"Fall of Angels" was first published in the zine Redemption 1

Fall of Angels

by Corby

Prologue

He smiled, because the sun was at exactly the right angle. It was skipping over the pool and hitting her torso in such a way that every curve of muscle, every point of bone, was softly highlighted in gold. She was unaware of the homage from either sun or man, and continued to idly circle her fingers on her belly as if trying to spread the light across her taut skin. He smiled even wider, in anticipation of treats to come, and took a sip of his mango juice, the colour of the sun.

Filtered through the hotel grounds, the street sounds of Mexico seemed chaotic with festivities, not poverty. There was a charm to the yells and beeps and screeches when experienced via a filter of lush garden and deferring waiters, and he stretched lazily to admire the surroundings once more. A holiday from his endless work, however brief, had been a marvellous idea, and Mexico with its sun and colour and seemingly infinite people had proven to be the perfect choice. He'd done all the holiday things - taken tour rides, met new friends, drunk too much at the poolside bar, flirted outrageously, and with success. No souvenirs beyond memories; there didn't seem any point. But those memories would warm him for a long time to come, and he had every intention of making another one this afternoon. It was, after all, time to move on. He had decided where he'd go next and what he'd do. The anticipation was intense.

He tilted his head back until he felt the deck-chair's support, and closed his eyes. He knew what she'd do. They'd played this game before. Sure enough, a long, warm hand left one belly and found his, began its predatory circling on his body, around and around and - very daring - down, so lightly, so possessively. Until recently he had never known these games existed. Holidays were wonderful things.

"Sweetheart?" he murmured. It was a challenge and an invitation, and she laughed huskily to hear it.

"I think so. My room?"

He reached to still her fingers, suddenly, surprising her.

"No, my room today. I have something I want to show you."

She laughed again.

"Your etchings?" and he joined her in the chuckle.

"Noooo…" He brought the fingers up to his mouth and kissed each one, letting his tongue circle each in turn. She shivered, in the blinding heat. He opened his eyes to see hers large with passion. "You have made this holiday so much better than it would have been. I want to say 'thank you' properly." It seemed the compliment was not quite as ardent as she would have liked, because her fingers were pulled away from his hand and she stood.

"I should hope so," she snapped, and he reached for her thigh where it tantalised near his face.

"I'm sorry. I put that badly. You know how clumsy I can be with words."

"You? You know lots of words." But she was mollified, and reached to drag him to his feet. "I'll be there in five. Order me a scotch while you wait."

He smiled, and nodded, but knew there would be no chance for scotches. The holiday was over. It was time to go back to work.

He had spent the intervening minutes choosing exactly the right tool for the job, so that as he filleted her, here, peeling back the flesh from her ribs, admiring the beauty of their symmetry, he barely had to apply pressure to the knife and it carved gently through whatever resistance her dead body had yet to offer. He thought it appropriate; whatever her pseudo-sophisticated posturing might otherwise suggest, she had been a gentle soul underneath. He was glad he could observe this small nicety for her. It made him feel rather good about himself, and he hummed softly as he worked, until he was finished and could pack his special knives away for another day.

Her car was parked in the hotel's keeping, but he had signed out for it three times before, and no one on staff demurred when he signed it out again. This was what he had needed, and he eased the new and fully equipped four-wheel drive into the heady mess that was Mexican traffic. A few dents and scratches would make it less conspicuous, but he didn't want anything disastrous so close to his latest work. He could wait until he found the highway before testing the power of his new toy. He grinned to himself when he remembered noticing and wanting the car that very first day, after its driver went to great lengths to make sure that the staff washed off the dust. What was the point of having an off-road vehicle if you didn't want it to get dirty? He shook his head, and found a stretch of road that allowed him to increase the speed a little.

Silly girl. And for the life of him, he couldn't remember her name.

Chapter One

It was raining, and that felt right somehow. Good to have the water hitting his shoulders and neck, his thrumming back, with a thousand savage, sweet shocks. He blinked against it, the cold, the pain, the rain hammering down onto his newly free flesh. Darkness almost defeated him at first, but he knew nothing could defeat him for long, not now, not on this glorious night; and with a little cry that could have been grief or joy or terrible pain he saw the patch of light ahead of him that signalled a window onto something close enough to heaven for Daniel Jackson.

He stumbled forward. He knew this garden, those steps. He recognised the patio. And he remembered how Jack always left this corner of his windows uncurtained, open to the elements. It was 'his weather-eye', Jack said. A means of watching the night pass, of following the moon and the stars and the clouds in their nocturnal vicissitudes. And, Daniel had long suspected, of making sure that part of him never felt too comfortable, too safe. Now it glowed brightly in the darkness, and Daniel staggered forward, slipping a little on the wet stones, stumbling against the traps of potted plants and loose bricks. Commonsense would dictate an approach via the front door, but Daniel was suddenly and hopelessly prey to a need to visually make sure of what his heart had already told him. He had to see Jack.

The window was dry, protected by the wide overhang and the wind that blew the rain from the northeast. Daniel swayed into the window frame, blinking now against the light that seemed so bright after so much time spent captive in a twilit world of shadows and muted colour. There had been no day there, no night, no rain. No means of telling just how long it was since Daniel Jackson had stood on these steps, and the need to know that Jack was alive and here and waiting for him became a crushing one. All the terrible possibilities of time lost crowded into his mind - Jack gone, the house sold, Jack dead, SG-1 destroyed, home and family irretrievably swept away by impossible, possible, probable, inevitable accidents -

Daniel pressed forward, shaking.

To see a silver haired head leaning back against the easy chair, eyes closed, mouth set into a grim line.

He made another noise of desperate need, and then he fisted his hands and banged on the window, again and again and again, a tintinnabulation of homecoming almost lost amidst the pounding upon the roof. But those eyes flashed open as the head jerked upright; for the first time in far too long, Daniel Jackson stared into the gaze of his best friend, Jack O'Neill.

For a moment, a heartbeat, there was nothing. No sign that Jack even saw him. Then those dark eyes widened, and Daniel saw how the hands loosely resting upon the arms of the chair convulsed, as though shocked. He had been gifted with the recognition of a friend, and it thrilled through his body. He banged once more against the glass and then stood there, hearing something like a sob coming from deep inside him, where all the grief and fear and pain and relief merged into a dark joy inexpressible through words. Jack was straightening up, staring, staring, and it was almost comical. This homecoming was the rich comic fare of the gods, who played with human hearts and souls to watch such moments from the safety of Olympus, and argue lightly as to whether it was tragedy or farce.

But Daniel knew the answer in his bones. This was tragedy. He read it in the way Jack rose from his chair, his movements so stiff and old; in the way Jack's face had become something terrible, the eyes wild and full of such intensity that Daniel could barely hold them with his own. And then Jack was moving away, and Daniel cried out again - only to mentally chastise himself as he saw where Jack was heading. To the door, dummy. To let you in. To bring you home.

He pushed away from the window and reeled along the patio, stubbing his toes on more plants, more anonymous impedimenta on the bricks. The curtain against the patio door was twitching as Jack fumbled with latches behind it, and Daniel felt his impatience, knew how Jack's heart was beating too fast for his fingers to follow. I'm here, I'm here, he wanted to shout, words stupid with bliss, punch-drunk with happiness. He didn't know what the long months had done to Jack, or to himself for that matter; he only knew it was over, and some part of each had survived.

At last the curtain twitched with finality, and Daniel saw Jack silhouetted in the doorway, wrenching on the handle. It gave with a sudden rumble. In this final moment before homecoming the physical pain in Daniel's body built again, as if to underscore how bittersweet such meetings could not help but be. There would be anger, and regret, and mourning for months foregone so deep it would feel like fire. But here and now was the sweetness, and Daniel stepped forward into the light pouring from around his friend.

He heard Jack gasp, a wounded sound; then arms were around him, gripping him, clutching him, and he laughed like a drunken child, sad and sweet and wrong. The room whirled around his head, and he thought, I'm going to faint. Jack was spinning him inside, his fingers iron on his aching body, and Daniel tried to speak but the rain had washed the words from him so that he could only gasp too, a diver breaking the surface after too long submerged. And Jack was still pulling him around, but dropping him as well, and suddenly Daniel realised he was heading for the floor and there was no way Jack could stop him.

"Jack - "

But then he could only grunt as he hit the floor, hard, and he felt a knee follow through between his shoulder blades. It hurt, abominably. He cried out, and something hard hit the back of his head and he cracked forward, his face pressing the wooden floor in mockery of the embrace he had dreamed. Bewilderment and panic made him try to arch again, but one steely hand gripped his head and pushed him flat, gasping, struggling, helpless.

The only sounds were the relentless rain and the terse panting of the stranger riding his back. Daniel felt his hands wrenched behind him and some kind of cord biting around and about his wrists. The word 'intruder' flashed into his mind, and he suddenly realised what had happened. In the darkness and rain, Jack had not recognised him after all. This was a secondary relief, shakier than the first, and he groaned in sympathy for the unnecessary hurt to his abused muscles.

"Jack, it's me. It's Daniel. I'm back," he squeezed out through lips squashed against the floorboards. The curtain cord was given a tighter tug. "Jack, you don't need that. I know, I know, but it is me. I'm home."

The knee drilling his back lifted clear, and Daniel grimaced as his muscles throbbed more viciously in response. But he felt and heard Jack step away, with a last shove against his head for good measure. He worked his jaw, gathering his thoughts before risking a raised head to find his friend.

Jack was at his small table, reaching for a cell phone. He flipped it open and began dialling. His eyes never left Daniel's face, and something sick and cold twisted in Daniel's gut.

Wrong universe? Had the Asgard made a mistake? But no, they would be sure. Wouldn't they? Trace elements and atomic signatures and all that. This was the right Jack O'Neill. The right Earth. It was just everything else that was wrong.

"Jack, what the hell are you doing?" Phoning someone? The tragedy had corkscrewed back to farce. "Jack, please - say something. Anything. 'About time'. Or, 'How have you been'? This is - well, this isn't what I expected, you know?" Daniel squirmed until he was almost half-upright, straining his chest and shoulder to address the friend who stared at him so… inimically. "Jack, I don't know how long it's been, but I know this is probably a shock. If it's any consolation, it's a shock to me, too. But I haven't -

"Yeah. O'Neill. I need a couple of marines yesterday to my place." It was Jack's voice, all right - but oh, so harsh. So cold. Daniel's mouth stopped mid-sentence as he watched while Jack listened, to nod only once. "Yeah. You're not going to believe this."

Believe it, believe it, it's me, I'm home, I'm safe, but you're scaring me a whole lot here, Jack…

And then Jack was standing over him, one foot rising to crush him back down to the floorboards, and he was saying something that made no sense but echoed inside him anyway just as if it was true and meant something after all.

"Daniel's here." The heel ground into his shoulder, and Daniel cried out, a denial and a plea, both useless. "He's actually here. The murderous little son of a bitch is back."

Chapter Two

This is home. This is home. Everything whispered it to him; the smell of wet wool and leather through the long, winding drive to the mountain, the sounds once inside; the heartbeat of machinery and air conditioning, the crispness of boots on cold, hard floor, the faint hum of electricity bringing glare and brightness to the deepest of places. This is home, he thought, but his head had been pushed down and forward so that only the boots he heard could offer him welcome.

The room held the sort of directed light and threatening darkness that bad movie directors insisted upon for interrogation scenes. Well, what do you know, Daniel thought; they really do play those sorts of mind games when they're interrogating some poor schmuck like me. And even that was familiar, in some strange way.

He winced as another spasm of pain rolled through him, beginning with his feet and calves then washing up through his groin, his stomach, his chest and neck and head. Familiarity with its passage brought not contempt but apprehension, as each part of him waited for the fresh anguish. This was ugly, in so many ways, and Daniel allowed himself to groan as the top of his head felt the final surge and tried to lift off to escape it.

He was alone, and had been for some time. No way of telling how long, of course. No watches allowed here, no helpful clock on the wall. He'd told his story to a granite wall masquerading as a captain in the US Air Force, then been left here, hands caught behind his back in the plastic ties he'd once regarded as rather efficient restraints but now looked upon as barbaric torture devices. Their slender implacability had wormed into the welts formed by Jack O'Neill's curtain cords and anger, and the torment was considerable. Of course, the physical discomfort, miserable though it was, had nothing on the mental storms blowing through Daniel, and he closed his eyes to try to calm their useless energy.

Jack's anger. That was what spurred them, what whipped the thoughts in his head into a maelstrom. No, it was more than anger, and Daniel groaned internally at the knowledge; Jack's hatred. He could feel it now, radiating towards him through God knew how many layers of concrete and steel, and it burned like ice down his spine. Jack hated him, and he had no idea why, but the fact of it alone was enough to shake every scrap of self-belief he owned.

The door opened. Four people entered. Even though the light was arranged so he could only see a foot or two above the table top, rendering standing occupants as headless torsos, he knew the first was Jack. He'd recognise that walk, that stance, anywhere. Behind him came Captain Granite - he could tell by the hands that gripped the folder across his chest. Daniel had had a lot of time to study those hands through their previous session, and he marked again the faint scars that crossed from thumb to middle finger. A third figure was unrecognisable; and the fourth -

"Sam! Sam, is that you?" He ducked and peered into the gloom, only to straighten with a jump when Captain Granite slammed the folder onto the tabletop. He shot an exasperated look at his interrogator. "Oh, come on. I haven't seen Sam in months. I'm just saying hello."

"You will talk only to me and only when spoken to, Jackson."

"But Jack, Sam - come on. This is me! God! Look at me! What the hell is wrong with you all?"

"You will talk only to me and only when spoken to."

Daniel gave a snort. It was a sound born of exhaustion and a kind of hysteria that was growing inside him.

"Okay, look - can we just take it as read that you're all big, nasty military and I'm the helpless victim? I am cooperating, I've been cooperating, that's all I want to do. I've already told you as much as I know and I'm happy to tell you again."

He heard Jack move away from the back wall where he'd been standing, to come around the table towards him. "This is - it's sick. It's crazy. Look, could I just please have some water? Could we just lose the whole light thing, which I agree is very intimidating and - "

Jack's hand grabbed his head. Again. And suddenly Daniel found himself face down again, his head pushed hard into the table surface, the heel of Jack's palm grinding into him. He gasped, and squirmed a little, but he could feel the hatred above him pulsing through Jack's fingers and into his skull.

"You will speak only to him and only when spoken to, Jackson." This time the words were hissed in his throbbing ear, and they brought a whole new sense of disbelief. Daniel had only ever heard that kind of loathing directed towards one other person by Jack - and that was to Jack himself, when he was suicidal and looking for a planet to destroy as a going away present. The hand released its pressure suddenly, and Daniel grimaced, working his face to ease his features back into their rightful places again.

"So." Captain Granite needed a cigarette to complete the cliché, but he had the crisp military tone down pat. "Tell us again where you've been the last six months. Specifically, since July 14."

"Why?" Slowly, Daniel raised his head. "Why July 14?" He almost gave a chuckle, the kind of sound a man on the scaffold might make when he realised the rope was too long. "Well, I was taken from P4X -922 by the Seraphim in January. I'm thinking it's close to November, December now?" There was no acknowledgment from the watchers in the room, so he sighed. "On July 14 I would have been busy trying to survive another day as a prisoner of the Seraphim. Like I've been trying to tell you. I was snatched from P4X, I've been a prisoner ever since."

"Why?"

"Why?" Daniel's voice rose. "I've told you why."

"Tell me again."

Daniel tried to blink past the light suspended above the table to see Sam. He wanted so badly to see her face, her gentle smile. He wondered when he'd last slept. He was aching with thirst.

"The Seraphim are researchers. They have the ability to travel in time and through multiple universes. They like to experiment with time-lines, see what happens when they shake the mix up a little." That means snatch people like me and completely, utterly fuck them over. "They are incredibly, incredibly advanced, their plans and experiments are unbelievably elegant and complex, and I really, really do need a glass of water."

"Give me an example."

Daniel dropped his head back, his eyes closed. "I've done this. I - " He heard movement, realised Jack was standing behind him again. And that was so wrong, that the presence of his friend should cause him to flinch like this. "Okay. Adolf Hitler. In our universe, Hitler died in the First World War. Took a bullet in the trenches." He could see that Captain Granite was giving him a pointed look. "Yes, yes, I know that's not how it turned out, but it is the original time-line. The Seraphim played that line through, then re-set the dial and put an alternate Hitler into play."

"Came off the bench, did he?"

"Something like that, yes." Daniel tried to turn his head enough so that he could look up at Jack, but a hand tightening on the back of his neck immediately halted that plan. And that felt so wrong, to feel Jack's hand like that, to know it was a friend holding him down. "Jeez, Jack, look - I don't know what has happened here since I was gone, but it is me. I am Daniel Jackson, I'm your friend. Can't you just - I don't know. Get Janet to run some more tests, or something? There must be a way to prove I am who I say I am."

"Oh, we know you're Daniel." That came from the gloom, and Daniel gave a glad cry.

"Sam! It is you, I knew it was. Sam!"

"So what happened with the original time-line?" Captain Granite again, and Daniel knew he was not going to get any more from Sam Carter. In a world turned bizarre, he understood the friend he loved would not be speaking to him again any time soon.

"Original time-line? Uh - Germany and England were allies against Russia, the Second World War didn't start until 1943, the isolationists held sway in the US and we never entered the war, Japan took control of the Pacific, and it was Germany who dropped the atomic bombs on Japan. Only they dropped too many, and the subsequent radiation cloud knocked out most of China and South East Asia. The Holocaust never happened in Europe, but it did in Asia, via atomic fallout and the subsequent break down of society. That's all I remember them telling me."

"So these Seraphim thought the Holocaust was a better alternative?"

"No." He tried to shrug the aches from his shoulders, felt Jack's hands press him to stillness. "They don't care about better. Just different. Look, it's as I said - they had over one hundred thousand creatures from this universe for whom they had alternates, and they played with us as if they were gods. Ah - for example, they had ten of me. " He looked to try and see their reactions through the gloom. All he could make out of the Captain showed complete impassivity, and that was so far wrong it was funny. Really, truly funny. Ten Daniel Jacksons, and Jack didn't have a single smart crack, Sam wasn't going into scientist free-fall. Any minute now he would have to start laughing, because keeping it in was really, truly starting to hurt.

"We were all taken at the same time, from the same place. This is one of ten universes that they were experimenting with, but they were only one of - I don't know, maybe hundreds of different research stations. They said they'd return some of us as we were, and some would be altered. And some wouldn't be returned at all. It was all about altering a factor here and there, watching the consequences play out, then re-setting if they wanted to and trying a different idea."

Captain Granite looked at his nails. Daniel's desperation grew.

"I'm sorry if you don't like that story, but it's the only one I've got. Wait - " he squinted to where Sam was standing, her face hidden. "You say you know it's me. You believe I am who I say I am. Then - why are you doing this? What happened on July 14? What don't you like about what I'm telling you?"

"It's boring, that's what." Jack moved away, but his voice was a steel hook, embedding itself in Daniel's flesh. "Same old, same old."

Same -?

Daniel's thoughts raced, twenty possibilities considered and discarded in seconds until only one was left.

"I've already returned," he whispered.

Chapter Three

"You remember that, don't you, Jackson?"

Daniel closed his eyes, and shook his head.

"The party in the Gateroom? How glad everyone was to see you back again? You remember Colonel O'Neill making a speech and all?"

His head still shaking, as answers began to confound him. "I've come back already. There were two of us who were taken away for 'placement'. One of them must have got my placement tag."

"Placement tag?"

He opened his eyes. "We wanted to make life as difficult as we could for the Seraphim. So one time we all just swapped around our placement tags, these kind of - tags, on our heads. Didn't take any effort, because they weren't attached into our bodies, or anything. No one would want to be re-placed in the wrong universe, would they? Something that had never occurred to the Seraphim."

"No-one but Daniel Jackson," came from behind him, and he wondered at the tone. Reluctant admiration? Or simple annoyance?

"We thought - if we got away with it, then we could tell them later, screw up their experiments. It was just a way to fight back, a little. We were going crazy…" He heard his own voice rasping, and gave a cough to clear it. "Please. I know something's gone very wrong. If you'd just tell me what's happened, maybe I - maybe there's something I can do, or - "

His voice trailed into silence, smothered by the hostility that surrounded him. He was aware of his heart, thudding in his throat, and he knew these were his friends, this was his home, and he was very, very afraid. Another spasm through his body caused his face to screw up in a grimace, and he heard Jack growl.

"Give it up." Such contempt in that tone. "Fraiser gave you a full exam. There's nothing wrong with you."

Daniel clenched his jaw as the pain worked its way up his neck again. It seemed to be getting worse… or perhaps it was simply the stress and exhaustion that brought his suffering into such sharp focus.

"Maybe she can't see anything, but the Daniel I was running beside was hit, and I was close enough to get in the backwash."

Captain Granite tipped his head to one side. "Hit? With what?"

Ahhh… the agony reached the top of his skull again, and Daniel lost the words as the pain became his master.

The captain continued. "You see, Jackson, this all fits neatly with what you told us last time. Let's see… " He flicked open the folder, made a show of perusing its contents. "Seraphim… superior creatures… time-lines… experiments… had some kind of weapon that would kill… returned home in a beam of light by the Asgard … very happy to be here… and so it goes."

Daniel opened his eyes, wondering if it would be okay if he just burst into tears and was done with it. Or maybe that hysterical laughing fit he had on hold would work just as well to ease this terrible tension in his chest and gut. He felt his shoulders try to straighten, and realised they were too weary to find their usual set. When had he slept? Two days ago? There had been that strange awakening, to see the Seraphim frantically running about, all the subdued lighting flickering on and off, as if in distress. He and the other Daniels had huddled together, hastily discussing what this meant, looking for openings - and then they'd heard that welcome screech, that shrill fanfare that signalled the Asgard's arrival, and the beginning of the end for the Seraphim's research centre.

Only the Asgard weren't the Asgard he'd come to know in this universe. They were far more powerful, and far less friendly. And they were dealing with a far more advanced opponent. The battle had lasted for many hours, during which Daniel and the others simply tried to survive. Some of them hadn't.

"Of course, Jackson, where it all turns a little nasty is where you decide on a little experimenting of your own."

But he had. He'd come home. To find the fact redundant.

The captain's comment echoed in his thoughts, and he found the dissonant word.

"Wha -? Experimenting? What - what do you mean?"

"Here's your chance to tell us your side, Jackson." The captain almost smiled, and it made Daniel want to hit him. "What were you thinking when you went into those homes? Those apartments? The first was Mrs Keneally. What were you thinking when you saw her there, in bed?"

"Mrs Keneally?" Daniel blinked, startled to hear that name in this context. "She's my next door neighbour. She lives in number 804. She's a war widow. Makes - makes wonderful cheesecake." He peered about him, hearing the blank flatness of the silence, knowing he was wrong. "W - why are you asking about Mrs Keneally?"

He had an instant mental image of her - a tall, tough woman with a surprising sweetness and the filthiest sense of humour he'd ever encountered. He liked her very much. Hands twisted with arthritis, hair chopped away from her face, feet too small for her body, a scent of eau de cologne whenever she stomped by.

"What did you feel, Daniel?" The use of his first name ambushed him, made him blink again, fast and fearful. "When you began cutting her open - how did it make you feel?"

He said nothing. There was nothing to say. This was theatre of the absurd, played large. Cutting Phyllis open? The thought was so incongruous he could only stare in response.

"Come on, Daniel. You've come back. Must be a reason for that. You know what I think?" Captain Granite leaned forward in his seat, his eyes never leaving Daniel's. "I think you want to tell us all about it. I think you want to explain why you did that to all those women. Did you have a hard-on when you cut them? Is that it? Did you get all worked up over them? Have you got a hard-on now?"

"No!" The word exploded from him. "You sick son of a bitch! This is some kind of mind-game. You're trying to - " Daniel's reasoning failed him, and he was left with a mouth that worked for a second or two in horrified anger. He felt the shock of the words, their brutality and sheer impossibility, but he couldn't understand them as something to be addressed. "I've only just come home! Can't you people get that? I am Daniel Jackson, I was a prisoner of he Seraphim, and if some other guy came home earlier, he wasn't me!" He swallowed as the inaccuracy stuck in his throat. "Okay, no, you're right, it was a Daniel Jackson, but not the one who belongs here. Look, ask me anything, anything you like."

"And you'll answer it, right?" Jack's voice, smoky with disgust. "And what will that prove? You knew all this stuff before, too."

Daniel tried to twist in the seat again to see Jack. "But you wouldn't have asked him what you'll ask me. You wouldn't have been looking to establish identity. He would have known enough to fool you, even if he didn't intend to, because he was me in almost every way. His history was almost identical to mine, all the Daniels that were taken were from universes very closely aligned. God, Jack, he was me!"

Another silence, but this time, for the first time, it was a silence of listening. "Just - just hear me out. Two of the Daniels were taken for re-placement during our imprisonment. If one of them came here, he may have been altered in some way. There may well have been different brain patterns, or something. You've scanned me, you've got the pictures - why don't you compare it to the other Daniel, I'm sure you'll find a difference."

"Well, you know, we'd all like to do that." The captain tipped back again, so that his face was half hidden in shadow. "Trouble is, your scans are coming up the same as they were when you first reappeared. Remember getting them done first time round, Jackson? Remember that cute little medical technician who helped you during the first scans? Name of Sylvia Gardino. We don't hold out great hopes of her ever being found alive. In fact, we're pretty damned sure she'll turn up in some shallow grave somewhere, hacked up like you hacked the others."

He felt twinges of nausea in his belly. Dehydration, he told himself, and knew it for a lie he needed to sustain.

"Please - if I could just have some water…"

"Captain?" Jack, behind him, and Daniel saw Granite nod, but it wasn't water he slid along the table to rest at Daniel's elbow. It was the folder he'd made such a show of scanning before. The yellow cover looked innocuous in the patch of light that displayed his vulnerability to such insidious effect, but he flinched as though it would burn. "Let's have a look, shall we?" The cover was flipped open, slapped flat on the table surface, and the first segment of the file was similarly dismissed until Daniel was gazing at the eight by ten photograph of a laughing, dark-eyed woman.

"Th - that's Diti."

"Aphroditi Panadopoulos," Jack hissed, close. "Sixteen years old. Tell us about it, why don't you? Tell us, so we can explain to her father why you did this to her."

Diti. She worked at her father's store, cheerfully weighing apples and carrots, twisting plastic ties about the bags of potatoes, grinning at his clumsy compliments, the automatic flirting she took as her due and gave in return. She had shown him her final results from high school, her pride making her seem younger than the years she so desperately wanted to claim in her approach to womanhood. She was always laughing, always brushing the black hair back from her eyes. Diti. Diti?

"No, don't," he said, as if in warning to her, but Jack's remorseless hand had turned the page and he saw what Daniel Jackson had done to her.

The reaction was immediate and intense. He twisted in his seat to retch, feeling Jack's hand grip him, hearing the venomous words in his ear, "Whatever you bring up I'll feed to you for breakfast, asshole."

He was gasping, swallowing, shaking his head, but Jack had wrenched him back to face the folder again, inexorable in its horror.

"Phyllis Keneally. Nice lady. I remember helping her with her groceries on the way to your apartment. She made me laugh. You tell me why she deserved this."

No, no, no, no. "Please…"

"Sharon Da Costa. Dental nurse. You remember Sharon, Jackson?"

Mid-twenties. Married to Jeff, wasn't it? Josh! Josh, and she was smiling in front of him, showing him the wedding photos, all the bridesmaids wearing hair that would make the Nox squint, all squeezed into blood red frocks and grinning like fools at the camera with Sharon in their centre, clutching the bouquet like it held all the dreams she'd ever owned. One hundred and eighty pound Sharon, who always hit his arm whenever he told her how beautiful she looked that day, every day he saw her. And it wasn't flattery, it was truth, because Sharon shone with simple goodness, and Daniel Jackson had learned to be a connoisseur of such things in a life so bereft of it.

He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't look.

"Don't… don't, Jack, please, don't…"

"Oh, here. Can't make it out? Let me help you," and Jack was pressing his face into the horror, holding his head in it as if he were a dog and this was his own faeces.

"Colonel!"

The hands tightened in response to the warning, and Daniel cried out.

"Here, Daniel! Here!" Faces were blurring past him, interspersed with bloody abstracts that couldn't be human, couldn't be these women he'd known and liked. Until at last the folder was slammed back to the table and a trembling finger was before his eyes, directing him to the last photograph inside. As if Daniel Jackson could look away. As if he had that choice.

A fair-haired woman with sad grey eyes. She was gazing into the camera with an almost quizzical look, as if questioning why anyone would take her photograph now, ignorant of her own appeal. She'd been born an Osborne, with a mother who made wonderful pottery and a father who protected her from everything but the heart matters that would tear her apart.

And for twelve ultimately unhappy years, she'd been Mrs Sarah O'Neill.

Chapter Four

Daniel rocked on the bunk. It had become an automatic thing for which he had no energy but which he seemed incapable of stopping. Back and forward, back and forward, his knees held tight to his chest, his eyes shut tight against the cell that held him. He knew he felt pain, and thirst, and a weariness beyond words, but they all remained at one remove from who he was and what he did. Everything inside him pulsed softly, obscenely, with the images they'd shown him again and again, as much punishment as interrogation, and there was no room for anything else. Not terror, nor grief, nor even regret. Just the cycle of faces, over and over, how they were, what they'd become, and the knowledge that something wearing his face had been the last thing they'd seen.

Did they beg him? Did they remind him of their friendship, however casual? Did they try to run, try to fight, did they cry softly or scream their hatred and anger at this dreadful act of robbery? Were they here, now, ghosting in the hum of the air-conditioner, surrounding him in a sisterhood of bitterness born of knowing him? Of speaking to him, smiling, accepting his regard, his good-natured inquiries, his gentle compliments.

He moaned as he rocked, and that felt right.

He heard the door to the cell's outer area open, but he didn't look up. There was no one to speak to, no one who wanted to hear his lament for the dead. And he wondered if he could ever voice it, anyway? It lay so deep in his bones, in this traitorous body that another walked in and used for such abhorrent acts. Another Daniel Jackson, one he'd met and comforted in that far off place where the Seraphim had brought them the pain of imprisonment and the endless anxiety of the homesick. One he'd shared notes with about their own universes, finding rare points of separation amidst the overwhelming sameness. A man who was he, in every respect, a man who was everything he held to be desirable and honourable. One who spoke of his own morals and principles, who tried to conquer the hatred and fear within him just as he did. One who had butchered his friends as casually as he'd carve a steak.

He rocked on the bunk, blind, deaf, keening in his soul.

"Here. Food."

The words penetrated his misery, and he flicked his eyes open to convey just how little he wanted or welcomed food right now. It was Jack standing beyond the cell bars, and that was the last person he wanted to see here, so he performed the simple ritual of closing his eyes again and prayed he would go.

"I want to know." The voice was gravel, rocks tumbling down a dry riverbed, deepened by screams and tears. "I want to know what happened."

He rocked a little faster, listening instead for the cries of the women, circling him like birds of prey, never forgiving him, brilliant in their defiance.

"You tell me! Tell me what - tell me how it went down. I need to know."

Diti, flashing scorn from her black eyes, spitting at him even as she fell. Phyllis curling her lip, unbowed as he brought her down.

"Dammit, you son of a bitch! You owe me this!"

But what if they had wept? What if they had broken at the end, and begged him for mercy? He saw Diti's eyes wide with terror and the knowledge of her own death and he moaned, louder, hiding from the sight.

There was silence in the cell, and he hoped Jack had gone.

"Daniel…" And oh, that hurt, his name in that voice, all contempt and distrust and deep, abiding loathing. It dragged his eyes open again, because that depth of pain needed the respect of a witness.

"I can't help you, Jack." He said it softly, understanding there was no point in shouting. "I can't even help myself."

Jack stood at the bars, his hands in his pockets, clenching against his thighs as if to stop them from shredding the metal.

"Why did you come back?" he asked, so wearily Daniel's eyes tightened in sympathy. "I'll tell you something. While you were gone I could pretend you were lying in a ditch somewhere, dying slowly of exposure. I could imagine you spitted on a knife in a bar. I could even imagine you choking on your own blood in some hospital bed. And I hated the thought, because I wanted to wrap my own hands around your filthy neck and squeeze the miserable life out of you. But it passed the time. Stopped me thinking about Sarah.

"I want to know, Daniel. I want to know how she died. If she said anything. I want to hear what she said; I want all the details, because knowing the truth couldn't be as bad as what I've imagined all these months."

Jack lifted his hands from his pockets to grip the bars.

"And I don't even care if you're getting off on this. I don't even care if you love to know how much this has hurt. I just need to know."

Daniel lowered his head onto his knees, and heard a hiss of indrawn breath.

"This some kind of punishment, huh? This how you're getting back at me? All those times I wouldn't listen, stomped on your ego? You want me to suffer? I'm suffering, Daniel. You win."

"God, Jack, no!" It was too much, and Daniel lifted his head to gaze into eyes so lost he ached for them, for the man whose agony they revealed. "I am telling you the truth, Jack. I didn't kill them. I have only just come - come home."

Jack's smile was a travesty. "You want something else from me? This isn't enough?"

And Daniel laughed, a horrible sound. "What do you want? I have told you the truth, over and over, and you won't hear it. I can't do any more. I am so tired and I hurt so much. You won't hear me. God! If I could do anything to ease your pain, anything Jack, I'd do it!" An idea came to him. "Do you want to hit me? You want to break something? Here." He scrambled off the bunk, swaying a little with exhaustion, and reached for the cell bars. "Here." He thrust an arm through a gap. "Go on. Break it. Break my fingers. I'll yell, Jack, I'll let you know how much it hurts. Will that help?"

Jack stared at him, his eyes unreadable.

"Go on!" Daniel worked his arm up and down, in front of Jack's face. "You don't believe me. Go on! I'm not your friend, I haven't been lost, I haven't been prisoner of a bunch of alien bastards. I haven't just come home. I'm the sick sonofabitch who killed those women. I killed Sarah. Here! Break it!" It was almost exhilarating, this reckless offer of pain, and for a second as Jack blinked and reached for his arm the madness of it swept him up. Until the fingers closed over his and he thought oh dear god this is going to be bad.

Jack's strength crushed his hand, and the fear of what was to come flew into Daniel's eyes. Jack was staring at him, still, and he saw the fear, Daniel knew it. He bit his lip and kept the arm outstretched, wavering a little but there, as honest and strong and vulnerable as his friendship. The fingers bent his backwards, and he waited for the snap and the sudden excruciating agony that would tell him his offer of solace had been accepted. Another squeeze, and he closed his eyes, waiting on the pain.

"Daniel?"

The pressure eased. Daniel hadn't breathed, hadn't moved, but the hand on his was gentling, and he realised the voice was soft and almost helpless.

"Daniel?"

He opened his eyes at the same moment he grasped the fact he needed air, and he whooped the breath in clumsily, almost choking as he gasped. "Go on," he croaked, but there was something different in Jack's eyes now, something that made Jack drop his hand and take a step backwards.

The outer door opened again, and Sam Carter came in, her usual hum of efficiency heightened by the urgent day they dwelled in.

"Sir. I've been thinking." She stopped when she saw the two men staring at each other, Daniel's arm poking through the bars. Instinctively she moved forwards, ready to resist any attempts by Daniel to reach and attack. "Sir? Has he hurt you?"

For a moment, Daniel thought Jack wasn't going to answer; but then his friend blinked, as though waking after a particularly bad dream, and shook his head slightly.

"No, Carter. He won't be doing that again. So… " He turned to face her. "What have you got?"

"Entropic Cascade Failure, sir." She flicked her gaze towards where Daniel slumped against the bars, watching her. "If what he says is true, the other Daniel would be experiencing the first symptoms of ECF now that this Daniel has returned to our universe. As you know, sir, alternates can't co-exist in the same universe without the extraneous being losing their atomic integrity. Within forty-eight hours we can expect the other Daniel to make an appearance at Area 51. He'd know that's the only place he's going to get any sort of access to a quantum mirror."

"If what he says is true."

"Yes, sir." Sam hesitated, then gave a half-squirm, half-shrug. "If what he says is true."

Jack nodded. "Alert Area 51, Major. Fax through Jackson's photograph. Tell them to apprehend him at all costs when he tries."

"Yes, sir." Sam glanced once more at Daniel, then turned to leave.

"When." Daniel cleared his throat. "You said 'when'."

"Don't kid yourself. Just covering all the bases, Jackson."

But Daniel knew some aspect of their painful impasse had shifted, however slightly, and he nodded, as if Jack had just apologised and promised to get him the hell out of this cage. It was grasping at less than straws, and he knew how fragile this hope was - but for the first time in that long, terrible day he could see the gleam of resistance in Jack O'Neill's eye, and knew that the fight for the truth had just begun after all.

Chapter Five

Einstein. Everyone thought he was such a genius. But the truth was, any prisoner waiting on execution, or lover waiting to be reunited with their beloved, could have told the little geek that time was relative. Especially when there was no sure means of measuring the passage of it. He'd begged for a watch, a clock on the far wall, anything, but his entreaties had been met with the same indifferent response each time.

And it might have helped if Daniel could find it in himself to hate those keeping him in this cell. If he could rail and rant at Jack O'Neill with righteous anger, spit at Sam when she burbled about her latest ECF theory, glare at Teal'c when he stood outside the cell and said nothing but looked plenty. Maybe, it would have eased the tension building inside him with each infinite minute. But the truth was, without blame there could be no hate, and Daniel didn't blame them one bit. How could he?

In another day and age, Daniel thought, stroking away the last tremors of his latest spasm, I would already have been hung or burned or beheaded. I am the monster under the bed. I am their worst fear, the beast that wears the face of a friend. And if it hadn't been for rules of law and regulations and all those other cosy civilising things, Jack would have ripped me limb from limb on his lounge room floor and never once complained about the mess. So really, I can count myself -

He bit his lip. Damned if he'd even think the word.

The headache always spawned by the pain attacks throbbed in his temples. Janet had given him some medication earlier. The thought cheered him slightly. In however small a way, he'd actually been believed. The others had dismissed his claims as sympathy ploys - but Janet only had to observe him in the throes once, note the way the colour slid from his face and the muscles jerked and twitched under his skin, to order Valium. This last attack had been milder, no doubt due to the drugs in his system, and he sent her silent thanks.

Saying it aloud would have garnered nothing in return. Jack had entered the cell some time ago - forty minutes? Fifty? Dear God and please, over an hour ago? - and after a desultory attempt at what could possibly pass for interrogation had slumped in the metal chair and said nothing. It made it easy to know where to look; Daniel had checked his face only twice and then spent the rest of this long, long time staring at where his feet hung awkwardly over the edge of the bunk bed.

Daniel noticed that Jack had tensed when the spasms had jarred him. On reflection, that seemed a good sign. Worth another conversational gambit? An internal shrug; nothing else to do.

"Jack?"

The grim mouth ground even more tightly, and Daniel sighed. "Jack, do you want to talk about - " he paused, wondering if this would constitute blasphemy or kindness. "Sarah. Would you -?" A gesture, small and helpless.

Jack sent a look so black it shocked more words from Daniel's mouth. "You know I met her?"

Jack's head tilted up so that his eyes could pierce Daniel's skin. "I remember."

"Oh, no, not that first time - the crystal entity stuff."

Those dark eyes squinted. "When the hell did you ever see her other than that?"

"When you were on Eudora." Jack blinked, and Daniel thought, well, you didn't expect that, did you? "I was checking your house, all the mail, garden, maintenance stuff, you know - and she'd left a message on your machine. Her dad was sick. I thought you'd want someone to be there."

Jack considered this. "Hammond?"

"Er - no." Daniel gave a little grimace that once might have been a grin. "I didn't know what he'd say or if he'd approve and I just thought she needed - I thought I could do it without anybody knowing."

One sardonic eyebrow lift. "And did you?"

"No." This time he really did grin, albeit tightly. "Turned out George was keeping an eye on her while you were gone, one way or another. He, um - I think the terminology is 'ripped me a new one' after I came back."

Jack nodded, and Daniel saw that on some inner level where grief was put aside and all was as it should be, his friend was vaguely amused.

"Proper channels? Security considerations?"

"Were among the central motifs of his tirade, yes. Oh, along with a, 'Did you seriously think for one minute that the USAF would leave the families of its personnel to fend for themselves in times of need,' and a kind of irradiated glower that left anyone within twenty metres completely exsanguinated."

"Gotta hurt."

Daniel frowned. "No, you know, it was kind of nice. Nice to know all the Sarahs were being looked out for."

"Ah." Jack pulled his hands from his pockets, slowly, and folded them before him. "So - what did you tell her?"

"Oh, I sort of - fudged."

"Fudged."

"Yeah. Took my powers of clear speech and twisted them for evil." He stilled as he realised how deeply that barb went. He saw it hook into Jack, saw that minute flicker of pain before his friend deliberately closed the wound and kept going, his tone light.

"You have those?"

Daniel swallowed. "What?"

"Powers of clear speech?"

"Occasionally." Daniel gave a tentative smile, and the hurt that followed as he remembered he had no right to it - that Sarah's metaphorical body lay bloody and cold on the floor between them, dead by a hand exactly like his own - was so intense that he almost winced.

Jack didn't seem to notice. "So. You went to see her."

Daniel drew in his breath, his throat suddenly tight. "Yes. She was - " he paused, before continuing. "Very strong. Very kind. I liked her."

"So did I."

"Well, of course you did, I - " and Daniel's words stalled as he saw that Jack's eyes were bright with grief, that the hands gripping each other were holding on to the edge of some kind of sanity and restraint. His own face tightened. "God, Jack…"

Jack nodded, once, as if recognising an order. "Yeah."

They sat in silence again. The air-conditioning hummed. Daniel closed his eyes and rested his head against the bunk post, misery moulding him to its ersatz support. Hours had gone by. Hadn't they?

The door to the outer area burst open, and three figures entered.

"We may have something." That's it, Janet, no small talk for you, Daniel thought, and felt an absurd rush of affection. Her words and her manner were galvanising, but for a moment Daniel couldn't give her the attention she deserved; it was the portly man standing behind her, staring at him gravely, that brought him shakily to his feet.

"General Hammond."

The general gave a small incline of his head. "Doctor."

"I'm - " He searched for something to say. Sorry? For another's crimes? Ones being attributed to himself? Not the most politic of things to offer. In the end he sought refuge in the banal truth. "I'm glad you're here, sir."

"I wish I could say the same, Doctor."

That was understandable, and fair. Daniel turned to Janet Fraiser. "You have something?"

"It's possible. I would have brought your brain scans in to show you, but there's no suitable light in here." Janet glared about her as if to show her disapproval of all cells and their lack of medical illumination. "Tell me, Daniel - were you ever scanned by the Seraphim?"

"Scanned? Yes." Daniel came quickly to the bars, as if his proximity would help attest to his veracity. "When we each arrived, we were put through this procedure."

"Describe it for us, Daniel." Sam, the third member of the party.

"Okay. Well, it was rather like being hung, drawn and quartered. We were somehow suspended in mid-air, and these sheets of light intersected our bodies at every angle. The light then kind of - " he worked his hands to show them - "it became very intense and very concentrated into one small shape, almost like an iridescent computer disk, only tiny, no bigger than a centimetre in diameter, maybe smaller. That was then placed inside our headbands."

"The ones you decided were your identifiers," Sam clarified.

"Yes. We speculated that it was some kind of record of our home universe."

"Or of yourselves." Janet's eyes gleamed. "It may have been a measure of your exact appearance and status on being taken."

"So that when they were re-inserted into their own universes - "

"We'd be exactly the same, no matter what had occurred during captivity," Daniel finished Sam's thought. "They could return us to the state we were in, maybe."

Sam nodded. "Complete with clothing, scars, wrinkles, as you were on that very first day."

"Well, great." Jack stood up. "So they installed a reset button. How does that help us?"

Us. Daniel heard the word and grabbed it to his heart.

"In itself it doesn't, Colonel," Janet replied. "But when we examined Daniel on his first return, we found non-specific but widespread abnormalities extending across the limbic system of his brain. We had no explanation for it at the time, and as Daniel's DNA, blood type and so on all matched his previous records, we had no cause for excessive alarm. We put it down as just one of the inexplicable side effects of multi-universe travel. Or, to be more accurate, as he didn't display any associated functional deficits during the long period of close observation we subjected him to on his arrival, we decided that whatever caused these abnormalities was beyond our technical ability at this time to understand."

"Got a big file on those kind of things, have you?"

"Getting bigger all the time, colonel," Janet said, smoothly.

Hammond cleared his throat and cut to the chase. "How do the latest scans compare, doctor?"

Janet arched her eyebrow at Jack, but continued. "On first examination, they appeared to be the same. Both scans show abnormalities in the hippocampus, amygdala and cingulate gyrus areas of the limbic system. Usually, lesions in those areas result in certain sorts of cognitive and emotional difficulties, but Daniel exhibited nothing to cause us concern in those weeks under supervision."

"What kinds of difficulties?" Daniel's mind was whirring with possibilities. "The hippocampus I know about - that's memories, information retrieval, right?" Janet nodded. "But the others -?"

"The amygdala works to link memory with emotion, so that we respond appropriately to external stimuli - it allows us to fear, for example, when something recognised as a threat presents itself. And the cingulate gyrus mediates such attributes as aggression and pain."

"And because he behaved normally," Sam offered, "you decided that the abnormalities were benign."

"Benign." The word was loaded with contempt, and Jack didn't bother to disguise his disgust. "Rate that as one of your better calls?"

Janet turned squarely to face him. "Sir, the human brain is as much an unknown as anything you'll find through the Stargate. You can only predict as accurately as your data allows you. Ever been surprised planetside by what a MALP didn't tell you?"

"Janet - please." Daniel fixed his gaze upon her, willing her attention. "The scans?"

Janet gave a short nod. "As I said, both sets of scans show abnormalities in the same areas, but on closer examination there were found to be both quantitative and qualitative differences in the lesions. We can isolate the exact same abnormalities in the first scans as in these later ones, but there are more subtle alterations in the amygdala and the cingulate gyrus extant in the first scans that are definitely not in the second batch."

"The alteration!" Daniel gripped the bars in his excitement. "So you think that the scanning procedure given to us by the Seraphim left the first abnormalities, the ones we share - but the other lesions, the ones he has and I don't, they could be what altered his behaviour so much."

Janet pursed her mouth, but her eyes were sympathetic. "It's only a possibility, Daniel. I wouldn't even call it a theory. It's just the first thing we've found to offer any kind of differentiation between the two of you."

"May I remind you, doctor, that as far as we know there is no 'two of you'," Hammond said, sternly.

"No, I guess not." The full consequences of Janet's findings suddenly became clear to Daniel. "It wouldn't matter, anyway, would it?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"I've got weird stuff in my brain, haven't I? Abnormalities. Whether the other one shows or not - you can never trust me again."

Nobody answered him, and he gave a distressed little laugh. "You could never know for sure whether I am him, and the other lesions have gone, or whether the Seraphim have left something behind that will grow into those same lesions again. I don't even know if I'm in the right universe. I can't trust myself, can I?"

"You've shown no sign of ECF," Janet noted. "That would probably indicate you're in the right place."

"But it doesn't clear me of what's happened. Only the other Daniel can do that. The ECF - that will show up soon, right?" Daniel looked quickly from one to the other, dismayed when Sam's eyes fell away, when Janet frowned. "The other me will be getting desperate now, right?"

"I take it there's no word from Area 51, General?" and Daniel could feel it, could sense the way Jack moved apart from him. Don't, please, Jack, I need you to believe me, I need -

"Check your watch, Jack," and the worst of it was, the general's voice was soft with pity. "We passed the forty-eight hour mark twenty minutes ago. And Area 51 has heard nothing."

Chapter Six

The light was so harsh here, monotonously bright, and he squinted behind his shades as the glare from the road burned his eyes. And irritated him. Driving at this speed was a risk, no question about it, and risk was something he usually enjoyed. He'd found, time and time again, that luck simply reflected genius and the balls to do what others didn't dare. But now he was facing something his own mind and strength couldn't counter, and every risk became an impediment to his survival.

Four hundred miles of appalling roads travelled in almost forty-eight hours, and the burning in his eyes would have become unbearable a day ago - but only a fool or a weakling complained about discomfort when their very existence was at stake, and he was neither. He knew exactly what it was, the moment he suffered the first attack. It had surprised him, when almost nothing did, and he had laughed extravagantly once his mouth had stopped splintering into a multitude of universes. This was inconvenience on a monstrous scale, and he left the terrified young woman from the cantina in the scrub and returned to the four-wheel drive to begin the race at once. He had stopped only twice since, each time for no longer than the precious seconds it took to relieve his treacherous body. Food and drink were irrelevant.

He had no idea what he'd do once he reached Area 51. In the back of his mind he supposed his arrival at the gates would elicit a certain hostility. He was relying on his subsequent, very public and hopefully temporary de-construction to panic an opportunity into being. No telling what a cool head could achieve when service personnel were running about in a flap. As plans went, it lacked subtlety, or even detail; but as the only option available, in this particular universe - and how often could one say that and truly mean it? - it would have to do. The only prerequisite was getting to the place on time. The rest was for the gods to decide.

According to his map, Area 51 was less than twenty miles down this road. Gas was running low, but he had enough to get there. And it was, after all, a one way trip.

He grinned, baring his teeth in the savage sun.

No warning this time as the tremor caught him. No preparatory shaking before his body began to flare into a thousand other dimensions. He heard a faint cry - then his hands were sinking through the steering wheel, his head was shooting from and through and between his shoulders, and the world was a blurring phantasmagoria of light and sound and scenes he couldn't possibly be witnessing. No pain but shock, on a cosmic scale, and at least one of his heads was screaming as the car screeched from the road and soared out onto the desert floor, bouncing and jolting and careening across cracks in the earth until finally crashing to a halt against an unnegotiable boulder.

When he raised one reconstituted head from the dashboard, he knew he was in serious trouble.

The road was a couple of hundred yards behind him. He checked over his body briefly, shaken as he always was by the experience of discovering the limitations of corporeal solidarity. As far as he could tell he was uninjured beyond severe bruising, a cut or two. No match for his determination, but twenty miles of desert road was a different matter. He knew the four-wheel drive would be going no further.

Shakily, he pulled himself from what remained of his means of escape. That route was closed to him, and he dismissed it from his thoughts at once. All he needed was transportation, something immediate and reliable. After a moment of trialling his solidity by stamping into the earth, he turned back to the wrecked cabin and pulled out the map. One minute later he was using the mobile phone donated to him by a newly minted corpse back in Colorado.

It took the local highway patrol officers less than ten minutes to arrive on the scene, and he was impressed. It was going to take some serious speed to survive this, but his chances had just improved and he could spare a second to be grateful for that. He waved as the patrol car came to a dust-wrapped stop beside him.

"Officer! Oh, sorry - officers. Thanks for coming."

The two men in the front seat nodded before one stepped out, keeping a careful distance, badge and shades glinting in the sunlight.

"Got yourself a little problem there, huh? You hurt anywheres?"

The badge sent an achingly sharp flash into his eyes, and he kept his friendly smile in place with effort. He needed a driver after all.

"No, no, I'm okay."

"Uh-huh." The officer regarded him for a moment in silence before nodding and seeming to relax a little. "You got your licence and registration?"

"Officer, what I've got is an urgent need to get to Area 51. Immediately. It's vitally important."

"Uh-huh." It seemed notions of local law enforcement were not compatible with concepts such as 'vital' and 'important'. The patrolman crossed his arms and leaned back against his car. "Ah, sir, we get a lot of folk out here with stories of all kinds of things that have to get to Area 51. Lots of UFO sightin's, stuff like that. Maybe if you told me and Nate here about your 'important' need, we could - "

He really didn't have time for this. Calmly, he pulled a zat from his jacket and fired twice at the boulder near the patrolman's feet. It disappeared with a satisfying sizzle of blue energy.

The relaxation was wiped from the officer with almost comic haste as he leapt and stumbled backwards. He shared a look with his partner.

"Area 51? Uh - sir, why don't you just call up one of the personnel on base, I'm sure they'd be happy to - "

"Officer, you don't understand." He could read them now, knew they were ruled by fear and ignorance, knew he could play them with ease. "I must get there within fifteen minutes. Otherwise, the consequences could make that little demonstration look like spit in a hurricane."

The two men shared another look, then the first nodded.

"Why don't you get in the front seat. We'll get you there on time, don't you worry, sir."

"I'm not the one who needs to worry," he said, almost conversationally, and chuckled inwardly as he watched them trying to silently strategise with each other. "And I'll take the back seat. Don't worry, fellas - I'm one of the good guys."

And of course, time was that had been true. Whether it held any longer was really a charming irrelevance - good and evil were such subjective notions when choice was as infinite as the universes - but he remembered how it played. He could do noble.

"Thing is, officers, if I disintegrate in the front seat, I could bring this car off the road."

The pair exchanged heavily exaggerated looks once more - well, surreptitious communication was difficult, he supposed, when you were both wearing reflective shades - but the first officer took his place in the front seat and the driver pulled out.

He sat back with a sigh. He'd done his best. And Clitus, or Silas, or whatever the redneck hick name the driver carried was doing the right thing by him too, sending the patrol car barrelling down the road, trailing a plume of dust behind them. By his calculations he still had twenty minutes to get into Area 51 and find the quantum mirror. Cutting it fine, he told himself, but there had been no other way. He had breached the border using a known crossing route, miles out in the scrub; plane travel was of course denied him. So given the cards stacked against him, he reasoned he'd done fairly well.

But then the tremors began again, only worse, so much worse than anything that had gone before, and he screamed his anguish because the inner core of him knew time had run out after all.

In some universe he heard the patrolmen yell alongside him, felt the car swerve to a stop. The light was coming at him from a hundred sources now, more, as the endless realities cascaded through his cells. He saw the patrolmen gaping like the fools they were, then saw past them to a thousand other roads and hills and seas and mountains and people, so many, many faces, looking at him with hate, fear, confusion, terror… Until one face, one he knew, one that looked at him with love in some other place. He knew her name, but she'd been nothing, a mere whim on his part to interact with her at all. A silly name, short, inconsequential. … Diti. Diti loved him in that place, and then there were others, other names, Sha'uri and Sha're and Sarah and Pellis and M'nau and Dessari and Jack and so many more, so much love. How could so many universes be so wrong?

"How the hell we going to write up this report?"

And everywhere he looked the love was a trail of silver, a thread through realities so bizarre and yet instantly recognisable that he cried out at the loss of them. At the loss of who he had once been. Something monstrous had happened to him, because Sha're never looked like that at one such as he had become.

"You can forget any goddamn report. Think I'm going to look like some goofball UFO freak? I'm sayin' this never happened, and I figure you should too."

The silver was wrapping around him now, pulling apart the heart of him, and the essence of who he was began to disappear inside it. The terror and anger was gone. The hatred and the sickness melted into the silver and was absorbed, mutated into something so bright he couldn't look any more, could only feel an endless magnificence that he opened himself to with joy. He was going home, and he could no longer define anything about himself except love.

"Sure as shit ain't gonna be swapping this one round the office. Nate, I'm tellin' you - this never happened…"

Chapter Seven

It had been a long time since Daniel had stood in the general's office. It didn't seem to have changed. But the man behind the desk had; he seemed smaller and older, tired to his bones in a way Daniel had never seen in him before. The sandy hair was almost completely gone, and as the general leaned forward, hands grasped together on the desk, Daniel almost sensed the weight of the mountain sinking steadily onto the man's shoulders.

"Be seated," said Hammond, and he and Jack complied. A quick nod sent the two guards who had accompanied them from the cell outside.

"Doctor Jackson. You would no doubt like to know what plans we hold for your future?"

Daniel raised his head, almost imperceptibly. Courage was the damnedest thing, Jack had once told him, found in the strangest places and people. Daniel had doubted his own, more than once, knowing how much he owed to curiosity and stubbornness in colouring his fear with an acceptable hue of bravado. He had never, as far as he knew, let the team down through his own lack of courage. He wasn't about to do it now. And so he met the general's gaze with his own - and wasn't that pitiful. Even now he sought to live up to Jack's standards, when the point to any of it was long gone.

"Doctor, there is a facility here in the Rockies that is secure and run by the NID. It has been proposed that you be placed there for the term of your natural life."

He heard Jack suck in his breath beside him, but Daniel said nothing.

"You may remember it as being offered by Colonel Maybourne as a repository for the Tollans. It is not without some comforts." Hammond paused. "There would be no chance of parole."

"I see." Daniel blinked, then lifted his head a little higher. "General, is there any other alternative available?"

"What did you have in mind, Doctor?"

Daniel gritted his jaw. "Euthanasia."

"Ofer - " Jack heaved up and out of his chair to stand and stare out the window.

Daniel spared him a glance, then continued. "Or execution, if you'd prefer to call it that." And he'd said it without hearing his voice crack or waver. He had never asked or wanted to die before, not even in the pit of grief for Sha're, and he wasn't too sure of the formalities of despair. But he hadn't whimpered, hadn't begged. That would count. Wouldn't it?

"What?" Jack swung around. "You'd rather die than do time, that it?"

"If you truly believe I murdered those women - Sarah - then I would think you'd welcome this, Jack."

Hammond's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to bluff us, Doctor Jackson? It's a dangerous game."

"No, sir. No, I'm not." Daniel had kept his gaze upon Hammond's face, but now he twisted in his seat to find Jack. "Please believe that I would rather die, now, than spend the rest of my life in prison, knowing my own innocence, unable to do my work, unable to have any kind of meaningful contact with other people. That would be torture."

"And maybe that's exactly what you deserve," Jack snapped.

"No doubts at all, huh, Jack? Different brain scans, different story, but you can't bring yourself to believe I'm innocent."

"No ECF, remember?"

"God!" Daniel waved his arms. "That could have happened for any number of reasons. He could have died months ago. Could have been too far away to reach the place. That's not conclusive, Jack, and you know it!"

"Oh, do I?" Jack stormed into Daniel's space. "Well, here's something else I know. You getting to choose your own death is not an option!"

"So I'm owed nothing? For all that I've done for the SGC? I'm not even worth a bullet?"

"Fine! I'll get my own gun!"

"I'm surprised you don't have it on you. Never know when you might need to put down a friend!"

"Goddammit!" Jack slammed his fist down on the desk.

"Gentlemen!" Hammond's roar brought them both to a halt, breathing heavily, faces inches apart. "You will both sit down immediately!"

Panting, trembling, Daniel stared into Jack's eyes, seeing anguish, anger, grief, and he wanted to weep. He wanted to grab Jack and force him to see, or maybe open his own veins and let the truth pour out in his blood. He wanted - dear God, he wanted - but all he could do was give the slightest shake of his head.

It was enough to widen the brown eyes in front of him.

"Colonel!"

One of Jack's hands was raised to touch his forehead, shakily, as if he was in terrible pain.

"Jack. Jack." Daniel whispered. "Do you believe I killed those people?"

Jack's face twisted up, slowly, achingly. He opened his mouth, jammed it closed again, then shook his head.

"No," he whispered in return. "I don't."

A sigh escaped Daniel, and he nodded.

"Then let me die, Jack," he begged, softly. "Let me go."

"You don't, Colonel?" Seeing no one was sitting down, Hammond rose to join them. "May I ask when you decided this? And why?"

"I - " Jack lowered his head. "I didn't listen to my gut last time, General, and it got a lot of good people killed."

"You knew?"

"I knew something felt wrong. Couldn't put my finger on it. Put it down to stress. Over-reaction. Everybody told me it was Daniel, and I really wanted to believe."

Daniel's gut seemed to turn over in his belly. "And now?"

"Now? God help me, it feels - you feel - " and Jack looked straight at him. "You feel right. Just everything else that's utterly boned."

"Colonel," Hammond flustered, "I'm not sure just what you think I can do with that kind of testimonial."

The phone rang, and the general picked it up angrily, as if it were to blame for the scene in his office. "Hammond. Yes?… When?… You're sure about that? … And they think it's genuine?… All right. Keep me informed." He replaced the receiver, then gave each man a shrewd look.

"That was Colonel Callaghan at Area 51. Seems a patrol officer just contacted them with some story about a man dissolving in his back seat. Apparently, he was rather shaken up by the whole ordeal. Only just gathered the nerve to tell someone."

"Yes!" Jack shot a fist into the air. "Come on, George, that's just gotta be an ECF with the works!"

"It may well be, Colonel." Hammond sat himself down again. "But that doesn't alter our position to any great extent."

"What do you mean?" Jack spluttered. "This is our Daniel. He belongs here. He couldn't have done what that other Tuna Melt guy did."

"He means," said Daniel, slowly, "that I'm still a risk. I've been compromised, haven't I, General. Isn't that the word?"

Hammond sighed, his expression pained. "I'm afraid so, son. You may have been innocent of the attacks, but your brain does carry lesions whose purpose remains unclear. Until we know more, I'm afraid we cannot allow you your freedom."

There was silence for a moment, before Daniel gave a tiny shrug. "And that could be for the rest of my life, right?"

The general frowned at nothing in particular. Jack stared at him.

"Then let's get him house arrest. One of those doodads that allows tracking from a security satellite. He can keep on working, keep on having a life."

"Where, Jack? Where can I keep on having a life? My apartment's long gone, and God knows I wouldn't want to live there again anyway. Not when I know about Phy - what happened there."

"Then here, on base."

"Doctor Jackson can never be part of an SG unit again, Colonel." Hammond was definite. "We need to be one hundred percent sure of the people who go through that Gate. We can not risk first contact with unstable personnel."

"Okay," Jack began to pace, "but he could still do his work, right? No reason why he couldn't keep fondling his rocks in the dark down there."

Daniel raised his eyebrows. "You should write job specs for a living." Something thrummed inside him, a feeble element of hope, and he thought, maybe that's what the gods wait for, an offer of death. Maybe then they can show mercy.

"It's a possibility, Colonel. I'll have to make some calls. But you need to understand - Sylvia Gardino had friends here on base, colleagues who may not take kindly to Doctor Jackson's reinstatement."

"Yeah." Jack stilled, his head tilted to one side, and Daniel felt again that current of danger that ran beneath the surface of his closest friend. "Tell me about that, General. Not like I lost anyone special."

"Colonel." It was a warning, but Hammond's eyes softened. "I understand how difficult this is, Jack, and I am sure the fact you are willing to accept Daniel's credentials will hold a great deal of weight. However, I cannot make any promises at this time."

"I understand, sir." Daniel began to smile. And he knew how truly stupid that was - whatever was inside his head could shatter his life at any moment, he knew that. He knew freedom was going to be nothing but an abstract noun for him from now on, probably for the rest of his life.

"We'll figure something out though, won't we, sir?" Jack was meeting his smile, albeit ruefully. Daniel knew exactly what he was thinking - dammit, Daniel, but you're high maintenance.

And against all the odds, all the dictates of common sense and prudence, Jack O'Neill was willing to pay that price for his friendship. How the hell could he, Daniel Jackson, misplaced child of a screwy universe, not smile?

Chapter Eight

Daniel smelt sour milk the moment he stepped through the front door, and the recognition hit him even as Jack stiffened like a gun dog sensing prey.

"Damn!" He hurried away from Daniel, leaving him awkward and anchored to the hallway floor.

"Uh - Jack, I'll just - do you want me to -?"

"Be right back," came Jack's voice from the kitchen, and Daniel sighed and crossed his arms, feeling the bracelet that would become a part of him as it linked him to a guardian angel somewhere high above him; one that was concerned with protecting everyone but himself.

"Okay. I've taken out the unfriendlies and perimeter's secure." Jack returned, laden with four bottles of beer and a bag of pretzels. "We can go in now."

"Good." Daniel followed his friend down and into the lounge area, letting his imagination fashion an invisible, untouchable high-tensile chain that tugged from his arm to a hostile heaven above the roof.

"Plant yourself. And have this." Jack thrust a beer into his hand. "Don't know how often you're gonna be allowed off-base, so you may as well make the best of it."

Daniel found his eyes drawn to the spot on the floor where he'd been thrown and tied up that night two weeks ago. A memorial shudder ran through his body, and he sat down quickly to quell the tremors. Jack dropped himself into the opposite chair, and Daniel thought, well, here we are then. Just a couple of friends with a couple of beers and a couple of universes too many between them.

"I always did wonder when that famous Jackson luck would run out. Kept me in ulcers for five years."

"Waiting for the other shoe to drop?" Or the trapdoor beneath the man in the noose to open, thought Daniel.

"If you'd even remembered to wear shoes in the first place."

"You know, I'm still getting used to them again." Daniel glanced at the soft sneakers on his feet. "The Seraphim kept us barefoot and close enough to naked for all that time. Funny how closely identity is linked with clothes. Looking at those other versions of myself, and not having any way to differentiate… you know, we'd actually scratch ourselves, our faces, and at the time I don't think we were even aware of why we were doing it. But we just wanted to be different." He gave a wry grin. "It's funny, we're encouraged to believe we are all 'special', every one of us is 'unique', and having the undeniable untruth of that shoved in your face day after day can get a little hard to take."

Jack shifted in his seat, as though uncomfortable. "Hell of a homecoming."

Daniel looked up, surprised. As a non sequitur, it was standard - but it was also an O'Neill apology, even more unlooked for because it was unnecessary. Jack had done nothing for which he needed to atone - but somewhere within his Irish Catholic soul he must have sensed atonement was due. To or by the universe, it didn't really matter - and Daniel warmed as the gesture flowed over him.

"I suppose so. We talked about it so often, at first, telling each other about what we'd do when we escaped, made it back - and of course it was all pretty much the same, and that started out being kind of cute. Then it got monotonous. It was like listening to yourself talk, on and on and on."

"Always though that made you ecstatic."

"No surprises, Jack. We'd just put into words what we were all thinking. And after a while it - I guess it hurt too much to even say it."

Jack's face closed inwards, dark and hard and quiet. "Yeah. Know that one."

They shared a moment of requiem for all captives everywhere, and then Jack cleared his throat.

"So - I've been meaning to ask you. Why here?"

He indicated the backyard with his head, and Daniel blinked.

"Oh - I guess… I don't really know. Except that the Asgard told me to say where I wanted to be and I just - I said, 'Jack'."

Jack looked down, studying the label on his beer. "Knew I'd be good for a brew, right?"

"Something like that."

Jack nodded, then sighed. "Hell of a homecoming," he said again, under his breath.

"Doesn't matter."

"You're here now, right?" Jack took a swig from his bottle. "You always were little Doctor Glass Half Full."

"Not always." Daniel remembered anxiety that over-rode the limitations of time to seem infinite. "Not up there."

"Hey. All bets are off when you're under someone else's roof. As long as you stay sane and intact you've done okay."

Daniel gave a shaky little sound that could almost have been a laugh. "I wasn't too sure about the sane part. It's a real challenge to the old equilibrium when … " He let an arm wave say the rest. When you've been accused of murder. When your friends look at you as if you've just been wiped off their shoes. When they tell you your brain has been altered in some terrible, tiny way.

Jack got it. Daniel could tell by the way those dark eyes kindled, briefly, before the tight grin returned.

"Well, as my good old ma used to say - 'Sanity is as sanity does'."

"She have many opportunities to say that?"

Jack gestured with his beer. "Oh, all the time."

"Ah." Daniel settled into the seat. For the first time since his return he truly began to feel as if he belonged in his own skin. It was the most subtle of realisations, one that took place deep inside him, somewhere cells vibrated to the harmonics of their own universe. I am home, he thought, and this time it was not a cry of defiance. Perhaps it never would be one of celebration - there were too many deaths for that to ever be the case. But it was a statement of fact, and sometimes facts could be more comforting than all the joyous deceptions of fantasy.

Something flashed brightly in the garden. Daniel saw it through Jack's 'weather-eye' window. He raised an eyebrow.

"Lightning?"

"Could be." Jack twisted to see. "There was a hell of a storm last week through here. Brought down a hundred year old oak just two blocks away." He turned back. "You want another beer? That one didn't even touch the sides."

"No, I'm - I'm fine, thanks," Daniel murmured as he stood up, frowning, distracted by the lightning. He began to move towards the window.

"Daniel?"

"Nothing, it's nothing, I just - " I just saw something move out there, in that lightning, and that's all it was, lightning, lucky it didn't hit the roof, the rod, Jack has one doesn't he, a lightning rod to stop disasters, stop the wrong things falling out of the sky, falling into the backyard, naked and afraid and lost in the lightning, the lightning, oh God oh please the lightning -

"Daniel?" Jack's hand was on his arm, and he heard the concern in his voice. "Come on, Danny, it's okay. Why don't you - "

And then he stopped, and Daniel knew he saw it too, and the friendly hand dropped away from him, pulled back, away to safety, because who knew where friendship lay in this universe after all? Who knew where forgiveness would lead you?

And if falling angels became demons, who could afford to listen to their own heart?

The movement in the garden came close enough for the light from the lounge-room to illuminate it. But long before his eyes told him that facts were as fickle and fleeting as a lightning flash, before he heard Jack gasp, "No!", his heart had already begun to weep.

Darkness had almost defeated the man outside at first, but he knew nothing could defeat the child of the lightning for long, not now, not on this glorious night. And with a little cry that could only have been terrible pain he saw the man move into the patch of light that turned a window into a mirror and peer into something close enough to heaven for Daniel Jackson.

Feel free to contact the author... e-mail to: thepossum_au@yahoo.com.au

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Within the context and limitations of the site Disclaimer, Any and All original characters, situations, story line, dialogue and narrative © November 1, 2002, the author