defector.”

“Shit,” Young whispered. “I figured he went for Vala to get to Jackson.”

“That’s what Cam thinks. Makes all kinds of sense. But.” He shrugged.

“But if he was gunning for Ginn—she’d be a high value target for Kiva, given she’s a defector, and maybe the least likely person to bar his path back to the SGC. Is there any chance—” he couldn’t finish his sentence.

“Everett I,” Sheppard paused, licking the blood off his lip. “The more I think about it, the more I wonder if he threw that op. Made it look damn good. Almost took out Vala in the process. But—all the same. I keep seeing it. I was on point. Rush was playing piano. Telford saw me. And the way he split with Volker, he way he came at us, taking point, the LA closing ranks behind him—it was a bad call if their goal was to make it out with Rush.”

Young leaned into his cane and stared at the floor.

“There’s no way to know,” Sheppard rasped.

“Nope,” Young said.

“You okay?”

“No idea,” Young said, and though he’d meant to dry out the words, they hit as sincere. As lost.

“Yep,” Sheppard whispered. “Same.”

And, in that moment, he realized just how much hope he’d hung on Jackson. Without meaning to. Without wanting to. But, god, if something happened to the man—

“I’ll be back soon,” Young said.

“I’ll text if we leave the suite.” Sheppard picked up his pencil and went back to his math.

Young stepped into the hall to find Ginn and James posted up on either side of the door. James stood with a cat-like readiness, her eyes on the elevators. Ginn looked ready to dive headlong into the first enemy transport beam she saw.

SG-68 needed a little seasoning. 

“Colonel,” James said, as he cleared the door. She saluted, crisp and sharp.

“LT,” Young said, friendly and mild. “Knock it off.”

“I—“ James toned herself down. “Yessir.”

Young nodded. “I’m working on getting a security detail set up so the three of you can take a little personal time before we go. Probably not more than a day or so, unfortunately. We ship out as soon as the Gate Bridge is back up.”

“I don’t need any personal time,” James said.

Young looked at her, trying to lift the lid on that poker face just a little. It wasn’t happening, but that alone gave him more than enough to go on. “No?” he asked, watching her face.

She shook her head and put her eyes on the opposite wall of the corridor. Okay then.

“What’s personal time?” Ginn asked. The kid was sharp enough to work out what ‘personal time’ was, Young was pretty damn sure. She was, maybe, trying to shift his focus from James. He gave her a ‘nice try’ glance.

“LT, if you don’t have anything better to do, give Ginn a crash course on ‘personal time.’ Use it to pack. Go shopping. Buy yourself some books. Load up a laptop. No internet on Atlantis. No TV.”

“Yes sir,” James said.

Young turned for the infirmary.

“Sir,” James called after him. “The college dropout we rescued behind the coffee shop has quarters across the hall. He’s been asking for news. Any word on what’s happening with him?”

“Odds are, he’s formally hired as Nick Rush’s intern and he’ll be shipping out with our team, but he’s got a chunk of paperwork between here and there. Wray’ll find him.”


“I think this will make him happy,” Ginn whispered to James.

James snorted. “Yup.”

As Young left them at the door, he heard Ginn start in on James with, “What kind of books will we need?”

“Uh, I don’t think we ‘need’ any books,” James began. “I think the colonel meant, like, for fun?”

“Books for fun?” Ginn sounded scandalized.

Young leaned into his cane and shook his head at the cement walls.

The SGC infirmary was quiet. He had a hell of a time getting past the medic at the intake desk. Turned out a lot of people’d tried to visit Jackson. Being the guy’s friend didn’t carry much weight when half the base could make the same claim. Finally, Young asked directly for Lam. One phone call later, he was passing through the honeycomb infirmary, headed toward the isolation suite in the back.

He walked in on Lam, Mitchell, and Teal’c. They stood together in a tight little knot in front of a pane of glass. Cam looked up as he entered, but no one spoke. The air smelled of steel and cement.

Young fought the way the floor wanted to drop from beneath his boots.

Shit. This couldn’t be good.

Lam looked ragged. She was on her feet, in low burgundy heels. No white coat. The sleeve of a striped dress shirt was cuffed almost to her shoulder to accommodate opaque red tubes that snaked from her forearm to the SGC’s portable dialysis unit. She studied an alien display on a wall-mounted monitor, a mishmash of English and Ancient spread over the screen. Cam was at her shoulder, his face pale, his expression tight. Teal’c looked through the observation window into the suite beyond.

Jackson was alone in the room, pale as hell, hooked up with all kinds of tubes and wires. He wore a piece of Ancient tech across his forehead, a band of silver shot through with a line of crystal. It glowed the blue of a tropical sea. Lavender. White, with a hint of gold. Back to blue again. His eyes were closed.

Young steeled himself and gripped the smooth handle of his cane a little tighter. “What are we lookin’ at?”

Lam met Young’s eyes. “Dr. Jackson has been carrying a dormant retrovirus since his first ascension. It’s reactivated.”

Young felt a chill deep in his own bones. “Since his first ascension?”

Lam nodded. “We have banked blood and tissue samples that span his entire career at the SGC. We sequenced his genome at multiple time points. This virus has been sitting, latent, since he was found without his memories on Vis Urban.”

“Vis Urban?”

“It’s a planet,” Mitchell said grimly. “Where he was dumped when he descended the first time around. SG-1 found him, wandering around without any idea who he was.”

“Why’s this thing active now?” Young rasped, already pretty sure he knew the answer.

“Maybe because of the stress he’s been under,” Lam said. “Maybe because he was recently sick with a Terrestrial virus.”

“Perhaps there is another reason,” Teal’c said softly, standing at the window.

“I’m comparing genetic sequences,” Lam said. “To the Ori plague, and to the plague that wiped out the Ancients.”

“You got any answers yet?”

“The Ori plague never moved the needle on ascension,” Lam whispered, pointing to the display she’d been watching.

“Jackson’s started to rank,” Mitchell said.

“Shit,” Young whispered. “How much time do we have?”

“Less than a day, I think,” Lam said.

No one spoke. Young pressed a hand to the wall, the rough cement cold beneath his palm.

“They are calling him home,” Teal’c said, his voice tight with suppressed emotion.

“Teal’c,” Mitchell said. “No, man. I do not wanna hear that shit. He’s ours.”

“It seems likely,” Lam offered, her eyes haunted. “Nothing I have can touch this thing.”

“No,” Mitchell said, pacing away from the glass. “I don’t wanna hear that. I don’t. HE’S OURS.” Mitchell glared at the ceiling, as though addressing hidden watchers. “This doesn’t happen. THIS. DOESN’T. HAPPEN.”

“Cam,” Young said, his throat tight.

“YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM. YOU HEAR ME? YOU CANNOT. HAVE HIM.” Mitchel roared, his back arched, his eyes wet, his expression full of fury. “And you,” Mitchell snarled, rounding on Young. “You knew. You guessed. How. Forget ‘Doritos.’ I wanna know EVERYTHING you know. Right now.”

Lam flinched back.

Young held his ground.

“Colonel Mitchell,” Teal’c said softly.

“I don’t know anything,” Young rasped, lifting a hand. “Not for sure. All I know is that he felt the ascended like they were here. He’s lived like that for I don’t know how long. He doesn’t talk about what he fears. And I think there’s a lot to fear.”

“Shit,” Mitchell whispered. He turned away, one hand pressed to the glass. “Shit.” He stared at Jackson. “What are we gonna tell Sam?” he asked hollowly. “What are we gonna tell—” he shook his head.

“I believe Colonel Carter understands the gravity of the situation,” Teal’c says softly. “She spoke with him last night. After our briefing.”

“What did he say?” Mitchell asked.

“Nothing that made any sense,” Lam whispered.

“Try us,” Mitchell said.

“He was in and out of consciousness,” Lam said. “He told her he remembers why he never speaks to her.”

“To Carter?” Mitchell asked. “He talks to Carter all the time.”

“His fever’s very high,” Lam said.

“Shit,” Mitchell whispered. “Yeah.”

“Vala Mal Doran must be told.” Teal’c looked at Mitchell.

“I know, Teal’c.” Mitchell replied.

“She’s awake?” Young asked.

Lam nodded. “She’s aboard the Odyssey. On bed rest until she’s recovered enough she can use a healing device on herself. It’ll be a few days.”

“I’ll tell her,” Young said.

Mitchell shook his head. “I got it.”

“I’ll tell her,” Young said. “You three—figure something out. Get Carter in here and damn well save the day. That’s what you do, right? Pull spectacular shit outta the fire, week after week?”

He’d meant the question for Mitchell, to put some steel in his spine. But his words landed on Lam like a hammer. She paled and turned away.

Lam had nothing on deck. Nothing in the wings. No eleventh hour save. He could see it in her stance. They all could.

Mitchell, Teal’c, and Young looked at one another.

“Daniel Jackson has returned to us,” Teal’c said, his voice rough. “Many times. Out of many fires.”

“Just wish so much didn’t always fall on him,” Mitchell whispered.

His heart in his throat, Young watched Jackson fight like hell on the other side of a pane of glass.

Landry’s 0900 briefing was cancelled to free up Lam and SG-1. Young got himself some breakfast in the mess, texted Sheppard an update, took the elevators to ground level, and requested an Odyssey beam-out.

In the surreal white space of a starship’s infirmary, Vala looked terribly small.

As soon as she saw Young, she knew something was wrong. He could see it in her face. The way she smiled at him.

“Hello, handsome,” she said, as he pulled up a chair. “Please tell me Colonel Sheppard left that charming little restaurant with—” her expression cracked into something wild and terrified then reformed, determinedly, “—with my Terrestrial BFF.”

“Yup,” Young rasped. “We got him.” He shifted in his chair and pulled his bad leg in front of him. “It’s quite the story. How you feeling?”

“Don’t you worry about me, handsome. I’ve got steel reinforcing my bones now. A few passes with a healing device and I’ll be back on my feet.”

The clean white room hit as painfully bright. The air recirculators too loud. In his metal and plastic chair he felt the short vibration of a thruster burn as the ship made a small correction, probably to avoid space debris.

Vala watched him. Already her eyes were wet with tears.

“Vala,” he began.

“Don’t,” she whispered, compressing her lips, shaking her head. “Don’t. Don’t, please, don’t.”

“Okay,” Young said, and his whole face ached with it.

“Because no one’s come.” Vala pulled a handful of hair over one shoulder and combed through it with her fingers. “I’ve been awake for hours. But no one’s been here. And now,” she said, her voice trembling, “now it’s you, and I—” she shook her head.

Young nodded. He watched her breathe. Try a smile. Hold herself together.

“You should’ve brought your neighbor. He’ll need all kinds of pointers, I’m sure. I’m an expert now, you know.”

“Yeah,” Young said gently. “I’ll bring him by later. But I can officially confirm he’s missing his personal memories. You’re gonna have to tell him you’re his terrestrial BFF.”

Vala smiled, beautiful and wild, tears running down her cheeks. “One can’t ‘tell’ anyone anything in this world. Words can’t be trusted. I’m a woman of action.”

Young nodded. “I know.”

Vala looked down at her clasped hands and pressed her lips together. “It’s very inconvenient, being shot in the leg.”

“Tell me about it,” Young rasped.

Vala nodded, looked away, wiped an eye with the back of one hand. “All right,” she whispered.

“Lam’s isolated the thing making Jackson sick,” he said. “It’s a virus.”

A tear escaped, running down her cheek. “He works too hard.”

“Yup,” Young said. “But this virus—it’s not something he picked up. It’s something he was sent back with, when he descended the first time. Best theory is it’s an Ancient recall tactic.”

“He can’t die,” Vala said, sitting up straight, her voice prim, her eyes flooded with tears. “It’s not allowed; I forbid it.”

“Don’t think he’s gonna die,” Young said. “I think he’s gonna ascend.”

Her expression cracked, full of misery, full of fear.

“Lam’s working on it,” Young said. “Not sure she’s gonna have an answer in time.”

Vala looked away, shaking her head, one hand over her mouth.

“He’s ascended before,” Young rasped. “He’s come back.”

She nodded, still not looking at him, her face covered by the curtain of her hair.

“Vala,” he said gently.

“I have laid him down around me like a shell,” Vala whispered. “Slow layers. Over time.” She drew her hair away from her face and looked Young in the eye.

“What?” Young asked.

“An old saying,” Vala whispered. “My people revered the shell, you know.”

They looked at one another in the too-bright light of the Odyssey’s medical bay.

Vala drew herself as straight as she could, with a leg still in traction. “I’d like to go back to Earth,” she said.

“You’re not cleared to be moved.”

“But you’ll take me down there.”

“Jackson’s not conscious.”

“You will take me. Down there.” Vala’s voice was vast and cold and full of ancient, stolen authority.

“I’ll work on it.”

“If I’m not on that planet in four hours time, I’ll land this ship on Cheyenne Mountain,” Vala snarled.

“I believe it,” Young said.

Popular posts from this blog