Everyone else is doing it
Aug. 17th, 2004 01:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eve11There's a spate of Stargate apocafic rolling around lj, so I thought I'd throw mine in with the mix. Short, dark, takes place probably toward the end of season 7.
Bleed
-----
The warehouse is less a warehouse and more a skeleton with a few unburnt corners. Sam adjusts the flashlight on its perch of crates, then shifts her attention to the heat-puckered linoleum and the mess of circuitry laid out in front of her.
At its core, the zat is really just a souped up stun gun dressed in Goa'uld technology. Instead of a 555 IC oscillator and a nine volt power source, it's got two transistor crystals set back to back, acting as a multivibrator to chop up the DC from the naaquada power source so it can cross the transformer's magnetic field. Even the capacitors are basically low tech, which means they should be able to scrounge parts from any local neighborhood Radio Shack. Sam doubts that any looters have had their sights on thousand-ohm resistors or circuit boards.
There's a feedback loop between the power source and the transformer where the levels build for the zat's signature stun-kill-disintigrate punch. She's not sure she can replicate that with Earth tech, but she doesn't think anyone would complain about zats set permanently on kill. The delivery system itself will be the most difficult--a microns-thin stream of ionized particles that provide the electricity's path to the target. Like a lightning bolt, she would explain to Colonel O'Neill, the zat blast actually travels ground to sky. By the time you see the arc, the blast has actually already hit you. It's not easy to control. She may have to jury-rig something.
Of course there's no need for layman's terms. Jack and Teal'c are buried in the rubble of Cheyenne Mountain, and now Daniel . . . there's no one left.
A wave of exhaustion hits her. It's late, it's dark, her hands feel heavy and her face feels numb. Her vision jitters. For a few seconds she finds herself staring at a jumble of incomprehensible wires and crystals, and she has no idea what to do. Panic claws its way up her chest, seizing muscle and breath. She can't sleep and if she looks up she'll see his pack in the corner. His boots. His hat. Jesus, Daniel.
Concentrate. First things first. Before worrying about the delivery system, she needs to segment the power source and redistribute the naaquada charge, bleed it out equally amongst the smaller pieces. There's enough power to keep one zat primed for a century, that's a decade each for ten, and a year for a hundred. It defies the laws of science--to get something for nothing--but ninety-nine future years is nothing nowadays.
She'll start with four. Not overly ambitious, and it's convenient to work with powers of two. She leans over the guts of the zat and teases out the line from the power source. But her flimsy Swiss army tweezers brush a connection and she gets a tooth-rattling jolt. She drops the tweezers with a yelp.
"Did you break it?" comes a small voice from behind her.
"No." She sits back and takes a controlling breath, keeps her eyes closed until the tears recede, and focuses her vision on the power source again. "Shouldn't you be somewhere else?"
In the wake of Cheyenne mountain's destruction, they gained a small army of followers. Well, Daniel did; since Jack, Teal'c and Cassie died, Sam hasn't made an effort to become too attached to anyone. They're kids, mostly--air force brats whose parents died with the SGC. She only vaguely recognized the ones who helped her bury Daniel today. She doesn't know any of their names.
"It looks broken."
Her eyes never leave the circuitry. Her hands are still shaking. "I can fix it. Go sit by the fire."
Bleed
-----
The warehouse is less a warehouse and more a skeleton with a few unburnt corners. Sam adjusts the flashlight on its perch of crates, then shifts her attention to the heat-puckered linoleum and the mess of circuitry laid out in front of her.
At its core, the zat is really just a souped up stun gun dressed in Goa'uld technology. Instead of a 555 IC oscillator and a nine volt power source, it's got two transistor crystals set back to back, acting as a multivibrator to chop up the DC from the naaquada power source so it can cross the transformer's magnetic field. Even the capacitors are basically low tech, which means they should be able to scrounge parts from any local neighborhood Radio Shack. Sam doubts that any looters have had their sights on thousand-ohm resistors or circuit boards.
There's a feedback loop between the power source and the transformer where the levels build for the zat's signature stun-kill-disintigrate punch. She's not sure she can replicate that with Earth tech, but she doesn't think anyone would complain about zats set permanently on kill. The delivery system itself will be the most difficult--a microns-thin stream of ionized particles that provide the electricity's path to the target. Like a lightning bolt, she would explain to Colonel O'Neill, the zat blast actually travels ground to sky. By the time you see the arc, the blast has actually already hit you. It's not easy to control. She may have to jury-rig something.
Of course there's no need for layman's terms. Jack and Teal'c are buried in the rubble of Cheyenne Mountain, and now Daniel . . . there's no one left.
A wave of exhaustion hits her. It's late, it's dark, her hands feel heavy and her face feels numb. Her vision jitters. For a few seconds she finds herself staring at a jumble of incomprehensible wires and crystals, and she has no idea what to do. Panic claws its way up her chest, seizing muscle and breath. She can't sleep and if she looks up she'll see his pack in the corner. His boots. His hat. Jesus, Daniel.
Concentrate. First things first. Before worrying about the delivery system, she needs to segment the power source and redistribute the naaquada charge, bleed it out equally amongst the smaller pieces. There's enough power to keep one zat primed for a century, that's a decade each for ten, and a year for a hundred. It defies the laws of science--to get something for nothing--but ninety-nine future years is nothing nowadays.
She'll start with four. Not overly ambitious, and it's convenient to work with powers of two. She leans over the guts of the zat and teases out the line from the power source. But her flimsy Swiss army tweezers brush a connection and she gets a tooth-rattling jolt. She drops the tweezers with a yelp.
"Did you break it?" comes a small voice from behind her.
"No." She sits back and takes a controlling breath, keeps her eyes closed until the tears recede, and focuses her vision on the power source again. "Shouldn't you be somewhere else?"
In the wake of Cheyenne mountain's destruction, they gained a small army of followers. Well, Daniel did; since Jack, Teal'c and Cassie died, Sam hasn't made an effort to become too attached to anyone. They're kids, mostly--air force brats whose parents died with the SGC. She only vaguely recognized the ones who helped her bury Daniel today. She doesn't know any of their names.
"It looks broken."
Her eyes never leave the circuitry. Her hands are still shaking. "I can fix it. Go sit by the fire."
