Endgame:

  Two weeks after the Gamma site personnel had been freed, Allienna’s freedom fighters were at it again. This particular night was thick with tension as the dim light of flickering streetlights barely illuminated the hastily drawn messages that would soon be passed between the parents, the civilians, and the slave labour across the expanse of the city. Allienna had worked for days, drawing on every ounce of ingenuity and cunning to coordinate an evacuation that was as dangerous as it was necessary. Her messages, encrypted with military codes, had to get through without attracting the attention of the Alliance patrols.

  Early one evening, she hurried through the dark alleyways of the lower city with a small squad, her senses were on high alert. The weight of what was at stake hung over her—if the enemy caught wind of the plan too soon, it would all be for nothing.

  “Hurry up,” she muttered to herself, her hand pressing against the small pouch strapped to her chest, ensuring the messages were still intact. “Just a little longer.” It was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life; leading these brave young people, who should instead be enjoying their last years as teenagers, before the responsibility of adulthood took over.

  She moved quickly, her body tense with every footstep, but the darkened streets were not as empty as they seemed. A rustle in the shadows. A soft click.

  Allienna froze, heart racing as a single soldier, eyes sharp, stepped from the darkness. The glint of his rifle reflected in the low light. He hadn’t seen her yet. She didn’t dare make a sound.

  She held her breath, praying he wouldn’t notice the small movement of her chest, the tension in her body giving her away. The soldier took a step closer, his boots crunching against the gravel.

  Before he could spot her, a shot rang out—a single, clean bullet striking him between the eyes. The three youngsters of her squad froze, eyes wide. They looked across the street to see smoke coming from the end of MacGregor’s rifle.

  “Go, Allie!” Cate’s voice echoed through the night, low but urgent. “Move, move!”

  Allienna and her team sprinted for cover, but in the chaos, another soldier appeared from around the corner. She didn’t even have time to react as two shots rang out—one in her stomach, another in her right thigh. The pain exploded across her body, and she staggered, nearly falling, but managed to steady herself against a wall. Two young girls who were behind her, reached her first. Fear and panic in their eyes.

  Her breath came in shallow gasps. She was losing blood fast. The symbiote inside her, typically a life-saving force, struggled to compensate, overwhelmed by the damage.

  “Allie!” Cate’s voice was filled with panic now, but she didn’t hesitate—instinctively, she rushed to Allienna’s side, kneeling down in front of her. “Go join the others.” She quietly told the kids; they were both just fourteen. They hesitated. “Go.” She said again, but not harshly. They moved off slowly, weapons drawn, eyes sharp.

  James arrived just moments after, his face pale as he knelt beside her. “Allie… stay with us.” His hand gently pressed against her wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but the symbiote wasn’t able to heal her fast enough. She was too injured, too far gone.

  Allienna’s eyes flickered, her usual steely determination giving way to a rare vulnerability. She managed a pained smile, then whispered, “We need to finish this... I can’t stop now.”

  James felt his chest tighten as he looked at her, the weight of her words settling deep inside him. “You’re not stopping anything. We’ll get you back to the ship. Stay with us, Allie.”

  Cate’s voice was sharp, cutting through the chaos, she pipped her radio channel to the Invincible. “Beam us up, now. All of us.”

  The familiar hum of the transporter took over as the world around them blurred, Cate and that small group were suddenly whisked away to the safety of the Invincible.

  Elle had the good sense to have them appear in the ship’s huge medical section. Allienna was triaged by a nurse, the ship’s SNO in fact, Major Ruby Forster, a no-nonsense Scottish immigrant who had made the US Air Force her life. She gave the attending surgeon her assessment. Major Mike Jaworski wasted no time in putting Allienna’s injuries into clear terms. “The symbiote’s working overtime,” he explained to James, his face grim. “It’ll heal her eventually, but for now, she needs more than the symbiote can provide. I’m going to help that along.”

  Allienna lay unconscious, the pain still etched on her face despite the medical attention. James and Cate stood nearby, watching over her silently. The quiet urgency of the moment hung between them. James’ hand hovered near Allienna’s, his thoughts consumed by her condition—and something deeper, something he hadn’t been able to fully admit until now.

  Cate, recognizing the weight of the situation, gave James a final, understanding look. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said softly, her voice quiet with the unspoken words between them.

  Without another word, Cate stepped away, moving toward the tactical command centre, she took Darlen, Morena and Tyra with her. It was time to prepare for the next phase of the battle. She knew James was ready for this moment, ready to take the mantle from Allienna. But for now, he needed this time.

  “Will she be, okay?” Tyra asked fearfully. The older girl Morena placed her arm around her shoulder.

  Cate was staring out the window, looking intently at the planet below. Her head turned slowly, there was obvious moisture in her eyes. “Yes kiddo, yes she will be.” The sudden realisation was on Cate, just how much these people needed their leader. Was James up to the task of filling those shoes? She hoped these last three months had given him the apprenticeship needed for him to do so. There was no one else right now; however, he wouldn’t be walking that road alone.

  The civilians had been evacuated, their escape routes carefully mapped out through the dead of night. The signal had been given, and with it, the storm would begin. They waited forty-eight hours, Lieutenant Colonel Hendrik Van Oostelan casually mentioned to General Blamey that today was the anniversary back home, of the start of the allies push back during the Battle of the Bulge. The coincidences didn’t end there, it was winter, and it was damned cold. The old veteran merely shrugged saying. “Make sure they all have extra socks.”

  The A/C402s roared into the skies, sleek and deadly, their engines cutting through the air with the precision of a well-practiced strike force. At the helm of the lead aircraft, Major Alex Briggs USMC surveyed the terrain below, eyes scanning for any movement as the rest of his squadron lined up behind him.

  "All targets locked," he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the tension that thrummed through the aircraft’s systems. He keyed in the coordinates, sending them to the other 402s that had taken up position as AWACS, the silent sentinels watching for any sign of retaliation.

  The ground below was a patchwork of crumbling cityscape, dotted with Alliance artillery positions and missile emplacements. With the signal set, the first wave began. Missiles were launched from the A/C402s, their payloads striking with precision, wiping out the first of the artillery sites before the Alliance could respond. The ground shook from the force of the explosions, and the dust kicked up into the sky like a storm, covering the battlefield.

  "Targets destroyed," came the confirmation from Briggs as he and the others peeled away to regroup.

  They didn’t give the Alliance much respite. No sooner had the 402s left the immediate area, their smaller brethren, the F302Gs; sleek, fast, and equipped with the advanced weaponry needed to cripple the enemy’s radar and tracking systems. The space-version of the FA/18 Growler had been built for these exact missions, and many of the pilots from those squadrons were Growler veterans.

  As the F302Gs began their run, they cut through the atmosphere with the speed of a thunderstrike. Their mission was clear: take out the radar sites that the Alliance relied on to track incoming forces, blind their defences, and make way for the next assault. Missiles and precision-guided bombs tore through the air, striking radar towers and comms hubs, leaving the enemy scrambling for answers. Smoke was rising high, a striking contrast to the blanket of white that was now covering most everything.

  The Alliance, still reeling from the early losses, had made hasty repairs to their infrastructure. Four weeks had passed since the earlier attack on the Tey River bridge, their engineers making it serviceable in ten days, gave them a false confidence and that confidence was now shattered. They had expected an invasion from the north, reinforcing their northern battalions and pushing another division into reserve. Horgfells could not be dislodged from his gut feeling on the issue. The Tau’ri ‘would’ attack from the North. Simply because as he told one of his advisors, it’s what he would do.

  But he was so wrong.

  The Tau'ri forces came at them from all sides. Two battalions had been sent north, mobile infantry and light cavalry and a half battalion of artillery, 155mm howitzers. The Alliance didn’t anticipate that the Tau’ri had brought their own heavy artillery to the fight. Once those big guns roared to life, many Alliance commanders knew this was the beginning of the end.

  On the ground, in the midst of the chaos, James stood with Cate and the others, coordinating their efforts with the Tau’ri’s air support. Their goal was clear: disrupt the enemy’s command structure and break their lines of communication, forcing them to fight blind. With SG-1 at their side and several senior command staff, they gave the young man their approval to declare war. He looked at them, sweat rolling down his face, despite the cold. The closeness of their bunker making the whole thing feel like a moment in one of the finest World War Two movies. He gave them a nod. "All units, prepare to engage,"

  The ground forces had begun moving, and the tempo of the battle was escalating quickly. As the Alliance shifted their reserves and armoured battalion into defensive positions, they found themselves caught between two forces; their northern push was halted by Tau'ri firepower, and in every other corner, they were met with a fierce and determined allied army.

  The battle for Vegema had begun in earnest.

  The Alliance commanders, tracking their enemy’s movements and hoping to press their advantage, soon realised their grave mistake. The armoured battalion they had sent north; intended to reinforce their hold on the city’s northern flank…was now rendered useless. All they had faced were light infantry and big guns, more than capable of holding the line, leaving the battalion vulnerable and effectively wasted. They had already lost a third of their northern force

  The realisation hit Horgfells like a thunderclap. He ordered a hasty retreat, but the damage had already been done. The armoured battalion would have to race back to the city before the full weight of the Tau’ri assault descended upon them. They turned on their heels, engines roaring, as they sped south to reinforce their positions.

  But it was too late.

  As the smoke and dust swirled in the air, obscuring the road ahead, the scene fell into an eerie silence. The rumble of tank tracks and engine noise gradually faded as the sun began to set, casting a long, blood-red shadow over the battlefield.

  A moment later, the ground trembled again—but not from the Alliance’s retreat. Instead, the shrill scream of F302s cut through the air as they soared in low, their engines screeching in the wind. The F302s dove with deadly accuracy, their weapons raking across the exposed battalion, raining destruction down upon the tank column.

  The smoke and dust seemed to swell, swallowing the field whole in a thick blanket, just before the aircraft emerged from the haze, roaring low over a road littered with the charred remains of the Alliance’s tanks.

  The battle had turned. The armoured battalion was no more.

  The Price of War;

  As the F302s continued their relentless assault, the ground troops were on edge, moving quickly to adjust positions. The freed Vegema soldiers, still adjusting to the chaos, were all too aware of the youth of their new commanders. One soldier, a weathered veteran against the Alliance’s earliest conquest campaigns of Vegema, caught his breath as he ducked behind a destroyed vehicle.

  He was a good bit older than most of the young squad leaders; one of them a barely sixteen-year-old who was giving orders like she’d been doing it for decades. The veteran couldn’t help but grumble under his breath as he wiped a smear of blood off his brow. It wasn’t just the tactical decisions that irked him. It was the fact that, after all his years of service, he was now following the orders of kids who were barely out of school.

  The tension in the air was palpable, as sniper fire zipped by, the occasional crack echoing across the battlefield. The veteran winced, diving to the ground as a bullet ricocheted off the metal ruins of a nearby vehicle. His squad leader, a teenage girl, barked orders, guiding him to grab sandbags and fortify their position.

  "More sandbags! Now, move!" the squad leader shouted, her voice cutting through the air with startling authority.

  The veteran glanced at her, scowling, then at the pile of sandbags beside him. A brief wave of disbelief passed over him before he rolled his eyes and moved to grab them. This was getting absurd. He'd fought through too many battles, seen too many wars, to be sandbagging his position under the command of someone who looked like she should still be at home safely with her parents.

  Across the battlefield, Cate, who had been overseeing the action with a sharp eye, glanced over at James, who was standing beside her with a wry grin. She couldn’t hold back her amusement.

  “Guess we’re not the only ones getting lessons today,” Cate said, nodding toward the veteran who was now scurrying to obey the teenager’s orders.

  James smirked, his eyes tracking the scene. He’d witnessed more than his share of strange sights but seeing an old soldier struggling under the orders of a squad leader with pimples and a mouthful of Cate’s gum, was something else.

  “Well, he’ll have to get used to it,” James said, his voice full of dry amusement. “These kids are the real deal. They might just be the hardest crew I’ve ever worked with.”

  Cate chuckled. “If he’s lucky, he’ll still be alive to complain about it.” She idly poked the tip of her tongue out to catch a snowflake.

  The veteran, now hauling sandbags into place with surprising speed, did his best to stay focused. But as the sniper fire intensified, and the landscape seemed to crackle with tension, his gaze kept flickering to the squad leader, directing everyone with cool precision. He shook his head, realising his current ‘boss’ was not much older than Klare, his daughter. That hit him hard, reminding him, that he’d not seen Eirlys his wife and their only child for two years now.

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  As he continued to fortify the position, he caught the sound of a faint chuckle from the direction of Cate and James. “What’s so funny?” the veteran grumbled, half to himself, before he realized they were watching him.

  Cate and James exchanged a knowing look, then turned back to the battlefield, still clearly amused.

  “You’ll get used to it,” James called out to the veteran, his voice light-hearted. “This is what leadership looks like. And that kid? She might just be tougher than you think.”

  The veteran paused, looking back at his squad leader as she ducked down behind a pile of rubble, checking her rifle. A flicker of admiration passed through his eyes.

  Maybe these kids weren’t just in charge by chance.

  Later that day, just as the sun was setting low in the west, casting a surreal glow over the snowy landscape, the world seemed to slow. The ruined buildings, skeletal trees, and jagged ruins of the battlefield took on an eerie, almost tranquil beauty, dressed in the soft blanket of snow.

  Grumbles—who, much to his displeasure, had been unofficially dubbed by Cate—found himself sprawled out beside his gum-chewing nemesis for the day: Hanna Dewalt, the teenager who had only recently commanded him to haul sandbags.

  They had been given the task of taking out the Alliance sniper who’d been wreaking havoc on their sector all day. Intel had pinpointed the sniper’s position; St. David’s bell tower, an elevated perch that gave their adversary an unbroken line of sight across the field.

  Hanna, still sharp and focused despite her youth, was perched behind him, spotting with uncanny precision. Her voice, steady and calm, crackled through the comms in his ear. "Wind speeds shifting, 3 o’clock at 12 knots. Correction—it's coming in stronger now, 15 knots. Adjust your windage to 2.8 mils."

  Grumbles, a grizzled 35-year-old soldier with more than a few scars to prove it, reminded himself that for all her tactical brilliance, Hanna could easily be his daughter. Yet here she was, guiding him through the kill zone with the kind of poise and authority that he hadn’t seen in commanders twice her age.

  He adjusted his aim, his hands steady despite the chill creeping into his bones. The McMillan TAC-50, the beautiful weapon supplied by their Tau'ri allies, felt like an extension of himself. His reticule hovered over the target; a solitary figure in white, hidden in the bell tower.

  “Give me one more, Hanna,” he murmured, his focus locked in.

  “2.8 mils, Grumbles. You’re good.”

  The wind whipped around them, the faintest hint of snow beginning to fall once again as if the world itself were holding its breath. Grumbles exhaled slowly, feeling the pressure build as he squeezed the trigger.

  The shot rang out with a sharp crack, its force cutting through the air like a thunderclap. Grumbles didn’t even need to watch the target fall; he knew the sniper would never know what hit him.

  The body slumped forward, its limbs limp, before it toppled 30 meters into the snow below. Grumbles let out a long breath, the adrenaline rushing through him, but it was swiftly replaced by a certain satisfaction.

  “You got him,” Hanna said, her voice tinged with a note of approval.

  Grumbles, despite himself, grinned. “Not bad for an old guy.”

  Hanna smiled in return. “I’ve had worse shooting partners.”

  He chuckled under his breath, grateful for the light-hearted moment. His hands still shaking slightly from the long-distance shot, but his pride couldn’t help but swell. As he turned to pack up, he caught sight of Hanna again, eyes scanning the horizon.

  It wasn’t often that a grizzled veteran like him could learn something from a kid. But today, he’d done just that.

  He was formerly Ensel Carmella of the 27th Plaxia rifle regiment, before that woman from Earth had given him the tag ‘Grumbles’. He laughed at it now, proudly wearing the name like a badge of honour. As night began to fall and there was a lull in the fighting, he was sent to rear for some rest. His hands trembled slightly as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He’d just come from a makeshift med tent, where soldiers were being patched up after the brutal day of fighting. It was the closest thing to a moment of peace since the war had kicked off again. But as he moved through the refugee camp; an underground shelter in what was once part of the Metro System, where civilians huddled together in an uneasy semblance of safety…his mind couldn’t shake the thought of his own family.

  He’d fought to get through the chaos of Vegema, to survive the madness. But it hadn’t been just for victory’s sake. It had been for them. For Klare. For his wife.

  At the far end of the shelter, where once sleek silver trains would disappear down a long dark tunnel, a small group of civilians were gathered. His heart nearly stopped when he saw her. Klare. She was sitting next to a woman who could only be his darling wife Eirlys . He had memorised the picture of their faces before he’d left; he’d held onto it, hoping one day he’d be able to make it back to them. But now, standing in the dim light of the refugee camp, they were real. Alive. His heart pounded, was he hallucinating? His brown eyes looked over the stained hundred-year-old cream-coloured tiles of the old station; there was still clearly visible an ad sign from just before the line closed down a few decades ago, something about the importance of brushing your teeth. Click! No, he was in the here and now. He looked their way again.

  He couldn’t breathe for a moment, unsure if it was real. He wasn’t certain he could allow himself to believe it after everything he’d seen, but there they were. His daughter, her brown hair slightly longer than he remembered, a hesitant but warm smile on her face. Eirlys, looking weary but unharmed, her hands wrapped protectively around Klare’s.

  He took a step forward, then another. His voice cracked as he spoke, disbelief creeping into his words. "Eirlys, Klare...?"

  The girl’s head snapped up, her wide eyes locking onto his. The moment seemed to stretch in eternity. And then, just like that, she ran to him, collapsing into his arms.

  "Daddy!" she cried, her voice breaking, and the weight of that single word was enough to shatter the years of war that had kept him going.

  His arms tightened around her, and for a brief, fleeting moment, the world faded away, his wife slipped into the embrace. There was no war, no destruction, no bloodshed. Just Eirlys and Klare. Just the three of them.

  Meanwhile, in the command post near the front lines, Cate and James sat near the comms station, exhaustion etched into their features. Across from them, SG-1—Cam, Sam, Daniel, and Teal’c—watched them closely. It was Mitchell who spoke first, his Southern drawl subdued but still present.

  "So, how’s Allienna holding up?"

  James glanced at Cate before answering, his voice steady despite the weariness in his eyes. "When we left, the ship’s surgeon had just taken her into theatre. He assured us both she and the symbiote were okay."

  Cate nodded. "We won’t know more until we check in again, but… she’s strong. She’ll pull through."

  There was a quiet murmur of agreement before the conversation shifted to the ongoing battle, strategies, and the next steps. But even as the discussion continued, there was an unspoken understanding in the room. The war was far from over, but every life saved was a victory in itself.

  Late that night, in the refugee camp, Hanna had been searching for three hours. The underground shelter was vast, packed with displaced civilians, and every face she passed only deepened the pit in her stomach. She was trying to convince herself that there was still hope when an elderly woman finally gave her the news—her parents had died in the first weeks of the Alliance occupation.

  She sat down heavily on an old railway seat, the grief hitting her like a physical blow. She hadn’t cried when the war began, hadn’t cried when she’d watched friends die around her. But now, the dam broke. Silent tears traced lines through the grime on her face.

  Ensel and his family passed by, their laughter quiet but warm in the otherwise solemn space. Eirlys noticed Hanna first, her joy faltering as she took in the younger woman’s hunched posture. She touched Ensel’s arm, nodding toward Hanna before stepping forward and sitting beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

  "What’s wrong, sweety?" she asked gently.

  Hanna swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "They’re gone. My parents… they didn’t make it."

  Eirlys didn’t hesitate. She pulled Hanna into a firm, motherly embrace, holding her as the younger woman broke down completely.

  Ensel knelt in front of her, his large, calloused hand cupping the back of her head as he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "You’ll never be alone Hanna," he murmured. "Not anymore."

  For a long moment, nothing more was said. Then, in the quiet, Klare’s small voice piped up, hesitant but curious. "Do I have a sister now?"

  Both parents answered without hesitation. "Yes."

  Welcome Mr Frost:

  By the time invasion was well under way at 0600, winter had well and truly arrived, the forces from the Aurora fleet land near Restuion, a seaside resort forty kilometres southeast of the city. At dawn the combined armies began beaming down or being dropped by waves of A/C402s. At one point amid the jumble of such a huge undertaking, the tension is momentarily broken by a quip from one of the soldiers: "This feels like that 'Longest Day' movie." Another nods grimly, adding, "Yeah, this is just like D-Day." His Texan drawl echoing that of his great grandad who had served on that fateful Normandy shore.

  Snow falls heavily, blanketing the battlefield in white as troops disembark, their breath visible in the frigid air. The Tau'ri forces are clad in insulated combat gear, while the Lucian Alliance troops, ill-prepared for the extreme cold, wear mismatched layers scavenged from their surroundings. The icy conditions make movement treacherous, and visibility is reduced to a few hundred meters. It is bitterly cold, meteorologists aboard the Chekov measure temperatures at near minus 20 degrees Celsius on the battlefield.

  The initial battle erupts violently as the Tau'ri forces push forward. The Lucian Alliance troops scramble to respond, but they are caught completely off guard by the precision and coordination of the attack. Amidst the chaos, an intense duel unfolds between one of the Tau'ri's Abrams tanks and a Lucian Alliance armoured vehicle that bears a striking resemblance to a 70s-era Russian T-62 tank. At around 0900 local time, the invading force was now fifteen kilometres from their departure. LAV-25s were moving in quickly, placing troops were needed and utilising their Bushmaster gun to good effect. At around 0916, one of the LAVs took a direct hit from a heavy gun, somewhere at the end of a crowded street. The familiar squeal of tank tracks alerted the allies. A radio call went out. “Bravo niner, this is Tango five, we are pinned down by armour, I repeat we are pinned down by armour.” The young Lieutenant gave the coordinates; eight minutes later another set of tracks was heard coming from the opposite direction. Like two mechanical boxers they sized each other up. Then it began.

  As the two behemoths exchange fire, one of the SG teams watching from cover murmurs, "Did they actually copy Cold War tech?" The answer becomes clear as the Alliance tank fires wildly, its outdated targeting system no match for the Abrams’ superior optics. A well-placed shot from the Tau'ri tank rips through the enemy armour, ending the duel in a fiery explosion. It was over in less than three minutes.

  The battle spills into the streets, where SG-1, SG-4, and Cate’s team engage in brutal urban combat. They clear buildings, engaging in short-range firefights and close-quarters combat. The sounds of automatic bursts and staff blasts echo through the snow-covered ruins. At one point, an explosion sends debris flying as an Alliance officer attempts an ambush, only for Teal’c to take him down with a well-placed staff blast.

  “Indeed,” Teal’c rumbles as the smouldering body hits the ground.

  Daniel, ducking behind cover, reloads his pistol. “Remind me never to play paintball with you.”

  Bra’tac’s Jaffa fight alongside the Tau’ri, their combat skills honed by years of resistance. Some wield Earth weapons, others traditional staff weapons, but all fight with precision and determination. Among them are female Jaffa, proving just as deadly in battle.

  Mitchell hurls a grenade through a shattered window. “Y’all might wanna duck!” A second later, a blast shakes the ground. “Boom. Just like F-302 training sims—except, you know, with actual stakes.”

  Meanwhile, Cate and her team fight their way through narrow alleyways, relying on cover fire from their allies as they push forward to their objective. The Lucian Alliance forces, though numerous, are faltering under the relentless pressure of the combined assault.

  James, pressed against a wall, glances at Cate. “We’re not getting paid extra for this, are we?”

  Cate smirks, firing a burst from her M4. “You’re getting paid?”

  “Wait…what?” James ducks as a staff blast sizzles past his head. “That was rhetorical, right?”

  The hunt for Horgfells begins when at around 1400 an intercepted enemy transmission reveals he has retreated to his Ha’tak, planning to flee the planet. Cate’s team later finds a captured Alliance soldier, who, under pressure, confirms that Horgfells is boarding a transport at a hidden airstrip. With no time to waste, they seize an APC and race toward the location, five kilometres away; they have no idea how much of a head start he has. As they smash through a fence at the southern end of the strip, they see the ship somewhere about centre.

  James gritted his teeth, knuckles white on the APC’s controls as the Hat’ak’s landing struts began retracting. The massive ship was already lifting off, engines flaring against the cold blue sky. The only way in was the open Death Glider hangar, but the ramp leading to it was fast disappearing.

  “We’re not gonna make it!” Morena shouted over the comms.

  James’ response was pure determination. “Like hell we won’t.”

  He floored it. The APC roared forward, its tires kicking up dust and debris as it hit the ramp at full speed. The incline was steep—too steep—but James didn’t let up. For a split second, the vehicle was airborne, suspended in gut-wrenching freefall as the Hat’ak continued to ascend.

  Then, with a sickening crunch, they smashed down inside the hangar, skidding wildly across the deck. Sparks flew as metal screamed against metal. The APC bounced once, nearly flipping, but James wrestled it back under control.

  “Everyone still alive?” Cate asked as she grabbed her rifle, already scanning for hostiles.

  A groan came from the back. “Define ‘alive,’” someone muttered.

  The answer came in the form of incoming fire. Alliance soldiers, caught off guard by the audacity of their entrance, scrambled for cover—but Cate and her team were already moving.

  “Out! Out! Go, go, go!”

  The firefight erupted, their spectacular landing giving them just enough chaos to seize the initiative. They had forced their way to the corridors, the sound of gunfire echoing through the metal halls. Cate and her team moved methodically, clearing rooms as they press forward. One of the special forces soldiers falls, but there’s no time to grieve. They push on, knowing the stakes. “Leave him.” She told James as he was about to give aid. The young man faltered, blinked once and then followed. The ship was large, they soon found that out, as several times they ended up back in the same position.

  “We should just work our way up.” Darlen said, he among them was the only one who had been on one of these vessels, albeit briefly as cargo when his regiment was first brought to Vegema.

  That got a nod from all of them, Cate adding. “And we should probably split up. I’m fairly certain that we’ve taken care of most of his guard.”

  “The bastard normally has a retinue of about twenty, fifteen guards and five senior officers. I think we’ve taken down about thirteen already.” Darlen told her.

  James chuckled low. The former Lucian soldier looked at him. “What?” Darlen didn’t understand Tau’ri sometimes.

  “You’re counting them?” He asked.

  “Yes and you should. It keeps the surprise factor to a minimum.” He couldn’t see the humour, maybe he’d learn.

  Cate divided them up. James was with her, Darlen and of course Morena and the two remaining SFs. “Stay in radio contact. Do not, I repeat do not engage until you have back up. I don’t want to lose anyone else, is that clear?”

  Collectively she was answered. “Yes ma’am.” Even from Morena.

  Cate’s team split up quickly, each group moving in their own direction. As the sounds of gunfire echoed through the ship’s halls, they cleared their sectors methodically, radioing in their progress. Mark and Ahmed, the two SFs called in. “No time for back up ma’am, two of them caught us unawares.” The Brit, Ahmed told her.

  Cate merely sighed. “Very well, carry on.” She told them.

  Cate and James accounted for one more, then came up empty in their next immediate search area, except for one room. She took a quick look using her ever ready compact mirror. She saw a young woman in there looking terrified. The girl was dressed in the Alliance uniform, it didn’t suit her. She was backed against the bulkhead, looking towards what could be another adjoined room. Cate give hand signals to James, they both drew Zats, remembering their training from Teal’c. One shot stuns, two shots kill and three shots, well Cate kind of figured that one out for herself. Going each side of the door, James got the girl’s attention, placing his finger to his lips. She understood and gave him a signal he understood.

  There was someone else in the room opposite her. He relayed that to Cate. Everything was practiced, snap decisions. James sprung across the gap between the door and the opposite bulkhead in the room, rolling and spinning, the Zat coming up quickly. It was only a fraction of a second, he saw a big man, an officer. He fired once; the freak just grinned evilly at him. He drew one of those small Alliance pistols, the chamber clicked, to James it was like watching a slow-motion video; behind him he could hear the young woman crying. He dropped the Zat, fumbling for his rifle which lay awkwardly beneath him…a crack rang out, a small round crimson circle blossomed on the man’s forehead, he crumpled forward in a heap. James turned he head to the door, Cate stood there motionless, her M4 still aimed, smoke rising from the end of the barrel. “Never trusted stuff we didn’t make ourselves.” She said in that distinctive Australian country drawl.

  “Jesus Christ!” James spat as he got up on his knees. Moving over to check on the girl. “You, okay?” He asked her. His head turned around, his face hiding a touch of anger. “You are a dangerous woman, Catherine MacGregor!”

  Cate merely smiled. “Yeah, I have been told that once or twice before.

  “We’re clear over here,” James said into his mic, his voice low but tense. He helped the girl to her feet, Cate approached them.

  “Who are you?” She asked gently, she could see she was afraid.

  Slowly she answered. “Ma…Maryl Tuneska. I… am grateful.” She said, measuring her words as if the language was difficult for her.

  “Were you a part of the crew Maryl?” Cate gave a hand signal, taking in the surroundings to animate her words.

  The girl understood. She nodded.

  There was an issue Cate had been thinking about since the very second that APC bounced into the hangar. If they prevailed, who the hell was going to turn this tub around? “Maryl, you wouldn’t by any chance know how to fly this ship?”

  “Fly?” She asked, not understanding the question.

  James cut in. “Yes, up in the Pel’tak.” He made a motion with his hands like someone driving a car.

  “Pilot? Yes, yes, I do.” Her tears were subsiding, a grubby sleeve wiped the last drops away.

  With that settled Cate pinged her radio. “Sergeants, how we doin?” There was a little less urgency in her tone now. “Are we clear?”

  “Confirmed. No sign of Horgfells in this section,” came one of the SFs over the radio, sounding frustrated. “We’ve checked everything.”

  “Copy that,” Cate acknowledged, but her eyes narrowed, already plotting the next move. Where the hell is he?

  A crackle of static followed, and Darlen’s voice cut through, the tone in his voice telling Cate they’d found something.

  “We’ve got him,” Darlen’s voice came over the comm, cool and calculated.

  Cate’s pulse quickened, and she motioned for James to stay close. “Location?” she barked.

  “Pel’tak. We’ve got gunfire and Zat blasts, sounds like they’re in a fight,” Darlen responded.

  Cate’s fingers tightened around her weapon, she knew he was lying. Those gunshots were his and Morena’s. “Stay put,” she ordered, glancing at James, who was already stepping forward. “No one engages without backup. Got it?”

  The static on the line seemed to buzz louder before Morena’s voice came through, firm and resolute. “Negative, ma’am,” she said, cutting through the tension. “This is our fight now.”

  Cate hesitated, her eyes flashing with the weight of Morena’s words. She knew this was personal for both Darlen and Morena. They had every reason to want this confrontation.

  “I said wait…” Cate started, but Morena interrupted, her voice resolute.

  “No,” Morena’s tone was final. “This is our fight and it’s bloody personal. We finish this, together Cate.”

  A beat of silence stretched over the comms. Cate let out a breath, her gaze flicking to James, who was already nodding. “Copy that. Stay on comms,” Cate said finally. She knew better than to argue when it was personal. “But be careful. No heroics. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Morena’s voice was now tempered with determination.

  With that, Cate motioned to James, and they turned and with Maryl in turn, they began the climb up to the Pel’tak level. Morena and Darlen might just handle Horgfells alone. It would be their final confrontation; and Cate trusted them both to end it.

  The former Alliance section leader and the auburn-haired young woman had cornered Horgfells on the Pel’tak, exchanging gunfire across the room. It reached a stalemate when Horgfells, realizing their weapons are empty, smirks and tosses aside his own. "An honourable death, then," he spat, drawing his ceremonial sword.

  A moment of panic sweeps over Darlen until he spots a fallen officer’s blade and grabs it, while Morena unsheathes her long Vegema bayonet. The big man lunges without warning, grunting with the exertion. The duel begins, a deadly dance of steel and footwork. The polished floors reflect the flickering emergency lights, casting long shadows as they fight. Horgfells is a brute but skilled, forcing them back with heavy strikes. Darlen counters with speed, Morena with agility, their movements synchronized. The man was grossly overweight, they knew he’d tire soon, they had only to keep him occupied.

  The tide turns though when Horgfells manages to land a savage blow to Darlen’s left thigh, sending him collapsing to the floor. Morena screams out in fear as Horgfells advances for the killing stroke; until she reacts on instinct. With a desperate yell, she hurls her bayonet like a spear. It impales Horgfells through the chest. For a moment, he staggers, almost seeming to resist, before collapsing forward. Morena rushes to Darlen’s side, sobbing. Her head then turns to the monster as he lay in his own blood. She crawls across the deck and kneels beside Horgfells as he takes his final breath, leaning in to whisper, "When you finally meet Shai ‘tan, tell him Morena Cabrara sent you."

  “Bitch!” He uttered as death took him.

  The war was over.

  Six days later, aboard the Invincible, Cate stands on the bridge, hands behind her back. If there was anything good to have come from this, it was two things. James was granted a full discharge and after some negotiation, installed as Earth’s Ambassador to Vegema. Secondly a training program was to be set up as Earth agrees to train thirty young pilot cadets from Vegema, the first of many. Among them is Tyra. They watch Vegema shrinking in their view before the hyperspace jump, Cate turns to Tyra. "Four years is a long time to be away from home. You okay with that?"

  Tyra looks up at her, determination in her eyes. "Will I see you there? The Alpha Site?"

  Cate smiles faintly. "From time to time."

  Tyra nods. "Then four years will be worth it."

  As the stars stretch into infinity, the Invincible vanishes—onward, to whatever awaits. And to Cate’s destiny.