C is for Circumstance

[sg_wonderland]

 

 

 

 

C is for Circumstance

 

Summary: Circumstance – events or conditions beyond someone’s control (The Microsoft Encarta Dictionary)

 

 

 

“Hey.”

 

Colonel Chekhov squinted at the figure lounging in the infirmary doorway. “O’Neill. I hope you have news. They will tell me nothing.”

 

“Well,” Jack rolled a stool over and took a seat at the bedside. “I might be able to answer a few questions.”

 

Chekhov grunted. “The Korolev?”

 

“What do you remember?”

 

“We took hit from Ori ship.”

 

“Worse than a hit, I’m afraid.” Jack looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry, but they blew her out of the sky.”

 

“Korolev was destroyed?” The idea was more than he could imagine.

 

“Completely. Someone got you to the rings and down to the Odyssey.”

 

“How…how many survivors?”

 

“Counting you? Six.”

 

The breath left Chekhov’s body in a rush. Finally, he whispered, “Is not possible.”

 

“Wish I had better news, Colonel. Truth is, we all got our asses kicked today.”

 

Belatedly, Chekhov realized O’Neill looked pale and drawn. Exhausted. “What of SG-1?”

 

“Mitchell and Carter made it back to the Odyssey. Teal’c and the Lucian Alliance are still…negotiating.”

 

Chekhov hesitated. “Dr. Jackson was not among survivors?”

 

“No.”

 

Jack didn’t have to understand Russian to translate the deep, guttural words pouring from Chekhov’s mouth. They sat silently for a few minutes.

 

"In old Russia, a loss of this magnitude would require ultimate sacrifice."

"We had you searched for cyanide tablets before we beamed you down." Chekhov snorted. “Like I said, we all got whooped today. But that doesn’t mean we give up.” O’Neill stretched, got to his feet. “Listen, you just concentrate on getting better. We’ll need everyone when we figure out what the hell we’re going to do next.”

 

“There is plan?”

 

“Not yet,” He sounded strangely cheerful. “But we’ll think of something. We may be down but we sure ain’t out.”

 

“General O’Neill,” he stopped at the door. “I am sorry for loss of Dr. Jackson.”

 

“Yeah, well don’t hang out the black wreath just yet. Daniel has a bad habit of turning up when and where you least expect him.”

 

 

 

He sat for long moments after O’Neill left, and then he rang for the nurse. He would need his computer. There were condolence letters to write. Two hundred and thirty-four of them.

 

Chekhov sent up a silent hope that it wasn’t two hundred and thirty-five.