Battlefields

by Ellen Caldera

Chapter 4
Home Movies from Hell

Fraiser reluctantly gave him another shot - one more round of sedation. I could tell she was frustrated - the lack of options to do anything more than patch and dope him up eating at her from the inside out. She and I are really more alike than most people realize. Neither one of us can stand inaction, that feeling of helplessness, of needing so badly to do something - anything. But all we could do was sit there in silence, watchful and waiting.

Neither one of us seemed to have the energy to talk any more. The best we could do was share the support of one another's presence and hope that somehow, some of it was reaching Daniel, too. Funny how minutes and hours can melt together and run away when you're resigned to waiting.

A temporary reprieve finally came when Martouf turned back up. That meant some kind of news at the very least. He wouldn't have come back just to hover and stare. Unfortunately, that seemed to be the Corncob's intention.

Marty told her once again to open the force field to let me out, and she once again launched into her pontificating upon ironclad Karievesh security measures. This time, though, Marty moved faster than my mouth and did something damn surprising - something that still makes me shake my head with admiration every time I remember it. He grabbed the Corncob by one arm and one shoulder and propelled her across the hall, forcing her hand down onto the palm reader before she could even so much as squeak. She squirmed violently, trying to break his grip, but Marty just turned his head to me and said very calmly, "You may exit now, Colonel O'Neill."

As soon as I was out, he let go of her, allowing her to reactivate the barrier with an indignant slap to the palm reader.

"There now," Marty said to her, his voice as even and pleasant as could be. "That wasn't so difficult, was it? And much more efficient than the Karievesh method."

Another time, another place, and I might've laughed out loud. Smirked at the very least. But I was so tired and weary and fed up to high heaven with waiting and being jerked around that I didn't even react. My eyebrow might've twitched. That was all.

The Corncob was occupied huffing and puffing and brushing herself off, all the while fixing me and Marty with her very best "you'll pay for that" glare. Ooo, I'm scared. Threaten me some more.

Marty turned away from her without any further hint of acknowledgment and drew me off to the side. Thellok Tristan was back and had asked to speak with me. Me. Personally. Marty had no more clue what was up with that than I did. She'd been dealing with Kovacek up until that point. Then again, maybe that was all the explanation I needed. Several hours with Kovacek would've made me seriously consider sitting down and having a nice chat even with Apophis as an alternative.

I turned back to the cell, saw that Fraiser had moved closer to Daniel. "I'll be back soon," I said. She gave me a nod - all the reassurance she had, but it would have to do.

As Marty and I walked down the corridor behind the rigid back of a flame-cheeked Corncob, he brought me up to date on the analysis of the recordings. Not good news, unfortunately. They were genuine. No sign of tampering, no matter how thoroughly Carter poked and prodded, no matter how many fancy gadgets she applied to the disc. In Dasha's words, she appeared "upset" by the results. Like I needed to be told that. Duh. Oh no, Marty, I'm sure Dasha the Dimwit must've misunderstood. That's really her happy face. I'll bet she's turning cartwheels to see a close friend, someone she thought she knew better than her own brother, doing his very best Jack the Ripper impersonation.

I guess I'd lost track of time more completely than I realized because it was full dark when we emerged from the cellblock. I wasn't expecting to have sleet flung into my face by a bitch of a cold wind, either. How apropos. From shitty to shittier.

The downhill slide of the weather wasn't helping the tempers of my waiting pack of guard dogs, either. I swear one of them actually growled at me. Whatever. Fuck 'em.

There were only a few lights scattered around the compound - dim, utilitarian, blue-white in color, barely enough to see by. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and followed Marty's lead across the freezing mud, friggin' and fraggin' under my breath at the unsteady footing. I did get the minor satisfaction of hearing a blurted curse and a squelching thump as one of the guards slipped and fell into the slop.

Peachy. Just peachy. Gorgeous weather you've got here, guys. The perfect incarnation of shithole. At least it was helping me to stoke my already simmering anger, getting me ready to face down Thellok Tristan. She wouldn't dismiss me with a glance this time. No way in Hell...or any other planet.

Marty took me as far as the entryway to the admin building and handed me off to a sturdily built soldier clad in the ubiquitous black body armor - helmetless version - nicely trimmed out with a humorless glare and the firm set of a hatchet jaw. Could've given Teal'c a run for his money in the stony-faced department. Sort of an image in negative, in fact, with pale skin, a shock of white hair and icy blue eyes.

Brief introductions provided by Marty before he excused himself to rejoin the other Tok'Ra let me know this was Imaga, Tristan's second-in-command. I got the slightest of bows from him, which I mirrored back at precisely the same angle and for the same duration. After that, I followed him without another word.

Several dull gray corridors later, Imaga rapped a big, meaty paw of a hand against a matching dull gray door. Without waiting for a response, he lifted the latch and pushed the door smoothly and noiselessly inwards, holding it open for me to enter.

I felt like I'd just been shown to the entrance of computer geek heaven. The only light in the room was coming from a multitude of flat-screen monitors stretching over every available square inch of eye- level wall space, along with a few scattered screens tacked into places that would require squatting or craning of necks to get a decent look. Tactical displays winked in rainbow hues, and columns of data marched in formation between the charts and diagrams.

Tristan was contemplating one of the screens on the side wall, the predominant red and yellow of the display making her look both flushed and fluorescently jaundiced. The scar on her cheek actually cast a shadow. "Come in, Colonel O'Neill," she called out in a mellow, somewhat husky voice, her eyes still fixed on the map in front of her, flicking back and forth to take in every last detail.

I entered the room and heard the soft snick of the door closing behind me. I was alone. In the dark. With a hell of an intimidating woman. One who very likely held Daniel's life in her hand. It was...somewhat disconcerting, I have to admit. But it was also the best shot I had at making something happen, and I wasn't about to piss it away.

She turned her body toward me slowly, her eyes still fixed on the screen, but then her head whisked around and her full attention was on me. She gave me the same kind of quick, down-and-dirty visual once-over she had before. Made me feel like maybe I should be turning around so she could see the whole package. She didn't say anything, though. Just stood there, silently appraising, making me wonder just what the hell she was seeing in the near darkness that she hadn't seen in the broad light of day.

Enough beating around the bush. "So, Tristan. I can call you Tristan, can't I?" She nodded, one side of her mouth quirking upwards. Or maybe it was both sides - only half of her face was now illuminated, the other half veiled in shadow. I could see enough, though, to piece together that she was enjoying having me on her turf, in her inner sanctum. That brought to mind another question. "Oh, just one thing before we get down to business. Why'd you want to talk to me? Why not just tell Kovacek whatever it is you're going to say?"

She pressed her lips together, nullifying the smile, her eyebrows raising instead. "Because, O'Neill, I prefer to deal with men who have balls."

Oh-ho. Well, well, well. I snorted and chewed on the inside of my lip. No doubt she had her own set of brass ones tucked down inside that armored crotch.

Fine. I'd gotten my little dig in, she'd gotten hers. Time to take off the gloves and get down to some serious bare-knuckle boxing. "OK, let's cut the shit. We both know why we're here. Oh, and just to be clear on this point, his name's Daniel Jackson, Doctor Daniel Jackson - not the Butcher."

"Colonel O'Neill," she said sharply, the trace of amusement fading. "Do not try my patience. I have very little of it to spare for the likes of you and your compatriots."

"'Friends,'" I put in, irritated at her dismissive attitude - fuck her, fuck her, fuck her. "We call them 'friends' where I come from."

"What you call anything is irrelevant to me, O'Neill. My concern is my people and our fight to put down the Feloren scourge. Your Doctor Daniel Jackson only concerns me insofar as he is a hindrance to that goal."

"Oh, well if he's such a 'hindrance,'" I shot back, "why don't you just hand him over to us and be done with it?"

"Actually, now that you mention it - that is exactly what I intend to do."

I blinked - several times. I couldn't believe she'd said what she'd just said. She had to be yanking my chain. It couldn't possibly be that easy. "Whoa, wait. You're just going to let him go?"

"Yes." Blunt, matter-of-fact. The half of her face lit by the tactical display showed no sign she was anything but deadly serious. "I've managed to remind the relevant parties that there are more important matters to consider. Despite many of them much preferring to see Jackson flayed alive."

The mess of bruises and ragged wounds decorating Daniel's body flashed in front of my eyes. "Not like your people didn't already try."

She shook her head slightly, tucked her hands behind her back and took a few steps toward me, testing the limits of my personal space. I stood my ground. "On the contrary, O'Neill." She took one more step forward, leaving barely a foot of space between us. I could feel her breath on my face, as warm and soft and her words were cold and hard. "Your friend's wounds are the result of his own attempts to resist being subdued. I might remind you that no less than three Karievesh soldiers were mortally wounded in the struggle. He killed them - with his bare hands. Not to mention the more than one hundred others he butchered - yes, butchered - in the days leading up to his capture."

I forced myself to remain calm, impassive, in control - drawing in slow, even breaths through my nose, trying to push aside the memory of Daniel's desperate plea for forgiveness. I knew I was balancing on an impossibly thin tightrope, one that might snap at the slightest misstep. No more sarcasm, no more belligerence - at least, not outwardly directed.

Apparently satisfied she'd cowed me sufficiently, she took one step backwards, relaxed her stance a fraction. "Under other circumstances, I certainly would not hesitate to proceed with all due haste to a verdict of guilty and give the order for your compatriot's execution. However, in this case, the situation is complicated by your relations with the Tok'Ra. Much as I would prefer to see the prisoner's throat slashed as quickly as due process would allow, I know this is much more likely to be a protracted and painstakingly meticulous trial. I do not have the time to devote to such nonsense.

"However, under the Karievesh Code of Emergency Powers, the military commander presiding over the sector wherein a prisoner is captured is the only one authorized to pass judgment. I must deal with the problem, and as distasteful as it is to me, I am forced to admit that the most expedient means of resolving it is to release the prisoner into your custody. But - " she raised a pale finger, "there is a condition."

Uh-oh. I so did not like the sound of that. I knew she wasn't going to just hand him over. Nothing is ever that simple, especially not when war and death are involved.

"In order that the accused not be allowed to hide from his crimes, so that you and the others in your delegation, as representatives of your people, will fully understand the atrocities he has committed, you will all - with Jackson present - be required to view the recorded evidence. The truth will not be buried along with the dead." Her voice was clipped, the pronouncement final. No use arguing, not that I was about to look even an ugly gift horse in the mouth. The strings attached to this piece of fortune were likely to rub and cut uncomfortably, but at least it meant we'd all get out of here alive.

Tristan pivoted neatly on one heel back toward the display she had been studying when I came in. "Imaga will escort you back to the holding cell. The viewing will be held there as quickly as possible. The sooner this is ended, the better off we all shall be."

Dismissed. End of discussion. As if on cue, the door swung open with a hint of a creak. Imaga held onto the latch while I edged around him into the corridor, then he closed the door with the swift and silent grace of a highly trained manservant - or a skilled assassin. There was an odd mix of both in him, and true to form for either role, he slipped past me and headed down the hallway without a single word of instruction. It was clear I was to follow him. No choice, really. The mighty Thellok Tristan had made her decree and had also made it abundantly clear arguing would be a big mistake. Huge mistake. Likely to result in, shall we say, a decided lack of pleasantries.

So we'd do what she wanted, take what she'd offered. How bad could it be, after all? Watch a little home movie - probably a grainy, jumpy thing. Disjointed. That's what combat films are like, right? Not like I've watched a whole lot of them, either genuine or a filmmaker's interpretation. The last thing I want to do after being right in the thick of the real deal is to watch the instant replay, but the few times I've been subjected to something like that, as part of a debriefing or investigation, it's been quick and relatively painless. Like a brief and stinging flashback, all wrapped up in the kind of numbness you get when it's over and done and the adrenaline's just starting to fade.

I could handle it, Daniel could handle it. We all could handle it, goddammit, and then we'd pack up our gear and head back to the 'Gate. Take Daniel home. Try to sort the rest of the mess out later. The fallout. The tricky, potentially nasty stuff.

As Imaga and I emerged from the admin building, I was expecting to get slapped in the face by cold wind and sleet, but the weather had done an abrupt about turn. It was calm, still and deceptively tranquil, the clouds thinned out enough to reveal ragged bits of star-filled sky. Gentle swirls of snow were drifting down to disappear into the mud. Entirely too quiet, too subdued - a hush that set my teeth on edge, raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Even the pack of mongrel guard dogs was absent, leaving me with just Imaga the Silent as escort. Frankly, I think I would've preferred the stink and growls of the wolf pack.

We arrived at the prison entrance without seeing another soul, although the feeling of eyes on my back told me there were sentries hidden among the low, dark shapes of the buildings. The Corncob was nowhere to be seen, either - no one at all, in fact, anywhere between the entryway of the building and the cell where Daniel was being held. He was the only prisoner currently in residence as far as I could tell, but it still bothered me that there didn't seem to be even a token guard. Like whatever was going to happen there was not meant for the eyes of the outside world.

Kovacek was already in the cell, leaning into the far corner, arms folded across his chest, one knee bent with his foot flat against the wall - trying to appear nonchalant but radiating annoyance and uncertainty even from a distance. Probably worried this was going to look bad on his record.

Fraiser was sitting on the floor, knees tucked up with her arms wrapped around, and just to the other side of her was Daniel. He was propped up against the wall, his legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, head tilted back against the wall and eyes closed. Shackled and chained again. Surprise, surprise. I felt a faint flicker of anger, but that's as far as it went. Inevitability was settling in. I just wanted to get this over and done with.

Imaga let me in and reactivated the force field practically on my heels. I whirled to face him, intending to at least get a verbal shot off at him, but he was already gone. As I turned back, noting Fraiser had quickly and efficiently gotten the shackles off Daniel again, the lights in the cell dimmed and a bright light snapped on in the wall above Daniel's head - a projector of some sort. I could see motes of dust drifting through the beam as my eyes tracked around to find a crisp, clear image, large as life on the surface of the featureless gray wall opposite the projector. A split second later, the sound kicked in, rich and robust, faithfully reproducing the blasts of energy weapons, the cracking of bone and the sizzling of scorched flesh, the screams of terror and battle rage, the moans of the dying. Like being in a movie theater, only without the comfort of reclining seats. And the awful knowledge that what was being shown was not an innocuous little fantasy world.

I'm not sure I can even begin to find the words to describe what was in that recording. Awful. Terrible. Painful. Raw. Gut-wrenching. Excruciating. Not that any of it was new to me. I'd seen more than enough blood and severed limbs and splattered brains in my years of covert ops, even during the time I'd spent at Stargate Command. I know what it looks like when a village is turned into a battlefield, and the bodies of children are intermingled with the bodies of soldiers. I know what it's like to be so pumped full of fear and primal fight-or-flight instincts that every sense is heightened. You can hear the screams of a child over its dead mother on the far side of the village as clearly as the beating of your own heart in your chest. The light's too bright, the heat is stifling, the smells are overwhelming, and your skin crawls at the feel of your own sweat and blood trickling down your face, back, legs, arms.

Seen it all before - and worse. I wasn't even there for the real deal this time. Just got the two-dimensional flashback through the camera's eye. Fierce, vicious stabs of audio and video input, zoomed from a distance into undeniable close-ups. I got a long, clear look at a version of Daniel I never imagined would be possible outside of a seriously fractured and twisted alternate reality - some kind of nightmare monster with my friend's eyes and face and hands. But not his mind. Not his soul. His body might've been encased in that black battle armor. His hands might've been holding the weapons and pulling the trigger, firing repeatedly into already bloody mounds of pulped flesh. His fingers might've been holding that horrible thing like a clawed hammer, cracking and wrenching at the armor of his opponents, opening the way for the long, thin blade of a gore-smeared knife. His eyes might've been darting from one target to the next, fever bright and hungry like the eyes of a rabid dog.

But it was - not - his soul.

But even worse than having to watch, to witness, to be helpless to do anything to change what was already done, was seeing what it did to Daniel as the final bit of doubt was mercilessly bludgeoned to death. It had happened. It was true. Period. End of debate. A lesser man might've turned away, tried to hide from the unspeakable reality of what we were seeing. Not Daniel. He faced it head-on, looked it straight in the eye, forced himself to watch every last sickening minute, even though his body was fighting against his will, shaking and shivering and twitching, his breath coming fast and short, his eyes wide open, blinking rapidly. He let the shock and revulsion and loathing tear through him, shredding him soul-deep.

It went on - and on - and on - well over an hour, one haunting, hideous image after another. At some point, Fraiser got up and came over to me, hissed at me that it had to stop, that Daniel couldn't take any more, that he was going to snap if this went on any longer. I had the same fear. God. I was the one who agreed to this, thinking it wouldn't be any big deal, convincing myself it was the quickest and easiest way to get Daniel out of there.

I tried standing by the doorway and yelling to see if I could get someone's attention. I got Imaga, looking down his crooked nose at me. When I told him we got the point already and they could shut it down, he actually spoke to me. One word, one syllable. He said, "No." Final. End of discussion. Like it ever was a discussion to begin with. Then he turned and left again, completely ignoring Fraiser as she indignantly demanded that he come back and listen to her. All that little exercise in futility did was to leave us both impotently fuming.

Fraiser turned her anger to action almost immediately and tried to sedate Daniel again. Didn't ask me or even look to me for a nod, not that I blame her. I think - no, I know - she was furious with me, holding me responsible for what Daniel was being put through. For what she herself was having to endure, both in what she was seeing in the recording and in not being able to do something to stop it, to spare Daniel.

Daniel didn't want to be spared, though. He flinched away from her every time she tried to touch him, yanked his arm away from her when she tried to push his sleeve up, turned toward her when she tried again. Just long enough to say, "No" - with the same unswerving determination as Imaga.

No. That was a good word. A great word. Screaming it at the top of my lungs might've come close to summing up how I felt. But I didn't say anything. Didn't yell anything. Didn't do anything but stay rooted to the spot, rigid and tense, the cool air of the cell creeping under my jacket, under my shirt, over and under my skin.

Fraiser finally gave up and slumped back in frustration. Kovacek hadn't moved in the slightest, his eyes straight ahead, fixed on the darkness in the corner to the side of the projection. With the air of a man who's intentionally ignoring something he feels has nothing to do with him. Slimy bastard.

And I just stood there. Feeling like I was in the same league.

After it was over, when the last image flickered away and the cell was briefly plunged into soundless darkness before the lights came up again, I went over to Daniel, sat down beside him. Made myself look at the devastation in his eyes, the grim set of his mouth. Tried to get him to look back at me, hopefully to find some kind of anchor. But he refused, resisting my hand as I wrapped it around his chin and tried to force him. He was stone-cold quiet, shivering, eyes fixed on a blank and empty wall, as if the images had burned themselves into his retinas. He was still seeing it all, over and over again. I know, because I was seeing it too, and I felt exactly like he looked.

I didn't get the chance to think of anything else to do or say, not that I believed actions or words would've made a difference. Things started moving too damn fast at that point for me to do more than hold on and ride it out. They seemed to want nothing more than to get Daniel out of there as fast as inhumanly possible. Shoo that nasty, messy little problem away, out the door, back through the Stargate.

Imaga returned within minutes of the end of the peep show from hell, and to my complete and utter astonishment, calmly laid his hand against the palm reader - without insisting Daniel be chained up again. Mind you, he didn't do it without reservation. His eyes were sharp and all-encompassing, and his body was taut with the potential for immediate action, even if he did try adopt the air of a man doing nothing more serious than picking dirt from under his fingernails. Not good enough to fool me, though, even distracted as I was by helping Fraiser get Daniel to his feet. We were going while the gettin' was...well, if not "good," than at least there.

Kovacek moved to help with Daniel, but Fraiser gave him her very best "back off, buster" glower. Hey, it's been known to work on Teal'c. Why not on Kovacek? And it did work. Perfectly. He muttered something about taking point and went to hurry out of the cell ahead of us. Yeah, right. Like this was anything even remotely approximating a military maneuver. I think he was just worried if he lagged behind, Imaga might get impatient and reactivate the force field before we were all out. Fraiser, though, bless her determined spit and fire, wasn't about to let him get off that easy and barked at him to take her medical bag.

I might've actually laughed - the sight of a major hopping to the order of a captain is not something you get to see every day, after all - if it weren't for the weight of Daniel's body hanging between Fraiser and me. Almost a deadweight, even though he was trying to shuffle his feet in some semblance of walking, his head turned down like he had to be able to see his feet to will them to move.

Back through the oppressive corridors of the cellblock we went, but didn't get the satisfaction of seeing any light at the end of the tunnel. Still pitch black outside, cold and crisp, still and silent, but the wide open sky, spangled with the shimmer of stars, was a welcome relief after the stifling monotony of the cellblock. OK, so maybe there was a little bit of light, even if it was far away and wholly devoid of warmth.

Imaga handed us off with a brusque salute to none other than my good buddy Hock-spit, looking every bit as hock-spit and polished as he had during our first encounter. He had one of those dandy little cyber Rolls Royce tanks waiting for us, and we all piled in, Daniel managing to whack his head against the top of the doorway in the process despite his two hovering guardian angels.

He didn't react to the impact beyond blinking a couple of times, and once we had him settled on one of the seats inside the car, he tilted his head back, picked out a spot on the ceiling and stared some more - only this time with an expression thoroughly lacking in emotion, except maybe for weariness, if you consider that to be an emotion. He slumped down in the seat, his hands dangling loosely between his thighs. Probably would've slid right off into a heap on the floor if it hadn't been for Fraiser and me pinning him in from either side. One of his feet was flat on the floor, toes angled inward, and the other foot was twisted to the side, the sole of his boot facing the other foot.

Wait a minute. Where had he gotten boots? Must've been Fraiser, while I was off losing a pissing match in the dark with Thellok Tristan. I hadn't even thought to look at Daniel's feet before we toted him out of the cellblock, but Fraiser had it covered - literally. One more small, human comfort. She'd probably brought clean socks for him, too. Not much in the overall scheme of things, but it was something. If pebbles could make an avalanche, maybe slight but gentle kindnesses could heal a wound, help to knit the raw and bloody edges back together.

The ride back to the Stargate passed in uncomfortable silence. Even Kovacek and Hock-spit refrained from speaking to one another, instead passing the time in an intermittent staring contest, their steely glaring at one another occasionally interrupted by skittering glances around the interior of the car.

For the most part, I kept my eyes on Daniel's hands, watching them twitch, clench, release and go limp by turns. I occasionally looked up at his face, but gave up hoping to see any change after the first few attempts. I glanced at Fraiser once, too, but she just shook her head at me - the one in her repertoire of headshakes that means "not now." In this context, "Let's just get him home."

Chapter 5
Errand of Mayhem

That was the best we could do - scoop and run like hell, and hope the shock didn't finish him off where a tidal wave of horrors and abuses had failed. Anyone with an ounce of humanity would've been seriously rattled by seeing what was in that recording, forget about it being your own however unwilling crimes you were witnessing. Daniel had to be absolutely numb, sandblasted and ice-lashed right down to the core. But he'd make it. He'd be OK. Eventually. Even if I had to kick his ass inch by stinkin' inch along the way.

But the planet Torrhena wasn't quite finished raking her claws through Daniel just yet. We got back to the 'Gate, hauled ourselves out of the car into the half- frozen glop surrounding the scorched stone of the platform, and Fraiser and I waited semi-patiently with Daniel slung between us while Kovacek scraped at the ice-crusted DHD. He cursed a lot while he worked with his knife and flashlight, but I tuned him out. Like he had any right to be angry with anyone or anything. So Mother Nature was shitting on us, too. Big, hairy, honkin' deal.

The 'Gate finally gushed into life, but before I could even begin to feel relief that we were a mere handful of steps away from home, Daniel's weight slipped off my shoulder, his hand breaking out of my grasp with a firm twist - and the cold, hard barrel of some kind of gun or blaster was pressed against my temple. My first thought was that Daniel had taken that final plunge off the deep end, had somehow gotten his hands on a weapon and was a trigger-pull away from blasting my head across the frozen ground. I had the incredibly bizarre urge to simultaneously laugh, yell and piss my pants.

A voice off to my side, toward Fraiser, set me straight right quick. In those snotty, abrupt, arrogant tones I remembered oh so well from the ride to Thellok Tristan's little corner of this cesspool planet, Hock-spit said, "I would not suggest moving, Doctor Fraiser. I truly have no desire to assist your brains in vacating your pretty head, but I will not hesitate if you insist. And I will succeed. Between myself and Tor-thellok Imaga, we have you and your commander quite thoroughly covered."

Imaga? Shit! How in the name of blasted fury did he get here? So that's who had me on the business end of his gun. And Hock-spit had Fraiser in a similarly compromising position. Double shit.

So where the hell was Daniel? Passed out on the ground behind us? Please? Pretty please? Whoever might be listening?

I hadn't heard a thud. Wouldn't have expected any noise apart from that, considering the way Daniel had whacked his head on the door of the transport and barely batted an eyelash. The ground might've been crunchy from the cold, but it was still softer than metal. Even so, there should've been a thud.

No goddamn thud. Make that triple shit.

And Kovacek just stood there by the DHD, knife clenched in his fist, indecision having a field day all over his face. So what did he think he was doing anyway? Taking the opportunity to decide how well his thumb fit up his ass?

I turned my head the slightest bit to the side, hoping Imaga didn't put his stock in hair triggers. The pressure against my temple disappeared, but quickly reestablished itself at the back of my head, at the base of my skull, as I was swiftly whirled around by an insistent and very strong hand. Just in time to see a blur of movement meeting the tree line and being swallowed whole by the darkness. No Daniel anywhere in the immediate vicinity. So that meant the blur...had to be Daniel.

"What the fuck !" I think I actually spit as I said it. Too bad I wasn't turned to face Imaga. "No. This is not happening. I'm not letting it happen, so I think you'd better holster those weapons right now because I'm going after my teammate whether you like it or not."

"I don't think you really have a choice in the matter, Colonel," Hock-spit said nonchalantly. "Not unless you fancy watching me shoot your friend here. I have my orders, and I intend to follow them. That means you stay here while the Butcher takes care of his very important piece of business." He cranked up the energy level on his weapon to emphasize the point, the high-pitched whine doing a shivery little number on my nerves. Time to back off, slow down, even though my guts were telling me to go, go, go. If that slimy asshole so much as singed a hair on Fraiser's head...

I took a deep breath, raised my hands in what I hoped was a non-threatening manner. "OK, would someone care to explain to me what in the hell is going on here?" I refused to twitch as Imaga dug the end of his gun further into my neck. "You wanna tell me how letting the guy you were so intent on stringing up go haring off across your planet is a good thing for you stupid fucks?" My hands turned into fists and punched at the air as I spoke. So much for calm and reasonable.

"Now, now, Colonel," Hock-spit said soothingly. "No need for such language. This really doesn't have to be unpleasant for you at all, if you would simply cooperate. Now then. Major Kovacek, you will be returning to your planet to inform your commanding officers that if he wishes to prevent the untimely demise of your people remaining here on Torrhena, he will make no attempts to send anyone here to retrieve them. You will wait - patiently - until such time as we have concluded our business here. The doctor and the colonel - and maybe your errant compatriot Jackson if his luck holds - will then be returned to you...as unscathed as we can manage."

"Colonel..." Kovacek's voice carried every bit of the uncertainty I'd seen on his face. Simpering little pissant. Tristan was right. He was in serious need of a testicular transplant.

"Go, Kovacek," I said firmly, but he didn't seem to want to take the hint. He actually "but sir-ed" me. Wrong time for that, idiot. Objections should've come before Fraiser and I had ended up with our heads just shy of being spitted on the ends of gun barrels. "That's an order, Major. Go now." And good riddance. At least that one was less life for me to worry about, miserable as it was.

There was a long pause peppered with the crunch of boots on ice, following by a faint, sucking splash and the whoosh of the 'Gate disengaging. Good. So he'd actually managed to make enough connections in that twisted little rat brain to allow him to realize he was being let off the hook. Having his own ass handed to him on a silver platter and being told to amscray. Given the opportunity to lick boots another day.

"There now," Hock-spit said, sighing lightly. "That was simple enough, wasn't it? Now, if both of you would kindly step back into the vehicle so we can return to the base..."

I might've been OK if he'd just grunted a straightforward "get into the car." But no. He had to go and be so damn full of himself and fakey-polite. That was it. Enough. End of the line, end of my patience. One straw too many. I swung around and connected a good, solid punch with Imaga's nose, just because he was closest. Hit him right between the eyes. I had maybe two seconds to feel pleased with myself before I got knocked clean off my feet by the kick of some serious wattage. Everything went blindingly white, then flashed over to senseless, pure and perfect darkness.

My wake-up call was the jab of another gun, courtesy of Hock-spit. Rifle this time, one of those machine gun/staff weapon things. He seemed to be intent on drilling a hole in my side without the benefit of pulling the trigger.

My little bit of involuntary night-night time had done squat for improving my temper or fortifying my patience. I had the gun yanked out of his hand, flipped around and pointed in what I hoped was his general direction before my eyes were even completely open and focussed.

Thinking I had Hock-spit covered, my eyes flashed around in search of Imaga. No Imaga. Where the fuck had he disappeared to?

A throat being cleared brought my attention fully back to Hock-spit. Despite being an uppity asshole, it turned out he was no dummy. He had a handgun pressed against Fraiser's temple. He gave me a brief, annoyingly superior smile and held his empty hand out to me, fingers flicking in a gesture that made his point perfectly clear. Give the rifle back or get splattered with a faceful of the flying remains of your friend's head. Wouldn't be the first time that had happened to me, but I was in absolutely no hurry to repeat the experience. The gun went back to Hock- spit.

"A wise choice, Colonel," he said smoothly, tucking the butt of the relinquished gun under his arm and pointing the business end back at me, all while keeping the other weapon trained on Fraiser. Oh boy, was she ever pissed. Not at me this time, though. At being put in the position of damsel in distress. One thing Fraiser definitely isn't, and that's a damsel. All woman, through and through, that's for sure, but not a single fluttering eyelash or high-pitched scream for help in the mix.

My turn to shake my head at her. My version of the nonverbal "not now." There was even less purpose in causing a ruckus at that point than there was when we knew where Daniel was. She narrowed her eyes at me briefly, then sighed quickly, almost imperceptibly, knowing it was stupid and letting it go. Wish I could manage that kind of discretion more often myself.

A few more minutes of a mixed bag of glares - slitted eyes traded for heavy-lidded nonchalance - and the car gave a shudder and jerk and pulled to a stop. "Ah, we've arrived." Hock-spit gave me another one of his oily smiles and lightly brushed at the panel next to him, causing the door to slide open and the cold wind to rush in. "After you, Colonel."

Man, oh man, was this guy ever getting on my nerves. Rude I could handle. His brand of supercilious polite was grating me up one side and down the other. Cocktail party politeness. If I'd been at one of those good-for-nothing shindigs, I would've blown him off in a big way, gone to hunt for cocktail weenies on the other side of the room. But there was entirely too much at stake here. Much more than whether some three-star was satisfied enough with the quality of the kowtowing to put his stamp of approval on the promotion of a lowly colonel. This was life and death. Plain and simple. Achieve the mission, get your team out alive. This time, they were one and the same.

The beer-soaked, onion-chomping Harley brigade was back, waiting outside the car to escort us to the admin building. Hock-spit handed off his rifle to one of them and marched out ahead of the pack, upwind as it happened, while Fraiser and I were forced into close quarters with some steamy, smelly hunks of burly body. Close enough that I finally realized there were some women mixed in with the men. Yeah. The epitome of equality - the women every bit as ugly, swarthy and bad-mannered as the men.

Bitches and curs alike peeled off as we reached the door of the building, and Fraiser and I were herded by Hock-spit - who repositioned himself behind us with his handgun pointed at our backs - through the warren of corridors back to Tristan's den. I drew up close to Fraiser's elbow as we went, said as low as I could, "So fill me in."

"After Imaga stunned you and hauled you back into the ground car, he went after Daniel. In the same direction, at least. He didn't seem to be hurrying to catch up." She shrugged, sighed, let her shoulders slump just a tad from the drill formation posture she'd been maintaining.

"Oh." That nauseating, gut-full-of-rocks feeling was back with a vengeance. This was not good. This had been planned. Maybe right from the start. They'd let him go on purpose - to take care of some kind of "business," as Hock-spit had put it. Nasty business no doubt. And more than likely, Imaga was meant to play janitor and clear away any resultant mess - which could very well include Daniel himself. What kind of sick game did these people think they were playing at anyway?

Time to get some answers. Straight up. Unadulterated. Uncensored and uncut. Just like that goddamn fucking film Tristan had made us - made Daniel - watch, made us gag down like the rankest pile of steaming offal you can possibly imagine.

As soon as I caught sight of the door to her hidey hole - so smooth and pristine gray - I lengthened my stride and blew through the doorway without the slightest pause. The door clanked satisfyingly against the wall, but then deja vu hauled me up short. I swear up and down she'd been staring at that same display the entire time since I'd last been in there. The only difference was the frown on her face had deepened into a borderline scowl. Probably due to the fact there was a larger number of red X's on the map than there had been before. Red X's are never a good thing. Seems to be one of those universal constants like pine trees. Oh, and the lines were now mostly green instead of yellow, but I'll be fucked if I had the foggiest what that meant. Couldn't give a shit, either. That detail just happened to stick in my head because it made me think of some kind of freakish Christmas light display.

What I really, really wanted to do at that moment was march right over to her, wrap my hands around her throat - if I could manage to get my hands all the way around that fit-for-a-linebacker neck - and throttle some answers out of her. Common sense told me that would be a bad idea. But the thing about O'Neill common sense is even though it's great at keeping me from doing stupid things, it doesn't seem to have any say-so whatsoever when it comes to my mouth. "What's the matter, Tristan? Having a bad war day?"

She turned her head very slowly toward me, spared me maybe half a second's worth of glance before her eyes slid smoothly over my shoulder. I think Fraiser got a full second of consideration before Tristan momentarily dismissed both of us from her attention as she addressed Hock-spit. "Has the operation been launched according to plan?"

"Yes, Thellok," he answered - with none of the arrogance or superior bullshit he'd made a habit of using on me. Hell, I think there was actually a trace of respect in there.

"Excellent. I expect to be kept fully apprised of the situation and to be notified immediately as soon as Imaga returns. You may leave now."

Imaga. Not Imaga and Jackson. Not Imaga or Jackson. Just Imaga. Chuck a few more rocks down my gullet.

Hock-spit snapped his heels together and inclined his head toward her, his hand fisted and arm angled across his chest. Their version of a salute I guess, although it was the first time I'd seen it. I was half expecting his arm to pop out afterwards, hand held high and palm flat. Didn't happen. Good thing too. I think I would've had a hard time resisting the urge to laugh my ass off at the absurdity of it all.

Tristan didn't return the salute. OK, so maybe I'd have to admit the woman was at least a good judge of character.

As soon as the door snicked shut, she returned her attention to her computer-generated approximations of death and destruction. I opened my mouth to demand some explanations, but her hand snapped up to silence me. And it worked, mainly because I was caught completely off guard by the fact that two of her fingers were missing. Whoa. She'd done the raised index finger number on me before, but I'd assumed the rest of her fingers were curled up under her thumb. OK, between that and the scar on her face, maybe I'd also have to admit she was seeing more than green lines and red X's when she looked at that screen.

"You have many questions, no doubt," she said evenly, "and you may ask them in due time. But first, you will listen."

OK, boys and girls, settle down for story time. I suppose this one even could've started with "once upon a time." But it definitely wasn't a "happily ever after." Life and fairytales. Not much in common there.

"There is a man. A scientist." Tristan paused, reconsidered, her eyes stilling momentarily in their back and forth flight across the shifting and blinking of the battlefield. "No, more like an inhuman abomination. An abhorrent creature, not worthy to be called a scientist. His name is Adren Volish." She half-gagged on the name, but managed to force it out with rough-edged clarity. Nice introduction. Really made me want to meet the guy.

"He was born Karievesh. A brilliant mind, a massive intellect, with a talent for delving into the most obscure reaches of the mind, for unfolding the convolutions of human consciousness. For marrying microtechnology to the cellular, the subcellular. In ways no one had ever conceived of before. He had great promise, the potential to aid us through this dark period in our history. But he went astray, went too far, even beyond the bounds of morality already stretched thin by years of war.

"His research was condemned. He was banned from the scientific community, shunned even by the vast majority of the military leadership, myself included. We thought it was punishment enough, that it would stop him. We were wrong. We should have killed him when we had the chance.

"He went underground, seeking out the resources to continue his work, and managed to find a handful of willing accomplices. We rooted them out, as best we could. We imprisoned them, executed the worst offenders, conscripted the others into military service where they could see firsthand exactly what it was they were hoping to bring to pass with their clean and pure 'research.' Let them soak their hands in the gore and blood that had been absent from their laboratories. Most were...changed by the experience. A difficult lesson, to be sure, a painful cauterization. But they lived. A few of them have even come to be fine officers. Tor-thellok Imaga, for instance."

Talk about standing perceptions on their head. Imaga, a scientist? I lost track of what Tristan was saying for a moment, something about how she'd hand-picked and mentored Imaga.

"But Volish himself eluded us. Always one step ahead, avoiding capture, gradually receiving more and more sympathy from all levels of military and government as he came to be seen as a persecuted would-be savior. The war was going very badly for us at that time. There were those who were willing to do almost anything to turn the tide. But there were also those who stood firm and fast within their moral boundaries. Enough to prevent Volish from being welcomed back with open arms.

"Then almost two years ago, he disappeared. No hint of him or any activities related to his research for almost a year. We thought - many of us hoped and prayed - he had been killed in a skirmish, a sniper attack, an air raid. One more civilian added to the long lists of the dead, if any of us can even be called civilians any more. There is no part of this land untouched, no town or village that has not been a battlefield." She paused for a moment, her partial hand skimming just over the surface of the map in front of her.

"The vast majority of the Karievesh people believe Adren Volish is dead. There are few who know the truth, what I am about to tell you. This information has been classified to the highest degree, and it will remain so for as long as necessary. You will not repeat it outside of this room if you wish to retain any hope of leaving this planet alive. I will not tolerate anyone, least of all you, causing a panic. Our people are weary and worn enough as it is. It would take very little to push them over the edge. This knowledge would likely be more than enough." She turned and fixed Fraiser and me with a stern glare, assessing, judging, apparently deeming we could be trusted. Or easily silenced, quickly and efficiently disposed of. More likely the latter.

"The truth is that we were not so fortunate as to be so easily rid of Adren Volish. He came back to haunt us, to condemn us for our earlier indecision in deciding his fate. He returned to us in the guise of Feloren soldiers, the handful of inhuman savages we call the Butchers.

"You see, the crux of Volish's research was a truly abhorrent - and terrifying - thing. He discovered a means by which he could circumvent the highest centers of the brain, everything that makes us truly human. A way to turn a man into a machine. A killing machine. One deprived of conscience, of civilized thought or reason. Able to stab and slash and rip to shreds the bodies of his enemies. As if they were just that - bodies without souls. A soldier who can single-handedly decimate entire squadrons, severing limbs and breaking bodies open, then crunching the bones under his feet. Without fear, without horror, without feeling, without even conscious thought or awareness. Without knowing the pain of the wounds others might inflict upon him, without registering the effects of fatigue. Nearly unstoppable outside of catastrophic damage to the body.

"They began to appear a year ago. Only one at first, dismissed as a psychopath driven to unholy extremes by the stresses and pressures of the war all around him. But then more began to appear. Men, women, even a few who were barely more than children. We were forced to face the fact that we were facing a new weapon, more terrible than any ever held in human hands.

"Our scientists studied the corpses of the Butchers and found the signs of Volish's work. We could not deny he was responsible. There was no one else - not even the accomplices who were executed - no one able to approach that level of manipulation and control.

"There were implants imbedded in the brainstems of the Butchers, connected to a tangle of microscopic fibers weaving throughout the lower portions of the brain. Severing the higher mind from the body - taking control of limbs and movement, making them the servants of a machine mind. A mind so completely driven by destructive purpose that nothing short of death will stop it. So determined to fight and maim and kill for as long as there is breath in the body that we have never been able to capture a Butcher alive before now. Not before Daniel Jackson.

"I am not certain why he was any different from the others." She paused, blinking quickly against the glare of neon green and red. "It does not matter. All I know is that his life was a gift to me. This is why I have done as I have. Applied what our scientists have learned of the Butchers, had them create a program composed of subliminal light and sound pulses, which was then imbedded in the recording you were shown. A program to send Jackson back into Feloren territory to find Adren Volish and do what should have been done long ago. Our own operatives have been unsuccessful thus far, but Jackson knows where Volish is hiding. He has been in the hands of the Father of Butchers. And so he goes to commit a kind of patricide. A justified slaying. As just as any killing ever could be.

"I am not certain he will succeed, or even that he will attempt to do what we hope we have been successful in programming him to do. There are no guarantees, even now when the plan is set in motion. There is only the waiting to be done now. Waiting and praying.

"So there is my story, Colonel, Captain. My confession, if you will, although I do not expect forgiveness, least of all from you. I have no regrets for what I have done. Believe what you will about me, but know that I will do whatever is necessary to end this war. I do not care which side is deemed the victor, either now or in the passage of time. I only want the bloodshed to end.

"To that purpose, the man who is a friend to you is a tool to me. I do not offer you apologies for that. I do not expect understanding. I have given you what I can - the truth. Whether your friend is returned to you is out of my hands now."

There was silence then, in the room and in my head. I didn't know what to think, say, feel. I suppose I was in shock, combined with a half-hearted attempt at denial. The way Daniel had been used, not just by Volish but by Tristan as well, a pawn for both sides... Christ.

But at the same time, the military part of me recognized the passion in Tristan's words - passion, conviction, a belief in the rightness of her cause and an unswerving devotion to her people, to her nation. I couldn't help but respect that, and wonder in a painfully dark and cramped part of myself if I wouldn't have done the same in her place. If the person in question had been a stranger? Probably, given the right set of circumstances. If it had been a friend...maybe even then.

Tristan turned back to her tactical display, tucked her hands behind her back, spoke crisply and with the sense of putting something behind her, moving on. "So. You have listened. Now you may question."

What I really wanted to do was go and drown myself in a bottle of scotch and pretend none of this had ever happened. Try to make it all undo itself by force of will, reject that any of this was real or had anything at all to do with Daniel. Fraiser, though, immediately kicked in with her damnable, indispensable practicality. "What happens to Daniel after he...achieves his objective?"

"He will return here. If he is able."

Maybe I should've gone for something more direct than wishing for booze and Never Never Land. Something like sticking my fingers in my ears and humming loudly. At least for the second part of Tristan's answer. But I heard every word of what she said, and it punted me so far beyond anger that I ricocheted clear around the other end of the spectrum to inevitability, concession and an achingly painful calmness. Just like that. Emotional whiplash.

Fraiser continued to prod at the sensible and hopefully viable with measured and reasonable questions. Doctor mode, kicking in. I let her take the lead. "Do you have the means to remove the implant?"

Tristan frowned for a moment, then said very slowly, as if speaking to a particularly dense child, "The chips are implanted near the surface, at the back of the neck." Where Daniel said he'd been given an injection, for the pain. Damn. Sneaky little fucks. He never knew what hit him. "Its removal is a simple procedure. I've witnessed it myself, numerous times during the autopsies."

Autopsies. Great. Dead carcasses. Which was how every person other than Daniel who'd been implanted with one of those goddamned chips had ended up. Fraiser was probably thinking somewhere along the same lines because she was quiet for a long moment, lips pressed together. She finally took a sharp breath through her nose, crossed her arms resolutely across her chest. "I'd like to consult with your experts, learn everything they know." Her tone said it wasn't a request, but the words themselves allowed Tristan to take it as such. That's a skill I've only ever half mastered. Just can't seem to keep from adding that last little sarcastic touch.

Tristan didn't answer right away, gave the appearance of considering the request. Nifty little game. Annoying as all getout, though. "Doctor Kadina is here in the camp at the moment. She had been expecting to perform another autopsy."

"Well, that's just too bad for her," I couldn't help putting in. And then, once started, I couldn't stop myself from letting it rip. "And by the way, here's a question for you. Would you care to tell me why the fuck you felt it was necessary to put Daniel through watching that godawful recording? He didn't remember most of it, but I'm sure he's got some lovely nightmare fodder now. Couldn't you have figured another way of getting that program inside his head?"

I thought I detected a slight flinch jerking across Tristan's face, but it could've just been the shifting of the tactical display. More red X's. "Secrecy was required. He was being monitored at all times. I had to find a way to implement the programming without arousing the suspicion of those...with different goals."

"Meaning?" I snapped impatiently.

Her voice took on a brisk clip as she said, "Meaning those who would rather have Volish under their own control for their own purposes. Those who would stoop to any level to drive the Feloren into submission. I could not allow that. There is no viable solution apart from Volish's immediate death. He must be put beyond anyone's reach but God's."

I opened my mouth to give her what-for right back, but then shut it again. I had to admit I understood, even agreed with the gist of what she was saying. Except for the God part. I had a feeling if Volish really was as advertised, he'd be paying a visit to someone else entirely. I didn't have any qualms about his impending assumption of room temperature at all. But it pissed me off royally to think of Daniel's part in it all, from what he had already gone through to what he must be enduring even as Tristan dumped her version of the truth into our laps.

Tristan asked with obviously forced politeness if we had any further questions. Oh, yeah. Plenty. Like why? Why Daniel? But she wouldn't have the answer to that. No one would, except maybe for Adren Volish, and I didn't think I particularly wanted to know why he singled Daniel out. Because he came through the Stargate and Volish thought it'd be good for some additional kicks to toss an offworlder into the mix? Because Daniel simply didn't look like the bloodthirsty, cold-blooded killer type, and Volish wanted to give his invention a real workout? I might've been amused that he was going to get bit in the ass by his own invention - if it weren't for who had been sent to do the biting, and then some I had no doubt. It made me want to vomit - right then and there so Tristan would have to put up with the stink of what she'd done.

I didn't do anything, though, didn't say another word. No more questions. She didn't have any more answers to give. Not any that I gave a shit about. I turned and let myself out, Fraiser right on my heels. Tristan could have her shifting green borders and her massing red X's all to herself. Nightmare before Christmas in whatever the fuck month it was on Torrhena.

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