Jmas Fan Fiction

Title: I Know a Few…People
Date: October 12, 2000
Status: Complete
Author: Jmas
Category: drama, angst
Rating: PG-13 for language
Archive: Stargate Fan, Heliopolis, Belle, Place of Our Legacy
Disclaimer: Characters are property of MGM, etc.
Spoilers: The Curse
Summary: A missing scene for The Curse…original, eh?
Author's note: After the museum curator died, Daniel was apparently suspected by the police…a suspicion he states Steven did nothing to dissuade, but fortunately “I know a few…people…”

Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
2210 Zulu

General George Hammond yawned and stretched, thinking he should have left the base hours before, but knowing he couldn’t have with Major Carter about to test the Isis jar. Hammond frowned at the thought of the innocuous looking piece of Egyptian pottery with its incongruous Goa’uld markings. He had a really bad feeling about that thing.

Dr. Jackson had left hours ago to return to Chicago in search of more clues to the unfolding mystery. Hammond hoped the young archaeologist had gotten some sleep on the flight, but somehow doubted it. He had hoped giving SG1 some downtime during Dr. Jackson’s absence to attend the funeral of his former mentor would give them all an opportunity to catch up on some much needed rest, but he realized he should have known his people better. Before Dr. Jackson had returned with the Isis jar, Major Carter had been ensconced down in her lab working on some private project Hammond wasn’t supposed to know she and Siler sneaked into the mountain. Dr. Jackson…well…even if he hadn’t run headlong into the Goa’uld writing in Chicago, Hammond knew the young scientist would have been down in his own lab as soon as he returned from the funeral. Not surprisingly, both doctors ran true to form and dived into the mystery with both feet.

Hammond wasn’t sure what to think about the fact that Dr. Jackson had finally leaned on those clearances they had told him all along were his to use in order to get the Isis jar to the base. Hammond had begun wonder if the scientist was ever going to realize there were more perks to the job than the paycheck he more than earned. Still, in standard Jackson form, he had used those credentials to sign out a priceless artifact then brought it home in his carry-on bag wrapped up in a ‘borrowed’ hotel towel and a day-old copy of the Chicago Tribune.

Hammond grinned to himself ‘Guess we’ll have to work on that. One thing for sure… a certain USAF Colonel may find his ass in a piece of luggage when he gets back here. I didn’t give that cell phone to Teal’c on a whim and we could really use…’

The ringing telephone interrupted his increasing irritation.


The airman on the switchboard informed the general they had accepted a collect call from Dr. Jackson. ‘Collect?’

“Ah…General? Are you there? They say I only have a few minutes left….”

‘They?’ Hammond’s trouble radar clicked on at the word, that and Dr. Jackson’s rapid-fire delivery…trouble-speed, as Hammond called it privately…brought the general to attention.

“Dr. Jackson? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, General Hammond. Good.” The relief in the young man’s tone warmed him. He was flattered by the trust it revealed. “Sir…I…um…I’m being ‘detained’ for questioning by the police.”

‘Of all the – ‘

“Detained for questioning in what?”

There’s a long hesitation before his voice comes back in obvious reluctance. “ Murder, sir.”

A deep sigh came across the line and Hammond could almost see a hand pushing through Dr. Jackson’s hair in frustration. Without further prompting, he told Hammond museum curator being found dead under suspicious circumstances…and about a certain friend who fueled that suspicion on the strength of Dr. Jackson’s past. The sadness prompted by those actions wasn’t stated, but Hammond felt he getting almost as good as O’Neill at reading between Dr. Jackson’s lines.

“Don’t worry, son. We’ll have you out of there within the hour.”

“I’d really appreciate that, General.” The tone was light, but Hammond also knew the good doctor well enough to know just how much that tone could conceal.

“Consider it done, Dr. Jackson.”

“Y-Yes, sir. Thank you.” Dr. Jackson’s voice was warmer now, accepting the general’s assurance with a simple faith Hammond knew Dr. Jackson bestowed on very few people. He hung up the phone, accepting that faith with all due honor.

Dropping the receiver back into its cradle, Hammond looked at the clock on the wall. 8:16 here would make it 11:16 in Washington. Late, but not too late to get a few wheels of justice turning.

The Pentagon
Washington DC
2218 Zulu


‘God, don’t let this be another crisis.’ Major Paul Davis thought. ‘I’m tired, I’m hungry and I just want to go home for a few hours sleep before I have to come back down into this five-sided political jungle.’ General Hammond’s worried voice drove away all concern about take out pizza and a warm bed. Dr. Jackson was in trouble.

Davis wanted to laugh. ‘Who in the hell would think that Dr. Daniel Jackson…of all the people on this planet…could commit murder? I saw his face when his friends were in trouble on that sub and out in space, I saw his heart in his eyes and that man could no more deliberately claim an innocent life than I could walk naked into General Vidrine’s office and do the hula. Oh, there’s a nice visual….’

“I’m on it, General.”

The general’s tired Texas drawl thanked Davis sincerely. He hung up and sat thinking for a moment.

Davis genuinely liked Dr. Jackson. He felt the scientist was too damn smart for his own good sometimes, but had absolutely no doubt of his courage and obvious commitment to the Stargate project. From Jackson’s dossier, Davis knew there was a lot more to the seemingly out of place academic than would meet the casual eye, but in person the man presented those dry words in living, breathing, passionate color. They’d been through two highly stressful situations together and Davis knew Dr. Jackson was one of a kind, a vital force in the goals of the program, and asset to be protected.

Looking at his watch Davis noted the time. It was late, but not too late to help out a friend.

The private residence of Arthur Simms, Secretary of Defense
Roanoke, Virginia
2223 Zulu

Arthur Simms fumbled for the telephone in the dark, fingers tipping over everything in their path.

“Damn. This better be good…” he mumbled.

Simms’ wife muttered the long-standing joke about nine-to-five jobs before covering her head with her pillow.


“Major Davis here, Mr. Secretary. We have a situation with a member of SG1…”

The word ‘situation’ and Davis’ concerned tone brought Simms upright. “Who? O’Neill?”

“No, sir. It’s Dr. Jackson.” Davis didn’t waste the Secretary’s time with apologies for the late hour, instead launching straight into the details. It seemed Dr. Jackson was being detained for questioning in Chicago in relation to a murder; an unthinkable prospect in itself, but also a security risk as he would undoubtedly be faced with questions difficult to answer truthfully. The SGC’s top archaeologist/linguist could hardly admit he was wandering a museum basement in the dead of night while in search of clues concerning Earth’s extra-terrestrial enemies.

Simms remembered Dr. Jackson from the Goa’uld-Asgard summit., remembered the young man’s reluctant diplomacy and quiet competence as he schmoozed the Goa’uld representatives like a pro and verbally covered O’Neill’s ass with the ease of what Simms suspected was long practice. Simms had been aware of the young man’s personal stake in the situation and had watched for any lapses, but only caught one brief hint when the decision had come to turn over the Stargates.

Simms sighed as he rung off with Davis…

Earth owed a great deal to SG1 and Dr. Jackson; though few people knew the facts of the debt which could never fully be repaid in other than woefully inadequate salaries.

Simms grinned. Shaking up a few Chicago PD representatives to keep the good doctor from facing some very tough explanations seemed the least they could do….

The White House Oval Office
Washington DC
2230 Zulu

“Mr. President, it’s Secretary Simms,” came the quiet voice at the President’s shoulder.

The President grimaced; he was extremely fond of Arthur Simms, but the Secretary of Defense was rarely a late night caller except in times of crisis. Taking the phone in hand, he sighed. “Please tell me you’re drunk at some fund-raiser, Arthur…”

There was a low chuckle at the other end of the line. “No, sir. Home in bed…or I was until a few minutes ago. There’s a problem with a member of SG1.”

“O’Neill?” The President was an avid follower of SG1’s missions. The Stargate Project was one near and dear to his heart, despite the funding nightmares involved in keeping it running. The mission reports coming out of Cheyenne Mountain were almost too fantastic to be believed at times, yet too tragically real not to be. The few hundred men and women who worked on the project…most notably the teams who risked their lives jumping through the gate onto unknown worlds…were truly unsung heroes; SG1 being the most remarkable of that outstanding group.

“No, sir…It’s Dr. Jackson.”

“Jackson?” The President was, of course, aware of Dr. Jackson’s personal tragedy and his early arguments for more scientific and cultural components on missions…arguments with which the President had agreed. As important as the military aspects of the missions were, from technology to the many and varied allies they’d gained, the President fully believed that the scientific discoveries were every bit as vital to humanity as the things they did for its protection.

As Simms explained the situation in Chicago, the President remembered meeting the unassuming archaeologist at the summit with the Tok’ra Chancellor. He had received a full report from General Hammond on Jackson’s contribution to the treaty…as well as the events of the hours prior to his arrival. The President had seen the startling intelligence and determination in the young man’s eyes as they continued the summit and signed the treaty. He also remembered stiff movements and slight winces of pain, subdued gestures and impassioned pleas with just a hint of desperation. His overall impression had been that Dr. Jackson was tired beyond imagination, possibly injured, and continuing to function only on his legendary stubbornness and conviction. After the official stuff had been taken care of and the Chancellor seen safely back through the Stargate…the President’s first viewing of that awe-inspiring phenomenon…he had seen the energy drain away from the young doctor. O’Neill had seen it too, seemed to have been waiting for it as he hovered on the fringes of the gathering, for once reigning in his equally legendary gift for gab and lending silent support to his teammate. With a nod from Hammond, O’Neill had herded the young man from the room, not *quite* hovering, but touchingly concerned as only a commander and friend could be.

“Thank you, Arthur. We’ll take care of it.” Hanging up the phone, the President looked up at his aide. “Get me the number for the Governor’s Mansion in Illinois.”

Governor’s Mansion
Springfield, Illinois
2243 Zulu

A none-too-gentle prod in his side brought the Governor awake with a start.

“What? What?”

“Wake up, Hotshot, you have a phone call.” His wife’s voice was equal parts gentle teasing and surprise.

Rolling over with a groan, he mumbled, “Take a message, I’ll call them back in the morning….”

The phone landed on his chest with a thump. “Sorry, dear…I’m not telling the President he has to leave a message. You’re on your own…”


The Governor grabbed the handset, sitting up quickly with a glare at his grinning wife. “Um…Mr. President?”

Sure enough, the patented drawling voice on the other end of the line couldn’t be anyone else but the Commander in Chief…and his Commander in Chief was asking him to intervene in a police investigation. On behalf of “one of his top people.” An archaeologist? Jackson. Why did that name sound familiar? The President was assuring him that “his man” could in no way be connected with any wrong doing. Okay…

Jackson, Jackson…Dr. Daniel Jackson…associated with the University….

Of course! His son’s tutor. Back during his Alderman days. A bright boy, shy, but engaging and seemingly unaware of his own uniqueness. They’d invited him for a dinner a few times when the study sessions had run late. They’d wondered over the years what had become of the boy. Daniel must be really have lived up to his potential to be so highly thought of by the President.

The Governor became aware that the President had repeated his name. Twice. Oh, shit…

“Sorry, sir. It seems I’ve had a past acquaintance with Dr. Jackson. Of course, he wasn’t a doctor then, but he was a good boy. Don’t worry, sir, we’ll take care of him.”

Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
2310 Zulu


Hammond realized he’d fallen asleep at his desk waiting for word on Dr. Jackson. The shrill ringing had brought him awake, hand already on the receiver before his eyes were even open. With any luck, this was it. He’d picked up the main telephone and was surprised to here a dial tone. The ringing came again and Hammond realized it was the other phone…the red one…that had woken him. He reached for it, holding his breath. The red phone rarely brought good news.


“George? Just wanted to let you know our boy is taken care of…”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Hammond was frankly puzzled.

“We have to look out for our people, George.”

Hammond grinned. “That we do, sir.”

The President laughed on the other end of the line, explaining the high-level game of phone tag that had taken place on Dr. Jackson’s behalf. “Call and check on him, then go to bed. Consider that an executive order.”

“I will, Mr. President. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, George. Young Jackson is an asset we can’t afford to lose.”

“He is that, sir. Good night.”

The President rang off with a laugh and a yawning ‘good night.’

Hammond sat back, staring at the phone in his hand. “Well. I’ll be damned…”

Over the course of four years, Hammond had come to learn exactly how much an asset Daniel Jackson was to the program. Four years of arguments, debates, stubbornness and tenacity had more than earned his respect. Hammond’s initial concerns about a civilian in their ranks had all but disappeared around the time Dr. Jackson had tracked O’Neill and Carter form Antarctica… working tirelessly against time and the astronomical odds to get help to his missing friends. That kind of dedication and care wasn’t exactly common in Hammond’s experience…in civilians or soldiers…and he’d felt honored to realize he had a man like that under his command. Still did. He just hadn’t realized how many other people felt the same way.

Remembering the President’s orders, Hammond put down the red phone and picked up the other, dialing Dr. Jackson’s cell number.

“Hello?” Dr. Jackson’s voice…tired, stressed.

“Dr. Jackson? Are you all right? Where are you?”

“General, yes, I’m fine. I’m back in Dr. Jordan’s office. There are a few things I need to check before I fly back.”

Hammond shook his head. “You were released without any problems?”

There was a long pause. “Yes, sir. I appreciate your help.”

“I just set the wheels in motion, Major Davis somehow got the President involved.”

“Sir?” Dr. Jackson sounded perplexed. It was obvious the boy was too tired to puzzle through all the implications. “Umm…just…thank you, General.”

Hammond sighed. When Dr. Jackson returned they’d have time to trade stories. “Finish up your work and come home, son.”

“Yes, sir. I will…”

“Good night, son.”

“Good night, sir.”







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