Nor Iron Bars a Cage

by Lex

page two, of three

Part Six

Hammond looked up at the two people standing quietly in front of his desk. This wasn't easy for any of them.

"I know that you both understand the situation," he said, "And while there is an ongoing investigation into the Aschen situation, Colonel O'Neill will not be acting as your team leader. I expect you to continue to treat the colonel with the respect of his rank, but for the time being you will both report directly to me."

"Understood, sir." Carter said. Teal'c merely inclined his head, as close to an acknowledgement as Hammond needed.

"To that end," he lifted a file from his drawer and laid it on his desk, "Major Carter, I would like you to assist Doctor Fraiser with this request." At her alarmed expression, he swiftly continued. "Colonel O'Neill suggested that during this down-time you might like to focus your skills on something specific, and I agree with him. Please take a look at this report, and see what you can do. I believe it has something to do with finding better ways to identify treatments for off-world viruses."

Still obviously unsure, Carter frowned and took the file. "Yes, sir. Unless there's anything else, I'll get started right away."

The general leaned back in his chair. "That's fine, Major. Be aware that you will also need to make yourself available when required during the course of this investigation. Dismissed."

Once she had closed the door behind her, Hammond turned to the remaining member of SG-1. "Teal'c, I'd like you and me to spend some time working on a new training strategy. Our current methods of fighting against Jaffa warriors are adequate, but we have too many casualties for my liking. I was hoping you might be able to use your expertise to suggest a change in direction?"

"Indeed." The Jaffa tilted his head slightly, "I have some thoughts on alternative techniques, and have been preparing a report according to Daniel Jackson's suggestion. If you would like, I will go to my quarters and retrieve a draft for you?"

Hammond shook his head, "Actually Teal'c, if you don't mind I'll come with you. We can talk in your quarters; it'll be a refreshing change from the formality of this office."

"It would be an honour," Teal'c said.

As Hammond moved around his desk towards the door, he sincerely hoped this farce would come to an end soon. He didn't know how well he was fooling their audience, but he had never been over-awed by his own thespian skills. At least for now he was heading to a safe-zone, somewhere he could voice his frustrations with a friend. Perhaps between them they could plan a secure way to deal with the package the colonel was about to drop in their laps.

Carter stopped off in the women's locker room to take a look at the contents of the suspiciously thin file the general had just handed her. She knew the colonel had spoken to General Hammond before he left the base, but she didn't understand what it had to do with Janet. Confirming there was nobody else around, Carter opened the file and read the contents. A hastily scrawled note from the colonel was the only thing she found.

"Carter, let Doc Fraiser know what's going on -- we're going to need her help with our next step. It was the general's idea, actually, and it's a good one, though a little risky. Tell her anything she needs to know. This is going to be particularly tricky to pull off, but Teal'c will explain to both of you after Hammond explains to him. Does this sound too much like Chinese whispers to you? Do what you need to with this note. JO'N."

Let Janet in on it? There was no trust issue here, but it put another person at risk. And putting Janet at risk put Cassie at risk. Since when did the colonel start making decisions like this without getting their input? They'd all agreed that rank was irrelevant right now, every decision that affected the team should be made by the team. And he'd apparently gone back on that agreement less than a day after they'd made it! Fine. He wanted her to do something with the note? She could do that. She stormed into a cubicle, ripped the piece of paper into shreds and flushed it down the toilet. Remarkably satisfied, she marched off in search of the doctor.

O'Neill stood in the shadows, listening to the familiar sounds of his neighbourhood from an unfamiliar position. He was concealed in an alley with an almost unrestricted view of the rear of his house and his back yard. The only downside was the particularly nasty stench of rotting meat and vegetables, and the scrabbling of rats as they took advantage of the feast. No matter how many times he'd dealt with rats in his previous profession, they still gave him the willies.

He tried to clear his mind of the multitude of concerns that were furiously vying for his attention. This always happened when he had nothing to do but wait -- his imagination took over and ran through every possible outcome, usually providing him with images he didn't need and certainly didn't want. Right at the top of the pile was the image he sincerely hoped his current course of action would avoid: Daniel's funeral. He'd already been there, done that, and it wasn't the kind of social occasion he had any wish to attend again.

The outcome he was hoping for -- if 'hoping' was a valid word to use -- was a demonstration of the bad guys' displeasure with O'Neill, and a swift delivery of the edited highlights of the aforementioned demonstration. He'd left the base following his latest performance in the general's office, which had itself come after a furtive discussion with the general in a supply closet while O'Neill rapidly gathered what he needed. Not their usual meeting place, but these weren't ordinary circumstances. He knew Carter and Teal'c would be pissed at him for not letting them in on the decision to include Fraiser, but Hammond's amendment to the plan was perfect -- their best chance at getting something out of the delivery-boy. Or girl.

As the streetlights began to give off a gentle glow in response to the encroaching darkness, the colonel ran his mind over the plan yet again. He would have to depend on his team, on the general and on the doc, but none of that bothered him. It was the things he couldn't control that were frustrating, as on any other mission. If everything worked out over the next few hours, then O'Neill would have plenty of time later to explain to Daniel why he had deliberately goaded his captors into... what? Into beating him? Flogging him? Breaking his legs? All those things could be fixed, but Daniel wouldn't recover from being dead any time soon. O'Neill's stomach clenched as he recalled the discussion on body parts. He forced that thought from his mind -- as long as they got Daniel back alive, they could work on the rest of it.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him hold his breath. A figure stopped in front of his back gate, reached over to undo the bolt, then slipped into the yard. The colonel checked that there was nobody else around and swiftly followed. As soon as he was through the gate, he pulled out his weapon and sighted. The figure had time enough for a grunt of surprise to escape before he collapsed to the soft ground. O'Neill bolted the gate once more and knelt beside the still body. A cursory pat-down revealed a sidearm and a hunting knife, in addition to the anticipated videotape. No communications gear, no phone, no radio -- at least the man apparently wasn't meant to check in for a while. He pulled the tiny dart from the man's neck and secured his wrists behind him with plastic cuffs. Then he flipped open his cell phone to deliver a cursory one-word message.

Finally, O'Neill tore the balaclava from the man's head to reveal a total stranger. Not that he hadn't been expecting it, but the disappointment still came. No obvious clues, which meant they'd have to do this the hard way. He tugged the balaclava over his own head, retrieved the videotape and headed for the rear entrance to his house. Rattling the key in the lock, he slid through the open door and walked quickly to the living room. He placed the tape in the centre of the coffee table, then turned and left. Whoever was watching and listening would know the delivery had been completed.

All he had to do now was wait for the doctor to collect her patient. He fought the compulsion to go back into the house, shove the tape into the player and find out exactly what punishment was sufficient for his 'acting out', as Daniel would describe it. For the moment, not watching that tape was the only thing curbing his urge to kill the unconscious man lying on the ground in front of him for whatever part he had taken in creating it.

"And you're sure about this?" The woman tapped a polished nail against her front teeth.

The energetic voice came through loud and clear on her private line. "Yes, ma'am. You're absolutely correct, Major Carter is the foremost expert on wormhole physics. But she hasn't had a chance to study this mini-gate like I have, and if she did she would draw the same conclusions."

The woman considered this for a moment. "How long until you can make it work?"

"Uh, well the equipment's all here, I just need to convince my 'boss' that it's safe to make the attempt."

"How long?" the woman repeated, impatiently.

"Tomorrow morning. If everything goes to plan, we can dial out tomorrow morning."

The woman smiled. "Thank you, Mr Evans, that's what I need to hear. I expect a report as soon as the initial testing is complete."

"Yes, ma'am," came the prompt reply. "On the contingency...?"

"Yes?" She said.

"I've investigated the security, and it doesn't look like we're going to be able to transport the gate out of here. This is one of the most well-protected installations in the complex -- it's just too risky. I'm afraid we're going to have to go with the back-up."

The woman nodded her agreement, then realised Evans couldn't see her. "Well, we were expecting that. As long as we have the knowledge, then we construct another. If the Tollan can manage it, then it really can't be that hard. Which means you have to be absolutely certain of your results before we take the final step."

"Understood, ma'am. We're almost there, we just need the results of the live tests. A few more days at most, and I'll have all the pieces I need to build our own Stargate."

"Before you ask, I've seen it -- and it's not good." O'Neill forestalled any questions as he pushed the tape hurriedly into Teal'c's player. He turned to face his impatient team-mates. "There was no phone call after I played this one. I'm guessing they think the tape speaks for itself, and I'd have to agree with them. I know it'll be hard, but we need to keep an eye out for any clues, anything at all that might give us an indication who these people are or where they are. Try not to focus on Daniel." Assured of their compliance, he pressed 'play' then leant against the wall behind Teal'c's chair.

The scene that played out was radically different from the previous one. The camera zoomed out from its opening shot of Daniel's frightened features to expose the reason for that fear. He was surrounded by anonymous assailants, each one silently watching him, their mere presence enough of a threat to quicken his breathing. The archaeologist stilled, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and stared defiantly at something or someone out of frame. After an eternity of trepidation, it began.

Daniel's legs were kicked ferociously from behind, forcing him to his knees. The instigator stepped back calmly, pointed to another black-clad figure and said one word: "Three".

As Daniel struggled to find his feet, another attacker move forward and kicked him in the stomach.

"Seven."

A third person moved in. This time the kick succeeded in knocking their victim to the floor.

"One."

"Oh my God," Carter gasped.

O'Neill paused the tape mid-kick, "What Carter? You know what the numbers mean?"

She nodded, unable to tear her eyes from the screen. "It's a game," she said, obviously stunned. "It's a children's game."

"It is a most barbaric game for children to play," Teal'c said, obviously perturbed.

"Hmm? Oh, no, they don't..." She waved vaguely at the television. "I mean, it's not..."

"Carter?" O'Neill prompted, gently.

She snapped her eyes away from the image of pain in front of her. "Sorry, sir. The game -- a group of kids would play catch. Every kid had a number, and you had to say their number as you threw them the ball."

"And what were the consequences if a child made an error?" Teal'c asked.

Carter shrugged, "Nothing, everyone laughed but that was about it." Her gaze wandered back to the screen. "I don't understand, what's the point?"

O'Neill clenched his fists. "I have an idea." He started the tape again, allowing it to clarify his meaning.

The abuse continued at a steady pace. About two minutes later, the first mistake was made. The attacker just identified as 'Two' shook his head. "Three", he corrected. He gave Daniel three sharp kicks in the gut. The archaeologist futilely attempted to curl around the pain. The next assailant struck his lower back. The following one connected violently with his shin.

When Daniel stopped reacting to the boots assaulting him, the camera once again zoomed in on his face. Tears and sweat mingled together, then splashed to the grimy floor. The lines of pain were very much apparent, despite his unconscious state. They heard a dull slap, and the camera angled away to something on the floor behind Daniel's bound body. The evening edition of today's Colorado Springs Gazette stared up at them for several seconds before the camera shut off.

O'Neill studied his team. He could see the same guilt on their faces that he knew had been on his the first time he'd sat through this nightmare. He was silent while they worked through it, and rewound the tape for the necessary next viewing. When he was sure they all had their emotions under control, he spoke.

"Any thoughts?"

"If we are to believe the newspaper, they are close. Once we know precisely where, we will be able to move quickly." Teal'c said.

"I agree, sir," Carter joined in, her professional face now firmly back in place. "The things I noticed: there were seven assailants, plus the camera operator. It's possible there's a ninth person that we didn't see -- Daniel looked like he was staring at somebody before the, uh, before they started." She winced a little. "Oh, and the boots are military issue."

"How can you possibly know that?" O'Neill said in astonishment.

"One of them had left the little stickers on the bottom -- you know, the ones that are such a pain to get off? With the right equipment we might be able to enhance it enough to see where they were issued, but I doubt it; the picture would be too grainy at that magnification. We might be able to narrow it down to branch of service, though."

O'Neill shook his head in admiration. "That's more than we knew before. Anything else?"

At the twin headshakes, he headed to the door. "I'm going to grab us all a coffee, and then we need to watch the tape again. Next time, Teal'c I want you to focus on the background, Carter you watch the participants, and I'll listen. We'll go over everything together, and then trade. I want everything we can possibly find rooted out. Nothing gets past us."

O'Neill waited for their agreement before he headed out into the corridor. He closed the door softly behind him, then walked briskly to the commissary. He collected their regular orders, moving mechanically through the required actions, his thoughts in a tumble. God -- military? That didn't exactly rule out Kinsey or the NID, but where would they find eight soldiers for a job like this? He dismissed the question as soon as it crossed his mind. Hell, even Maybourne had managed it and he wasn't exactly the kind of person to command loyalty.

O'Neill hurried back to Teal'c's quarters, passed over the drinks and settled down with his own steaming mug. They watched the encounter three more times, finding progressively less information at each stage. As the tape was rewinding for a fifth viewing, there was a knock at the door. O'Neill raised his eyebrows at Teal'c, who moved to the door.

"Who is there?" he called out.

"It's Hammond, Teal'c."

Teal'c swiftly opened the door and allowed the general to enter the room.

"What have you got, sir?" O'Neill asked, already reading the coming disappointment in his CO's face.

"Nothing." Hammond looked round at the team. "I'm sorry, it doesn't look good. The man just isn't co-operating in any way, no names, places, nothing. He hasn't even admitted to being aware of what he was delivering." He wearily dropped into the chair Teal'c offered him. "Dr. Fraiser is still with him, ensuring he'll stay sedated for the moment. We don't want him scaring your neighbours, Colonel."

Carter looked puzzled. "Where exactly are you keeping him?"

O'Neill hesitated. "You know the storage building I rent just behind my house?"

Her eyes widened. "He's in there?"

"Well, it was kind of short notice, it's not like we could have brought him back here," O'Neill shot back, frustrated. He felt his hands heading to his hair, and stopped them. He really needed to break that habit.

"Did you manage to find anything on the tape?" Hammond broke in.

O'Neill nodded to Carter, who picked up her notepad. "We have a few things, sir. The video shows seven unknown assailants assaulting Daniel. We've established -- as far as we can, at least -- that they're all male. They appear to be wearing military-issue boots, one has a tattoo on his left hand that we may be able to identify with specialist equipment, and partway through the tape there's the sound of an airplane overhead. It's definitely a jet, but the sound quality is too poor to have a guess at the size."

As she lowered her notepad into her lap, Teal'c added, "There is one more thing of note. Daniel Jackson's face was left unmarked."

O'Neill thought on that last statement for a moment; his mind flitted back to the final shot of Daniel's tear-streaked face. "You're right." He turned to Hammond. "They basically kicked the crap out of him, sir. And we still have nothing that tells us where he is or who's behind this."

Hammond unbuttoned the top pocket of his jacket and pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper. "Actually, we do have one thing, but it's up to you if you want to risk using it." He handed the paper across to the colonel, who unfolded it curiously. Under Dr. Fraiser's precise handwritten 'Left' and 'Right' were a set of fingerprints.

O'Neill passed the paper to Carter. "I take it those belong to our delivery boy?"

"Yes." Hammond said. "It was Dr. Fraiser's suggestion."

"Sir, if we put these through the system and he's military or NID, we can identify him immediately. But it could also raise all sorts of flags that we don't want. The risk to Daniel..."

O'Neill gave in to the impulse, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "And if we don't risk it, we're gonna need a miracle to get him back alive."

Part Seven

The man was pacing irritably, the phone clasped to his ear. He did not like what he was hearing. "What do you mean, 'it's to be expected'?" he demanded.

The pacifying voice on the other end of the line tried to calm him. "We knew from the start that O'Neill wasn't likely to take this lying down -- it's one of his team at risk. So far he's followed instructions and kept everyone else in the dark. This little bump in the road is--"

"Bump in the road!" the man squeaked. "What exactly would you consider to be bad news if this is just a 'bump'?"

There was a pause; the voice obviously realised quite how foolish his previous statement had sounded. "The courier will not give anything away -- he's well-trained. And O'Neill can't afford to use any kind of 'persuasion' for fear of retaliation against Dr. Jackson or any of his other team-mates. And of course you're just jumping to the conclusion that the courier has been caught. Have you considered that he might just have taken his initial pay-off and run?"

"That would be extremely foolish behaviour," the man sneered. "Every one of those men understand how important I am, and what the consequences would be if they betrayed me."

"Senator, you--"

"Don't call me that!" the man hissed. "This is supposed to be a covert operation -- no identities over the air."

"This is a secure line, sir," the voice said, a touch patronisingly.

The senator shook his head in pity. "You can't possibly know that. No invention of man is infallible. The Lord has often seen fit to punish men for their complacency, even those -- such as ourselves -- working on the side of right." He exhaled slowly in an attempt to curtail his anger, then got back on track. "I take it you're prepared for the investigation? I don’t want anything to go wrong at this vital stage."

"I'm starting first thing in the morning," came the reply. "There are several ambiguous areas where motives can be questioned. However, the newspaper Jackson discovered in the buried city may be a problem."

The senator snorted, "I would have thought that was obvious, even to you. Jackson is perfectly capable of faking such a document, and there's nobody on the SGC payroll with enough knowledge to be able to refute his story. It makes me wonder how many other times he's got away with something like that, and whether it's just his team that know what he's up to." He frowned as a thought occurred to him. "It might even go all the way to General Hammond."

"It is an intriguing question."

The senator nodded smugly. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that SG-1 were deliberately trying to undermine earth's dealings with other races. And now the proof was so tantalisingly close it made his fingers itch.

"I think it's time to move to phase two of the plan," he directed. "I want Dr. Jackson's confession, and I don't care how you get it. These people are finally going to realise you can't fool with a United States Senator."

Colonel Makepeace rose to meet his counterpart with the merest hint of civility. "Colonel, I didn't expect to see you here. I thought the idea was to keep as many of my team as possible from knowing who else is involved in this operation. Or don't they teach the concept of 'need to know' in the NID?"

Simmons responded with his trademark tight smile. "Interesting you should ask that, Colonel. If, for example, I needed to know where your courier was right now, what would you be able to tell me?"

Makepeace returned a smirk of his own, "I'd tell you that perhaps you underestimated O'Neill from the start. And perhaps you should have listened to me in the first place when I warned you that covert ops training isn't something you just forget when you move on to another assignment." He walked across the partitioned-off area that served as his 'office' and flicked on a monitor. The picture wobbled into focus to show a lone figure slumped on the floor in a small room. "I'd also tell you that O'Neill seeing the latest video and knowing he was the cause of his civilian's pain, combined with the fact that he won't have been able to get any information out of our courier, will have one of three results. One, he could flip: he'll tell the general what's been going on and take his chances that whoever has his pet geek won't follow through with their threat. Two, he could capitulate: follow the instructions to the letter now he knows we mean business, and realises he has no other option. Or three, he's playing with us: he's already told Hammond, and they're playing for time while they search for Jackson."

"Option three can be ruled out," Simmons said.

"How can you be sure?"

"Hammond's office is bugged. As is the briefing room, O'Neill's office, Carter's lab and every other area O'Neill might spend time in."

"But the base is swept daily..."

"Yes it is," Simmons agreed, that self-satisfied look returning to his face. Makepeace waited impatiently for an explanation.

"The advantage of working for the NID, Colonel, is that we always have the best toys. They don't have the equipment needed to detect our bugs, and somehow I don't think they ever will." Simmons expression became thoughtful. "It seems, Colonel Makepeace, that I underestimated you. Your assessment of the situation is valid, but the important thing right now is to know exactly which way O'Neill is going to jump."

Taking his turn at feeling particularly smug, Makepeace replied, "Oh, that's easy." He gestured to the monitor. "He'll go for option two. O'Neill has lost his edge -- he just doesn't have what it takes to get the job done any more."

"And what might that be?" Simmons asked, right on cue.

"Detachment." Makepeace said simply. "He cares too much for his team, and that's his weakness."

"Some might say it's a strength," Simmons countered. "Playing devil's advocate for a moment, isn't that what's got SG-1 through some of their more dangerous missions?"

Makepeace snorted derisively. "Pure dumb luck is what's kept them all alive until now. Along with Goa'uld technology. I'm sure you're aware of the amount of times one or other of them has been brought back from the dead through the use of technology they all claim to despise."

"You sound like you don't approve, Colonel."

"Whether or not I approve is irrelevant," Makepeace said. "Assuming this operation works, the SGC's agenda will change and we can all forget about O'Neill's questionable ethics."

"And so back to the point of my visit," Simmons said. "I've been speaking with the good senator, who is unfortunately becoming increasingly irrational. It appears now is the time for us to move ahead in a slightly different direction. You and I both know that killing someone simply because they humiliated you in the past is reckless to say the least, yet it is becoming an obsession with Kinsey."

"He wants Jackson dead," Makepeace said, understanding immediately.

"Exactly," Simmons said. He moved to the table currently masquerading as a desk and leaned against it, his posture as relaxed and friendly as he could manage. "And quite frankly that isn't going to gain anything at this juncture. The key to achieving what we want in the next few days is subtlety. Keep Jackson guessing, unsure of what to expect. And if you do it right, by the end of it we'll have him convinced he's guilty."

Makepeace frowned. "Guilty of what?"

His lips twisted in a parody of a smile, Simmons responded, "Anything, Colonel. Anything at all."

As he slowly became aware of the world again, Daniel could hear a faint hum coming from somewhere in front of him. No, that wasn't right... it was above him. Confused, he opened his eyes and gazed at the vaguely familiar ceiling of his cell. He focussed his hearing and identified the source of the annoying noise, the indifferent blink of the cameras reminding him of his constant audience. Cold seeped through his skin everywhere it touched the concrete, which seemed like the whole back side of his body. Wait a second... all of his body? Then he remembered -- they'd stripped him of his clothes again. He shifted slightly to sit up and instantly regretted it. All of his bruises and scrapes made themselves known in one tidal wave of hurt. Determined to get off the frigid floor, he gritted his teeth, took a deep breath and rolled onto his least painful side. He gingerly pulled his legs up, then forced himself onto his knees. Fire flashed in his right leg and he cried out as he fell back to the floor.

Panting slightly, Daniel tried another approach. He sat up... very slowly. Satisfied he wasn't about to be ambushed by any other unpleasant surprises, he inspected the offending knee. It was darkly bruised, swollen and felt mushy under his fingertips, but nothing seemed out of place. Using both touch and sight he checked his other injuries. The rat bite was still bandaged, but everything else was in plain view. He could see and feel lumps on his legs and arms, and the pain loudly telegraphing its presence from his back told him that area was probably looked just as colourful as his chest and stomach -- all thundercloud purples, dull blues and angry reds. Nothing flared in quite the same way as his knee, but the lumps made themselves known as he twisted round to check out the room. He spotted the sweats in a corner, and shuffled gratefully over to them. His skin felt too tight as he moved, as if somehow stretched to its limit across the artist's palette that was now his body.

He picked up the sweats and froze as he heard something thud to the floor. His brain identified the sound of plastic on concrete too late to stop the flush of irrational fear. Forcing his breathing to calm, Daniel reached for the water bottle lying on its side. He unscrewed the cap, sniffed cautiously, then took a slow swig. As he closed his eyes in appreciation of such simple pleasure he remembered the eyes on him. He fastened the cap back on the bottle and contemplated the sweats. Practicality defeated any reservations he had about moving closer to something that was sure to have a starring role in nightmares to come; he shuffled across to the ever-present cage and used it to pull himself upright, keeping his weight off his increasingly painful knee. He didn't remember at precisely what point in the festivities he'd passed out, but it was a pretty safe bet it had something to do with a solid kick to the hot and swollen joint. He dragged the sweat pants on, then shifted back to sit on top of the cage so he could elevate his leg. Searching around for his water bottle, he spied it below him and reached down to grab it with outstretched fingers. Finally having all his luxuries in one place, he sighed. The outflow of air was partly due to the effort he'd expended in reaching this position, but mostly in satisfaction at what his current condition told him: whatever they wanted Jack to do, he obviously wasn’t playing along. It was pretty clear that Daniel himself wasn't valued as anything other than collateral -- and he could live with that. He knew the video that Jack saw would probably make his condition look worse than Daniel actually felt right now; he just hoped it wouldn't weaken Jack's resolve.

Daniel felt his eyes drooping. A yawn overtook him and he moved to lean against the wall. Sitting on the cage was distinctly uncomfortable, but compared to the prospect of getting off the floor in a hurry the next time they came for him, his knee was voting to put up with the criss-cross pattern currently making a permanent indentation on his backside. He tilted his head against the wall and closed his eyes, already beginning to drift. Maybe sleep would bring him some respite from the constant throbbing permeating his body.

Or maybe not. The door was thrown open and Colonel Makenoise stomped in. He took up residence in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb in what Daniel supposed was his most nonchalant manner. Daniel glared at him.

"Don't get up on my account," Makepeace said sarcastically.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Daniel retorted. "What do you want now, Makepeace -- come to take your turn at kicking the shit out of me?"

Makepeace shook his head. "In spite of the temptation, no. You've been unconscious for a while and I started to miss our little chats. And since you'd have a bit of trouble coming to me, I thought I'd visit you."

Daniel itched to punch the oily bastard. "How thoughtful."

The colonel beamed. "Exactly. And I wanted to discuss why you're here."

"We've been through this, and I've already told you... whatever you want from Jack you're going to have to get without my help."

"Daniel, Daniel," Makepeace tutted, "Do you really think that's all you're worth? If that was the case, we could have just snatched his wife."

"Ex-wife," Daniel corrected absently.

"Oh yes, I remember -- she dumped him."

Makepeace moved into the cell, leaving the door ajar. Daniel's eyes flicked to what little he could see of the hallway.

"You can't possibly think you'd make it."

Daniel looked at the colonel's mocking face. "And why's that? I've escaped from better people than you."

"Really," Makepeace drawled, disbelief dripping from his voice. Daniel brazenly resumed his study of the hall and door. One lock, easy enough to pick with the right tools. No guards in evidence. But with the state Daniel was in and Makepeace's complacent self-confidence, that wasn't unexpected. Daniel's view vanished as Makepeace blocked the door.

"Perhaps we could get back on track?" the marine snarled.

Gotcha! Daniel returned the glare with an innocent gaze. Makepeace was actually concerned he was going to escape, which meant it had to be possible. And if it was possible, Daniel was damn well going to save his team the trouble of having to rescue him.

Part Eight

Colonel O'Neill was brooding. The murky grey walls of his office were threatening to leach the life out of him -- the dreary concrete somehow preventing him from finding the solution to his problem. Somewhere, in an as-yet-uncharted corner of his mind, was the answer that eluded him. And when he had time he would have a long conversation with Daniel and Carter about why, if there was such a thing as the collective unconscious, why the hell couldn't he access it to discover the location of his missing team-mate. Instead he was just sitting here thinking in circles, and each circle brought him back to the same place. Well shit, O'Neill isn't that what circles did?

God, now he was off on some geometrical tangent while the enigma danced just out of his reach. The pieces of the puzzle were all mixed up together, the flashes of cunning mingling with the blatant stupidity of the whole situation. The bizarre kidnapping, the threats, the extremely advanced surveillance equipment, the apparent lack of foresight on somebody's part as to the eventual outcome -- the tactics were so diverse it seemed they couldn't possibly be the work of one person.

He sighed. It just didn't make any sense.

And now Simmons was here to run an official investigation into SG-1's conduct. Colonel Jack O'Neill would sacrifice himself on the altar of... of what? Daniel always said humans were sacrificed for a practical purpose, to appease some god or other in order to make it rain, to stop the rain, to bring courage and strength to warriors in a forthcoming battle, to ensure the crops grew well, to help the Yankees win the World Series for God's sake. Only when the ritual was corrupted, Daniel had told him, was it ever used as punishment. So here he was, about to get his insides ripped out by High Priest Simmons -- a man too stupid to know he was simply being used to boost someone's lunge for power. Or maybe he did know. Perhaps he just didn't care.

At any rate, there was nothing O'Neill could do right now to further his knowledge. This was one of those times where waiting was apparently the best option. He could only hope that the next piece of the puzzle was the one that meant he finally saw the whole picture. The team had agreed not to do anything with the fingerprints yet; whoever the delivery boy was, he would have to remain anonymous for now. Which meant O'Neill needed to co-operate with the pit-bull, all the while worrying that one of the answers he gave would lead to another beating.

He sighed in resignation. He would follow the plan, and pray that his patience, stoicism and outward composure didn't ebb away as the hours passed.

This was ridiculous; it was never going to work. Daniel didn't have enough fingers and toes to count off all the reasons he couldn't possibly succeed, yet here he was making the attempt anyway. Whoever had said there wasn't much distance between courage and foolhardiness wasn't far off the mark. At this very moment, Makepeace and his gang of bullies could be watching his night-vision-enhanced image standing foolishly behind the door to his cell, bucket held high, poised anxiously while the single set of footsteps in the corridor came ever closer.

Daniel took a deep breath as the boots stopped outside the door. He held the air in his lungs as the key rattled in the lock, narrowing his eyes in preparation for the brightness about to assault them. The door swung open. Daniel tensed, raising the bucket higher above his head. The hooded man walked unsuspectingly into the cell, and only realised his mistake at the very last second. Daniel swung his makeshift weapon down just as the man started to turn and the bucket struck the side of his skull. He blew out his breath as his victim crumpled to the floor with boneless grace, then gasped in another as he listened for any more sounds in the corridor. Hearing nothing, he crouched as carefully as he could and put the bucket on the floor. The misshapen receptacle rocked slightly; the size of the dent made Daniel wince, and he hesitantly felt for the man's pulse. Relieved to find a strong beat, he hurried through his planned tasks.

He struggled to pull the man's jacket off, the effort of rolling the dead weight pulling on his injuries and shooting arctic heat through his knee. Finally successful, he slid his arms into the heavy material, shoving the too-long sleeves up past his hands. He pulled the .45 from the man's shoulder holster, pausing only to listen carefully for signs he had been discovered. Next on the agenda, he shuffled down to check the boots. Damn! It was a long-shot that they'd be his size, but how the hell could someone built like a linebacker have such small feet? Frustrated, he tugged ineffectually at the pants. A sudden noise made his heart jump, and he froze. Hearing nothing further after a few seconds, he went back to his check-list. Okay, think fast, what else? Abandoning the pants he searched the unconscious man's shirt and pants pockets for anything else useful. No sign of a cell phone or radio, but Daniel tore the watch from the man's wrist and shoved it into his sweats. He was pushing his luck -- he had to get out of here.

Cautiously, he checked the corridor both ways; it was empty, both of guards and cameras. Daniel shoved the weapon into his newly acquired jacket -- if it came to a confrontation, he hoped he was still valuable enough to keep alive because the likelihood of him being able to run and shoot simultaneously was laughable.

He left his cell and turned right. There was no real logic to that decision apart from the fact that every time he'd been taken for his cosy little chats with Makepeace they'd gone in the other direction. With a mixture of limp and shuffle he could make good time, and his bare feet had the added bonus of being quiet. Daniel had gone maybe ten feet around the first corner when he heard a noise. He spun around, trying to identify the sound even as he reached for his weapon. He listened intently, but couldn't make out anything else. The little 'phut' had sounded eerily familiar, but he didn't have the time to waste figuring out insignificant mysteries. He hobbled faster down this new corridor towards what appeared to be natural light, albeit on the gloomy side. The glow struggled through a door a little way down on the right hanging open perhaps four inches. His heart sped up as he reached the doorway, and he sent up a prayer to whoever looked out for imperilled archaeologists that there was nobody on the other side of this doorway about to return his karma threefold and smack him over the head with the world's biggest bucket.

Major Morrison calmly unscrewed the silencer, holstered his weapon and pulled Jackson's cell door closed. Makepeace had been foolish to send just one guard to collect the archaeologist for this latest interrogation. And whoever this man was had been equally foolish in entering a cell without knowing the exact location of the prisoner. Well, it was all academic now.

The major moved silently past the cell, pausing at the corner. Studying the wall across from him, he saw the shadows lighten slightly then fade once more. He waited patiently for another minute before he moved into the next corridor and walked swiftly to the door at the end. He took out his miniature periscope and covertly studied the gradually brightening grounds outside. He easily spotted the figure moving towards the trees at an unsteady loping run.

Satisfied that the prisoner could no longer technically be referred to as such, Morrison turned on his heel and sauntered back to the surveillance room.

Frank Evans checked the video set-up one last time. Assured they would capture the events from every conceivable angle, he walked across the room to the ignoramus of a project leader.

"Ready, sir."

The portly man nodded a brisk acknowledgement, and made a few marks on his clipboard. "Fine." He leant forward to speak into the microphone. "I want anyone who isn't essential to the test out of there. Junior technicians will be called back once the test is complete. Everyone else, into the control room."

The bundle of scientists scurried to obey; the pulse of tension in the cramped control space beat stronger as it filled beyond capacity. The project leader made one final scan of his empire, then paused for effect. Frank kept the impatience from his face as the man started on one of his infamous speeches.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's been a pleasure to work with such an accomplished team. I'm confident that all of our hard work will pay off, and the results will be nothing short of spectacular." He beamed condescendingly at the group. "As I'm sure you're aware, this will be a simple communications test. Once a stable wormhole has been established, we will make contact with a team who have been out of touch with Earth for many months. From that moment, we will be their lifeline. And I intend to give them the treatment they deserve after so long away from their families in the service of our great nation."

There was another drawn out silence. Finally, the tedious man gave the go ahead.

Frank smiled as the capacitors released their charge and the much-anticipated whoosh heralded the birth of a wormhole. His smile broadened as the chaos settled into a shimmering pool held in place only by the mysteries of physics. He moved through the motions of the next few minutes barely heedful of the well-practised tasks.

All the while, the cameras oversaw the activity, preserving images that would astound absent friends.

"You're telling me Dickins is dead," Makepeace said. It wasn't a question -- he already knew his 2IC wasn't joking, the man had no sense of humour.

"He obviously wasn't very good at his job," Morrison commented disinterestedly.

Makepeace glared at him. "I selected my team very carefully, Major. Are you suggesting that my judgement is also suspect?"

Morrison had the sense to look a little embarrassed. "No, sir. But the man managed to get himself knocked out by an injured archaeologist, and that doesn't say much for his abilities in the field."

Makepeace's misgivings about the ex-officer standing before him flared up. "Exactly how did Lieutenant Dickins die?" he asked.

The major looked him square in the eyes, "I shot him. The man was incompetent and a threat to this operation." He looked pityingly at his superior. "This isn't the military, Colonel, you can't just put someone in lock-up for a couple of days to show them the error of their ways. This way, we have one less liability, and the other men will understand that we need them to perform at one hundred and ten percent."

"You killed Lieutenant Dickins." Makepeace said. God, how could the man look so guiltless? There was no response. Not that there should be, it wasn't as if Morrison hadn't been completely clear. The man stood calmly waiting for his commanding officer to outline the next steps. No, not officer. None of them were officers any longer. What officer would allow a man under his command to be shot dead for failing in his duty? Especially when it was all a simple misunderstanding. Shit, if he'd just explained his plan to the major instead of keeping vital information from him in the hopes of making himself seem somehow inscrutable and blatantly superior, then Dickins would be alive right now. Morrison was right -- this wasn't the military. The rules he lived by now were very different, and he had to get used to them PDQ or he'd be the next one lying on floor with a bullet in his back.

Makepeace took a deep breath and began to explain the way things would be to his soulless 2IC.

Part Nine

"Hammond," the general barked distractedly into the handset.

"Sir, Colonel Simmons is still waiting to see you. He insists that this is extremely important and cannot be delayed any further."

Hammond abandoned the report in front of him -- it wasn't as if he was actually reading the damn thing anyway. He checked his watch: eleven hundred. Time to get this show on the road.

"Escort him to the briefing room, Sergeant, and send some fresh coffee through." He paused for a second, before adding, "Just one mug with the pot."

"Yes, sir."

Hammond hung up, satisfied he'd scored the first point in this absurd game. He stood, straightened his jacket, and walked purposefully into the briefing room with his copy of SG-1's mission reports from P3A194. Seating himself in his usual chair, he placed the pile of reports to one side and waited. Within seconds Colonel Simmons appeared at the doorway and strode into the room, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation. Hammond raised his eyebrows at the provocative breach of protocol, but refrained from comment. The colonel was closely followed by an airman carrying a steaming coffee pot and a mug with the presidential seal on it -- apparently even Hammond's personal assistant had no qualms about reminding the interloper exactly whose contacts were more important. He placed the mug on the table in front of the general, poured a generous amount of the steaming brew, and placed the pot on the conference table easily within Hammond's reach.

"Sir, your conference call with the Joint Chiefs starts in ten minutes. I'll route it through to your office."

"Thank you, sergeant," Hammond acknowledged. The sergeant left them alone.

"Good morning, General Hammond." Simmons eyed his watch, "It is still morning, isn't it?"

Hammond filled his mug and leant back in his chair. "It seems I can spare you ten minutes, Colonel. I suggest you don't waste that time demonstrating your lack of respect for my position."

Anger flashed across Simmons' face. "It was my understanding that I had an appointment with you at nine this morning, sir. I was assured of your full co-operation."

"And you will have it in the space I have created in my schedule specifically for this meeting. However, I will not compromise the smooth running of this base to follow up on dubious accusations."

Simmons' naturally smug expression returned in full force. "You and I both know that this investigation is not based on accusations, General. Although Senator Kinsey did indeed raise some doubts about the conduct of SG-1 on the mission to P3A194, it is Colonel O'Neill's own admission of inappropriate action that has hastened the review of that mission. And having read the reports submitted by SG-1, along with the report submitted by yourself following O'Neill's confession, it's obvious to me that something went seriously wrong on that planet."

If Simmons expected a reaction to that comment, he didn't get one. Hammond sipped his coffee and stared directly at the colonel, giving his best impression of a bored superior officer.

"I'll take you through some questions surrounding this mission, and other subjects that may be pertinent, General." Simmons switched on a micro-recorder and laid it ostentatiously on the table. "Ignoring Colonel O'Neill's confession for the moment, do you know of any reason for his judgement to be so impaired as to recommend an alliance with a race that he later insisted were a threat to the continuation of the human species?"

Hammond settled into his role -- this was a game he knew how to play. "Are you suggesting that Colonel O'Neill has some medical reason for his admission? You may be onto something there, Colonel. It's entirely possible that the Volians brainwashed him, or perhaps deliberately mislead him. Maybe they have some economic or even xenophobic reason for wanting to prevent a treaty between the Aschen and Earth."

Simmons bristled. "You're avoiding a more obvious explanation, General: that Colonel O'Neill discovered a threat to his own adopted 'role' as mediator to Earth's current powerful allies such as the Asgaard, and acted to prevent that role from being moved to a more appropriate body."

"Such as the Pentagon?" Hammond challenged.

"Such as the elected officials of this country," Simmons countered. "And with that in mind, are there any other lapses in judgement that you may have noticed in Colonel O'Neill or his team? Apart from this most recent one, of course."

Hammond placed his mug thoughtfully on the polished table. "As the flagship team of this command, SG-1 -- including its team leader -- are not prone to 'lapses in judgement' as you call them. There are times when hindsight has suggested an alternative course of action which may or may not have given a greater benefit, but I fully support the decisions my teams have made in the field. Considering the challenging nature of the work we do here, it's a credit to the men and women of this command that the only personnel problem we have suffered is the incident with Captain Hanson several years ago."

Simmons seemed to admit temporary defeat and changed his line of questioning. "It has been suggested that Colonel O'Neill deliberately sabotaged the Aschen treaty for personal gain. As his commanding officer, I'm sure you have a view on that."

Hammond waited. No question had been asked, and the longer he drew the session out, the more time there was to sort this whole thing out before the situation went too far.

"General? Do you have a view on the personal motives of your second in command? Perhaps some explanation why the Asgaard will only deal with him. Or how it was that SG-1 saved the Tollan people once, only to allow them to be destroyed when Colonel O'Neill realised he could get nothing of use from them?"

"I resent your implications, Colonel," Hammond growled. "I'm sure you've read the relevant mission reports, and I'm also sure you know that what you're saying is not only fantastical in the extreme, but also a waste of the allocated time I mentioned earlier."

"I apologise, General. Although I'm sure you can understand that Colonel O'Neill's confession only serves to bring all of his past missions and motives under suspicion."

Hammond pushed his chair back. "What I understand is that you're fishing for things that never happened. If you are going to conduct an official investigation into my officers I suggest you do it right, or you'll be off this base faster than you can say 'conspiracy'. At the moment, I have nothing to add to the reports you have in front of you. Colonel O'Neill has never given me reason to believe he has acted or ever would act against the best interests of his country and this planet. And as befits the manner of such investigations, I have not spoken to him further about his statement. As you apparently have no relevant questions for me at this time, I have a conference call. Dismissed, Colonel."

Simmons literally leapt to his feet. "Sir! I must conduct interviews with SG-1 today -- when will they be available?"

Hammond retrieved his reports and moved towards his office. "Despite your inexplicable sense of urgency, I can assure you there is no need to rush this investigation -- SG-1 are scheduled to be on-world for the next week. Colonel O'Neill can meet with you at seventeen hundred; Major Carter and Teal'c are both busy on projects and will possibly be available tomorrow."

"And Dr. Jackson?"

"Dr. Jackson is on leave."

"You allowed leave despite an ongoing investigation that could affect SG-1's future?" the colonel said, in apparent disbelief.

"Colonel O'Neill authorised Dr. Jackson's leave -- those kind of administrative tasks are a shared responsibility," Hammond said. "If you haven't already been allocated quarters, the sergeant will assist you on your way out, Colonel." And if I have my way he'll allocate you something cramped and noisy next to the generator room.

The general walked into his office and shut the door behind him, dismissing the colonel with unmistakeable finality.

Daniel shut his eyes as yet another shiver ran through him. The mist curling from him with every breath threatened to give him away, and he buried his nose and mouth inside the collar of his purloined jacket. His nose wrinkled at the offensive smell lurking inside the warm material, and he wondered how much of that was due to his unwashed state or the previous owner's. It was just another irrelevancy among a growing assortment of random thoughts that were flitting through his mind out here.

Despite his leg, he had managed to get a considerable distance into the thick woods that had appeared to be his best bet of avoiding discovery. It had helped that he was going downhill, and he'd scanned the lie of the land before plunging headlong into the shadowy depths. Not that he'd changed his mind about his decision, but his chances of actually succeeding in his escape attempt appeared to be getting slimmer with every passing minute. Signs of pursuit that had been a faint noise mere moments ago were getting louder. He knew it could only be a matter of time before the unconscious guard woke up and raised the alarm, but the hope at his core prayed for just a little more time. Another twenty minutes, maybe fifteen, and he could reach the road. As long as he ignored the pine cones, needles and other woodland detritus that stabbed as his feet with every other step.

He stole another bite of the Hershey bar he'd found in a jacket pocket. Whether real or imagined, the chocolate gave him a burst of energy and he forced his damaged body faster. The sounds of his hunters faded a little, and his hopes rose slightly. He could still make it.

Carter wandered wearily into her lab for a break. The work she was doing with Janet ensured her 'unavailability' for Colonel Simmons' investigation, but that made it no less valid. She was sure she'd find the medicinal potential of the plants brought back from P2X471 fascinating if it wasn't for the dozen other worries and frustrations occupying her mind.

She glanced at the military neatness of her desk and instantly spotted something that didn't belong. An envelope lay on her desk, one of those reinforced with cardboard to ensure the contents were protected. Frowning, she picked it up and turned it over -- no name, no indication of where it came from. Slightly perturbed, she slid her letter opener through one end and peered inside at... photographs?

Oh hell, someone knew. Someone knew that she knew.

She turned and closed the door with faintly trembling hands, then pulled the pictures from the envelope in one decisive motion. At first what she saw just didn't make any sense. As she shuffled increasingly quickly through the pile, relief that there was no beaten and bloody Daniel staring out at her overcame her confusion. Instead she was looking at a Stargate in various stages of activity. Except it was wrong somehow...

"Oh shit."

Daniel couldn't chance another look behind him. He ignored the flashes of pain from his feet and the continuous throbbing in his knee. He just ran, desperate to reach the road. Whoever was behind him was gaining rapidly, crashing through the undergrowth with determined speed. Then suddenly he was hit from the side, his knees gave out and he crashed into the woodland floor. Dammit, there were two of them! He'd run into an ambush any first-year cadet could have anticipated.

Daniel struggled to spit leaves and dirt from his mouth as his face was pushed further into the damp ground. His arms were tugged behind him and plastic cuffs pulled tight. Hands hauled him carelessly to his feet, then slammed him back against the nearest Douglas fir. His head rebounded violently off the bark, and the bitter taste of iron filled his mouth. The click of a safety being released demanded his attention. He opened his eyes to find a weapon mere inches from his forehead. He fought his instinctive desire to stare down the barrel and diverted his gaze to the man holding the weapon. The balaclava hid everything from him except the man's eyes... and the raw fury in them.

"Sir, we've got him."

The second voice shocked Daniel from his confusion. He glanced beyond the embodiment of rage in front of him to the second man, now speaking into his radio.

"What are you doing?" Rage demanded, moving neither his gun nor his gaze from the object of his revulsion.

The second man ignored him as curt instructions came back to return 'the prisoner' to base. "Understood, sir. Five out."

"Stupid bastard, we should just shoot him right here. Give him as much chance as he gave--"

"Shut it!" Five pulled the incensed man away. "He'll get what's coming to him soon enough. Did you search him?"

The two glared at each other for a long second, before the first man returned his attention to Daniel. He pressed a restraining arm across Daniel's throat while he felt in his jacket with his free hand. The weapon was discovered in Daniel's pocket and waved in front of his face.

"Didn't give him a chance, you little shit. Not quite the geek you make out, are you?"

What?

"Let's just get him back inside, Six," Five ordered. "The colonel can decide what to do with him."

Six pulled back and the men pulled Daniel away from the tree, one on either side. Five continued almost conversationally, "He's only needed for a while longer, anyway. Then the colonel will probably show him the same mercy the geek showed Dickins. One to the back of the head, wasn't it?"

One? Who the hell was Dickins? Daniel took a couple more stumbling steps before he pulled back desperately.

"Wait! Wait a second!" Daniel begged. "Please! I didn't shoot him -- count the bullets, for God's sake. I haven't fired--"

The fist hit him in the face and cut off anything else the frantic prisoner might have said.

"One more squeak and I'll shoot you myself, mission or no mission," Five promised. They resumed their brisk march back through the woods in silence, the men tugging Daniel forward impatiently every time he stumbled or tried to favour his injured leg.

Two hundred yards. He had been only two hundred yards from the road, from salvation. These people were never going to give him another chance to escape. And on top of everything else, he now had to face some misguided retribution for the inexplicable murder of one of his captors.

O'Neill swept into his house, checking all of the usual places. He found it this time on the kitchen table, but it wasn't the usual videotape. Inside the package was a small clear plastic box -- thoughtfully presented so he didn't even have to open the box to identify the contents. The finger had been sliced off with clinical precision, barely any blood marring the pale skin. A curious thought occurred to him that if Daniel was lucky the finger had been taken from his left hand -- that way the archaeologist would still have his right intact to write in his notebooks when they got him back, just like he always had.

O'Neill stared at the box for a long time, his insides chilled and turbulent. A shudder ran through him, bringing him out of his daze, and he realised there was something else in the box. He could make out part of his name on the folded piece of paper underneath Daniel's... the... under it. Gritting his teeth, he snapped the box open and tugged the paper out. He closed the lid and put the box back on top of the packaging on the table. He unfolded the message with his fingertips and read swiftly. Stop stalling... serious consequences... can't protect Carter 24/7... yadda...

He re-folded the paper, placed it and the box in a plastic food bag -- Jesus, don't even think about that -- grabbed his keys and headed back to the base. No more waiting around. They had to fucking do something.

Part Ten

Sam had once told him that black wasn't really a colour, it was just the absence of any other colour, the total absence of light. That absence surrounded him now like an evil thing, ready to attack him again with its teeth and claws. It oozed into his body furtively, intent on stealing the warmth from around his soul...

Daniel's head jerked upright, shocking him from his restless sleep back into the dim illumination of his cell. He shifted his arms to rub the dream from his eyes, only to be reminded that he was still in restraints. He groaned softly -- the sound a mixture of frustration and despair.

He'd managed to stay awake for some time before exhaustion overtook him. It felt like an hour or so, but with the state he was in he couldn't be sure. The walk back through the woods had been an agony from the start. The adrenaline rush that had sustained his initial flight had vanished. And the, what? -- two, three days? -- he'd been without food had robbed him of his usual stamina. Being alone once more in his cell had given his aches and pains time to make themselves known. His knee was setting a low throbbing rhythm that the rest of his body was following, his head was pounding, his hands were tingling with the faintest remnants of pins and needles on their way to utter numbness, and the total mess that used to be his feet were leaving slick trails of blood every time he shifted his legs in an ineffectual attempt to get more comfortable.

God, he was tired. Tired, ravenous, desperately thirsty and thoroughly miserable. The cold in here was different from outside -- certainly not as clean, but just as wearying. But even the cold and pain hadn't managed to keep him awake. Though in all honestly, there was no longer any reason he shouldn't sleep. Even if the rats were sent in to keep him company, they had a veritable feast to get through before they were tempted by something that fought back. The feast in question was exactly where it had been before he'd succumbed to his dream state. Not that any sane person would expect a corpse to move across a room of its own volition, but then everyone had always presumed that Dr. Jackson would lose his marbles in the end. Dickins, however, was kindly staying put, as if determined to stick up for Daniel and prove everyone wrong.

Daniel closed his eyes. Just because he'd seen dead bodies time and again over the past few years, didn't mean he wanted to stare at one all... what? All afternoon? Night? His little nap had left him with no idea of the time, but he supposed that was standard practice. Disorient the prisoner -- check; keep him hungry and therefore weak -- check; deprive him of sleep -- check; add a little pain into the mix just as a bonus -- check. And now he could add a familiar, burgeoning discomfort to the list. He opened his eyes to seek out the dented bucket, frustrated about something else he couldn't make use of in his current situation. His gaze crept back to Dickins once more and he thanked his overworked guardian angel that at least the dead man wasn't looking at him. He had enough nightmare fodder with the bits of the man's head spattered on the floor when they really should be still inside where Daniel had left them.

It was strange, come to think of it. Whoever had shot the man had made it look like an execution. Why the hell would someone want to do that? Daniel had left Dickins on his back, and now he was face down with an entry hole in the back of his skull. Surely that information could only back up his claim not to have committed the murder. He almost laughed -- this pathetic grasping at evidence was pointless; if they really wanted to know the truth they only had to watch the video from the cameras in the cell. Unless, of course, the person who'd done this had switched the cameras off to cover their tracks... Worthless speculation aside, Daniel was convinced now that they wouldn't keep him alive any longer than absolutely necessary. Which begged the question -- exactly how long would that be? At what point would they realise that his team wouldn't capitulate to threats, no matter the cost?

The bolt slid back and the cell door swung inwards. Daniel watched warily as Makepeace walked in and kicked the door closed behind him.

The colonel didn't waste any time on pleasantries. "One of my men is dead, Jackson, and it's your fault."

"I didn't kill him." Daniel regarded his adversary closely, "But then, you already know that, don't you. Unnecessary killing's not your style, though, so who did it? Are you losing control of your little band of merry men, Makepeace?"

Makepeace didn't reply, apparently waiting for Daniel to make some leap of logic on his own. The archaeologist didn't disappoint him.

"They don't know, do they? All that anger in the woods wasn't an act -- they really blame me. If it wasn't me, and it wasn't you, then..." A nasty thought occurred to him. "Jesus, did you have him killed for letting me escape?"

"You don't really think you got away on your own, do you?" Makepeace said derisively. "The reason I let you out to play was to show you how pathetic your skills out in the field really are. The only use you are to an SG team is as a walking encyclopaedia." He smirked, "Oh, and I had to give the men something to do, of course -- holding hostages can be really dull at times, you know?"

Daniel refused to be baited. "You can say what you like after the fact, Makepeace, we both know you screwed up."

To Daniel's surprise, Makepeace agreed with him. "You're right, I did, but not in the way you think. My 2IC wasn't aware of the plan, and here's the result," he prodded the body with his boot. "Let's just say the man's not very tolerant of perceived failure in his subordinates, unfortunately for Lieutenant Dickins."

"Which proves nothing," Daniel said.

Makepeace smirked, "Well think on this, genius. How did my men find you so fast? They may be well trained, but there's only one reason they could track you at that speed." He reached down and pulled a wicked-looking bowie knife from the sheath strapped to his leg. He knelt down in front of the archaeologist, setting his pulse racing. One quick slash and the knife was replaced before Daniel realised exactly what had happened. Makepeace felt inside the split seam of the sweatpants and pulled something out. He held out his hand triumphantly, a tiny piece of metal glinting in his palm.

"Since you won't be getting out again, there's no need to keep the locator in your pants," he drawled.

Daniel actually felt himself go pale. It was several seconds before he could form a coherent reply. "Fine, you've made your point -- I'm thrilled to have provided some entertainment in your miserable existence." Good effort, Jackson, though that would have gone over better without the added quaver in your voice. He tried again. "Do you think you can untie me, since I'm obviously no threat. I need water, and uh..." he gestured with his head towards the bucket.

"Ah yes, the practicalities of life." Makepeace seemed to consider the question for a second. "Fine, turn around and get up."

Get up. Right, he could do that. Daniel struggled to stand, unable to avoid using his injured leg. He turned to present his bound hands without looking up, not wanting to see the amusement he knew would be on Makepeace's face at his efforts. The knife lingered at his wrists; the snap as it cut through the plastic made Daniel flinch. He brought his arms in front of him, flexed his wrists and began to massage his hands.

"Where are your manners, Jackson?"

He turned automatically at the odd question. "What?"

Makepeace gestured his wrists with the knife, the expectant look starting to turn to impatience.

Oh. "Right, uh, thanks," he mumbled. He limped across to the water bottle, relieved to find it more than half full. He took a few careful sips before his bladder reminded him of its presence. He glanced over at Makepeace who was now leaning against the door, picking at his fingernails with the point of his knife, then to the bucket. His eyes flicked from one to the other. "Look, I need to..." he hesitated, then plunged on regardless. "I need to go."

"Oh, don't mind me," Makepeace said airily, not raising his eyes from his task.

Fine. This is just like the men's room, Daniel. Don't think about the ex-marine standing behind you with a knife and there'll be no problem -- this is not a time to get performance anxiety. Thankfully, his bladder seemed to have no problem with the situation, and the relief of pressure was almost blissful. Business done, he turned to face his captor.

"So what happens now? Why am I still here?"

Makepeace straightened up a little. "Well, I'm glad you're interested. As of this morning, SG-1 have been disbanded. O'Neill and Carter face court-martial for the sabotage of the Aschen alliance and the murder of Ambassador Joseph Faxon. And since you've vanished without a trace, everyone just assumes you couldn't face up to yet another failure and won't be coming back."

Daniel tried to deny it, "There's no way anyone could prove--"

"You just don't get it, do you, Jackson? They don't need to prove anything when they have O'Neill's signed confession."

Oh God, was it true? Had Jack and Sam given up everything in the hope of saving Daniel's life? They had no way of knowing it wasn't worth it, they wouldn't be getting him back no matter what they did. But it was unthinkable that anyone would go to these lengths to remove SG-1, there had to be more to it.

"What aren't you telling me?" Daniel asked, his voice hoarse.

"With SG-1 out of the way and Hammond obeying orders for once, the treaty with the Aschen will go ahead as planned. No matter what you think, there are people other than you and O'Neill who understand the need to defend this planet from the Goa'uld."

Daniel looked at the colonel in despair. "The cost is too high. If you do that, there'll be nothing left worth defending."

"You really have no understanding of politics," Makepeace shook his head in pity. "Since we know what they were planning, the treaty can go ahead on a very different basis. The Aschen won't get another chance to deceive us. And they need Earth's resources too much not to give this alliance a second chance."

Daniel hung his head. It was over; they were writing off Earth's future and he couldn't do anything to stop it. There was just one more thing he had to know.

"What about Teal'c?" The question was barely above a whisper.

The only reply he got was a nasty little smile.

"Sir! I've been trying to get hold of you, but y--"

"I switched off my cell phone," O'Neill cut Carter off mid word as he stormed into Dr. Fraiser's medical lab. He ignored the puzzled look on Carter's face and swept past her to the bench. "Doc, I need to ask you to check something," he said. "It's not pretty, but I have to be sure."

Janet Fraiser nodded her head uncertainly. "Okay, sir."

Carter moved to join them. "Colonel, what's going on?"

O'Neill clenched his jaw and sucked in a swift breath through his teeth. "There was a package for me at home."

"Another video?" Carter said, slightly nervous.

"No, not this time." O'Neill pulled the bag from his inside jacket pocket. "A finger." Seeing the shocked faces in front of him, he moved on swiftly. "I want to know if they're bluffing -- though if they are I have no idea where they'd get a volunteer to donate body parts."

Fraiser shifted gears with familiar rapidity. "The simplest way to check is via the fingerprints on Daniel's file -- it should only take a few moments." She held out her hand expectantly. "Can I have it, sir?"

"Oh, right." He handed the bag over, "Sorry." The doctor's professionalism was something they could rely on in even the most extreme circumstances, and he felt comforted by it. He turned back to his 2IC's pale face.

"Carter," he prompted. "You were trying to reach me...?"

She blinked rapidly, the shimmer in her eyes the only betrayal of her feelings. "Yes, sir. I found an envelope on my desk -- photographs. I don't think it's got anything to do with the Aschen situation, it just looks like someone thinks I should know about it." Obviously realising she wasn't being clear, she hurried on. "They're stills taken from a video recording of a Stargate. More specifically, the Stargate from my basement, sir, the one that Orlin built. And it's working."

That didn't make sense. "I thought you said it was a one shot deal?"

She smiled ruefully, "That's what Orlin told me. I guess he thought it might be dangerous, and he wanted to put me off. Or possibly he just thought we weren't smart enough to figure it out..."

"...but it looks like somebody has." O'Neill finished. "And you're sure the pictures are authentic?" He checked himself, "Never mind. Why would someone want to make that up?" He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, finally opening them to stare at the ceiling. God, it was never just one problem, was it? What was it they said, trouble comes in...

"I'm wondering when we'll get hit by number three," Carter mused.

O'Neill smiled grimly at her. "Find Teal'c. Whatever's going on, I want to move as fast as possible. Daniel is our number one priority -- we need to find him, like yesterday. Whether this..." he wiggled his fingers demonstratively, "...is a bluff or not, they're upping the ante and it could get extremely hazardous to his health. Check the videos again, analyse them. Do whatever you need to. I don't think we have time to waste any more worrying about leaving traces." She moved to leave and he put out a hand to stop her. "And I want some theories on this new gate: who has it, where it is, and who the hell sent you the photos. If this is connected, I have no idea how, and I've had all I can take of being kept in the dark. I want the two of you working on this until we have some answers."

She nodded, determination transforming her features. "What about you, sir?"

O'Neill grimaced. "I have an appointment, I could be a while."

Carter walked briskly from the lab, then popped her head back around the door. "Oh, sir? One more thing -- it was the NID who took the gate from my basement."

Well, that was just one more piece of intel to make this meeting pretty special. O'Neill checked his watch, then went to hover by the doctor. The bastard would just have to wait; even if he wasn't behind all of this, that didn't make him any less of an asshole.

Teal'c picked up the phone on the second ring. He listened to the person at the other end, then looked over to Carter.

"She is indeed, would you like to speak with her?" There was a pause, and then, "I will inform her, Dr. Fraiser. Thank you." He replaced the handset, looking slightly baffled. "Dr. Fraiser says to inform you that the test was negative."

Carter felt her stomach unclench just a little. "The finger wasn't Daniel's," she clarified.

"That is good news."

"No kidding," she agreed. She pulled up an application on one of the two computers now occupying Teal'c's table. "Okay, I want us to go through some frames of this video piece by piece. If I show you how to enhance each area, you can take one set while I check another. We're after anything that might give us a clue as to where they're keeping Daniel."

"And what of these photographs of Area 51?" Teal'c asked, as he sifted through the pile currently stacked on the bed.

Carter spun round. "What did you say?"

"I asked about these photographs you have of the Stargate," Teal'c gestured with the one he was holding.

"I meant about Area 51?" Carter prompted. She grabbed a handful of the pictures herself and stared at them.

"Is this not the room where the death gliders were previously worked upon?" he asked.

She looked through her collection, but couldn't see it. "I'm sorry, Teal'c, I only saw that place for a minute or two. I just don't remember." She looked up at him, "Can you be sure?"

Teal'c placed his picture on the table. "Here," he pointed to the top right-hand corner, "is the where the cables supporting the glider were affixed to the wall. And here," he indicated a second area, "is evidence of the shock wave from what O'Neill referred to as a 'hot start' -- the problem caused when a glider has not satisfactorily shut down before the engines are restarted."

She peered closely at the places he had shown her; he was right, all those things were there. And now she looked closely she could spot the characteristic double security panels that were installed throughout the facility.

"Teal'c, you're a genius." She smiled broadly -- finally something was going their way.

Her team-mate frowned. "This does not tell us anything about Daniel Jackson."

The smile slipped. "No, you're right. But I can't get over the feeling that there's something significant here -- it seems too much of a coincidence for this to arrive now."

Teal'c took the pictures from her hands and dropped them on the bed. "We have much to do, this mystery will wait."

Agreeing with the Jaffa's habitual wisdom, Carter turned back to the computers. "Okay, I've picked out about twenty frames to start with -- you just open one like this." She clicked on a file. "Then you magnify like this... and focus it as much as possible using these two here..." She glanced at Teal'c's face. "Got it?"

"I have it," he reassured.

"Great. Well, the colonel should have gone into his meeting by now, so let's see what we can find out by the time he gets out."

O'Neill sauntered into the briefing room carrying a steaming Homer Simpson coffee mug, looking for all the world like he had nothing more to worry about than who was going to win the playoffs.

"You're late, Colonel," Simmons said pointedly.

"Really? I guess time must have run away with me again. It does that when I have a lot on my mind." He dropped into a seat opposite Simmons, took a sip of his coffee then searched the table-top. "Do you mind?" he said, and reached across to take a report off the top of Simmons' pile. "No coasters." He put his mug in the middle of the report and leant back. "So, you wanted something?"

Simmons kept careful control of his expression. "As you well know, Colonel O'Neill, I'm here in an official capacity conducting an investigation into your actions on P3A194, and your subsequent admission to General Hammond that you sabotaged the treaty with the Aschen."

"Oh, that." O'Neill took another sip of his coffee, a look of vague interest plastered firmly on his face.

"Yes, that. Colonel, your initial report on the Aschen stated that they were the solution to Earth's problems. You were convinced, in fact, that you had..." he glanced at an open report in front of him "...'carried out our standing orders'. And yet here we are now, no treaty, one missing-presumed-dead ambassador, and an awful lot of unanswered questions." Simmons leant back, mirroring O'Neill's pose. "You told General Hammond that you deliberately sabotaged the treaty. Do you want to explain how you did that?"

O'Neill stared across the table. "Not really."

Simmons flashed a brief smile, "Well, perhaps you'll tell me why you did it."

O'Neill didn't respond.

"How about I tell you my theory, then?"

"Oh, this should be good," O'Neill muttered.

"You were very happy when you discovered that you had found an ally who could defend Earth from the Goa'uld. Good old Colonel O'Neill is a hero again. Only this time, instead of persuading the aliens to deal only with you, you discover they have a strict code of diplomacy. The minute you realised that you were going to be relegated to the bench for this round, you set about concocting evidence to convince everyone else that the Aschen were, in fact, extremely dangerous. How am I doing so far?"

"It's fascinating. Don't let me stop you." O'Neill reached over to snag a pen from Simmons' collection and proceeded to spin it round his fingers.

"What role did the rest of your team play in this little drama, Colonel? How about Major Carter? She went to P3A194 with Ambassador Faxon, yet returned alone. A single strike was recorded against the iris, which she said was a 'biogenic weapon'. Yet there's no evidence to support that. A more likely explanation is that the iris strike was in fact the unfortunate ambassador attempting to get back home."

"Not even you could prove that," O'Neill said. "There's no evidence because matter can't reintegrate when the iris is in place -- or didn't you read that part of Carter's report?"

"Oh, I read everything, you can be sure of that. But that still doesn't substantiate your claim that it wasn't Ambassador Faxon's 'basic components' splattered across the iris."

"For heaven's sake, Carter was going to go on a date with the man!"

"Which would be excellent cover, wouldn't it," Simmons said smoothly. "She's extremely loyal to you, isn't she, Colonel?"

"We're all loyal to each other -- that's one of the reasons we're a good team." O'Neill said, narrowing his eyes dangerously.

Simmons turned a few pages in his pile. "How about Teal'c?"

"He has nothing to do with this," O'Neill snapped.

"You sent him and Dr. Jackson off on a separate mission. Why was that? What were Teal'c's orders?"

"His orders were to dig a little deeper, and that's exactly what he and Dr. Jackson did. And that's how they found the newspapers."

Simmons unfolded a photocopy from the bottom of his pile and stared at in fascination. "Ah, yes, the proof. Dr. Jackson worked a miracle, crawled down a hole he'd dug in the middle of a field and serendipitously discovered something that showed what bad people the Aschen are at heart." He glanced up at O'Neill. "Exactly where is Dr. Jackson?"

"Why don't you tell me?" O'Neill shot back.

Momentary confusion flashed across Simmons' face. There was silence as he composed his next question, apparently thrown off track. O'Neill's conviction faltered slightly. If Simmons really wasn't a part of this, then who the hell was?

Simmons cleared his throat. "It's no secret that you dislike and distrust a lot of the alien species that you meet, Colonel. You don't get along with some of Earth's allies, yet as far as I can see it's only the ones that go above your head to deal with other people -- take away your power, so to speak -- that you speak out against. The Tok'ra being a prime example. And of course, the unlucky Tollan. You managed to string them along quite well until you realised that their technology was actually no defence against the Goa'uld. And then you left them to die."

"That's ridiculous." O'Neill exclaimed. "They were being attacked by Goa'uld mother ships, for crying out loud. There was nothing we could do for them!"

Simmons frowned. "Yet you and your team managed to come back to earth. And totally unscathed, I might add. Where were the Tollan refugees you could have brought with you?"

"They didn't want to leave their people behind. There wasn't time--"

"No time to bring anyone else along," Simmons interrupted. "Yes, I read the report."

"Then why are you asking such idiotic questions?" O'Neill said, slightly exasperated.

"It all builds up to show your bid for power, Colonel. Over the past few years, you've become important to the SGC and to Earth, and I think you're beginning to believe your own press. You're the ambassador of choice with the Asgaard, the Nox, hell even the Goa'uld negotiated the Protected Planets treaty with you. So you're in the best position to realise that if the Aschen treaty had gone ahead, the SGC would become merely a trading post and you'd be out of a job."

"What about those?" O'Neill gestured to the photocopied newspapers lying on the table in between them. "How do you explain that?"

"Oh, I can't explain it. Neither can anyone else. Dr. Jackson is the only one who can really understand this, and he's apparently... not here." Simmons said calmly. "Interestingly, Teal'c states in his report that he initially thought the pictures showed people celebrating before Dr. Jackson 'corrected' him, yet I'm inclined to agree with Teal'c's initial assessment. Without being able to hear differently from Dr. Jackson, I think that explanation is more likely to be the truth." Simmons waited, but received no response. "Nothing to say, Colonel?"

"I'll take the fifth."

The smug smile that appeared made O'Neill itch to throw Simmons through the briefing room window. He could just hear the general's response to that: "You made the mess, Colonel, I expect you to clean it up. I don't like having body parts scattered across my gate room."

"I don't like you, Simmons," he said eventually.

"You don't have to like me, Colonel. However, this is a legitimate investigation and you do have to co-operate with me. My superiors--"

"Yes, about that," O'Neill broke in, "Exactly who are your superiors?" After a short silence with neither man willing to break their gaze, he concluded, "I think I should call a lawyer."

"I would advise you to start co-operating, Colonel, it's not a good idea to play around with matters of national security. But since you're apparently unwilling to respond to the accusations, I'm confining you to secure quarters. You will be under guard until I have some satisfactory answers."

O'Neill stood up angrily. "You don't have the authority! General Hammond will--"

Simmons slammed his hands on the table. "General Hammond understands perfectly that with an investigation of this nature it is within my power to take charge of the accused. By tomorrow morning I will also have the authority to charge you with treason, and with the manslaughter of Ambassador Joseph Faxon. And if you're really unlucky, I'll be able to connect you to the suspicious disappearance of Dr. Jackson as well." Simmons sat back with a satisfied smile. He didn't take his eyes off O'Neill as he issued the order. "Sergeant, restrain Colonel O'Neill and take him to a holding cell. Nobody is to be allowed to speak with him without my express permission."

O'Neill allowed the sergeant to cuff him, barely managing to keep his panic in check as events spiralled out of his control. He glanced at Hammond's office before he was led away, only to see the general move back from the window and pull the blinds. He hoped to hell Carter and Teal'c found something soon, or he might just end up being court-martialled for Daniel Jackson's murder.

Makepeace flipped his cell phone open. "Yes."

"It's time to move this up a level -- he's still not co-operating."

"So we've reached the breaking legs stage."

"No, more permanent than that. I want you to pack up and get out of there tonight, move to the secondary location. Tomorrow you'll be picking up the woman."

"What about our current guest?"

"Eliminate him. And get it all on video -- I want good old Jack to know exactly what his failure to obey orders has led to."

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