General George Hammond

"Sergeant."

Twisting slightly in his seat before his workstation, Sgt. Walter Davis faced me and questioned silently; my expression answered. With a nod of his head he returned his attention to the keyboard and monitor before him. Immediately the din of the operating gate filled the room, commanded by his swift, sure keystrokes. Carrying out my unspoken orders the sergeant knew what to do, and what I wanted.

I was done waiting.

There had been entirely too much conjecture about what had been and might be happening around Lt. Van Sickle, happenings that pulled in Colonel O'Neill, impacting the SGC and I. And once I'm pulled in, the buck stops.

The Gate continued to work and the room held its collective breath. We resembled a still life, frozen for an instant in time.

The vast liquid roar of the engaging Gate drew my attention, and that held multi-lunged breath released simultaneously making the very air pulse with the hopes of everyone witnessing this event. Now I had but to utter the correct command to find the answer to the question that PBX 123 had been posing to me, and the entire SGC. Answers, soon to be obtained, questions we had aplenty. I spoke.

"Lieutenant."

Lt. Elena Mendez had returned; she showed a great deal of patience. She had been briefed by nearly everyone who came within ten feet of her, sometimes twice. Walter Davis tried to fend them off, but she stoically endured. He had informed me she had argued vehemently for the privilege to do this job, to help the Colonel. She could have tried to order the sergeant to accept her, but again, she showed excellent judgment. A lieutenant doesn't mess with a sergeant and live, just think of them as a colonel you don't salute, that is their level of power in the chain of command. Even major generals pause before their wrath.

Watching Lt. Mendez work she impressed me with her ability to perform under such pressure as she prepared to open a line of communication, methodically working through all the procedures for establishing contact with the MALP before hailing our man. Teal'c would answer and solve this whole mystery.

We waited.

Lt. Mendez is another of the Colonel's success stories. I'd first heard of her when her request for assignment to the SGC crossed my desk, her record hadn't warranted her acceptance into the program, but he saw something and had her report to briefing room topside, where he talked to her for two hours and then personally walked her into the SGC. She stood outside my office in awe while I signed her transfer papers. Her current professionalism here so at odds with the file I had read, never have I regretted it. Colonel O'Neill is rarely fooled.

So as to not make the young woman nervous, I let my attention wander. And, was therefore able to glare at Major Carter and Dr Jackson when they slipped into the room, there were entirely too many people present here that should be attending to other matters. Even Siler contrived to be present, and that large wrench. I had doubts that anything in the SGC was enormous enough to warrant having it, though, on second thought, perhaps some of the fittings on the Gate were. That thought drew my attention to the SFs, which I counted and counted again; there was double their usual number. One of them had an off world duty pack near him, I stifled the urge to walk up to the protective glass barrier to see if other packs were stacked out of sight. O'Neill's example had been taken to heart by this group. Looking closer I could see that there were additions to their duty uniforms, additions that only expected off world travel would account for.

Each infraction added to the esteem that Colonel O'Neill was held in. No one here was fooled by the face he presented to the world; they each knew him to be an honorable, sensitive and soul-wounded man. Many of these same people have tried to get him to move on with his life, but only with small success. The specter of his only child loomed over that valiant heart, a specter only he held to existence. The child himself would never have exacted such a price, for he too was an O'Neill, fair in all things, save betrayal. Maybe, just maybe that was the problem. Did Jack imagine that Charlie saw what had happened as betrayal? I knew that it was very likely, even knowing that it was suspected that the child had very deliberately disobeyed his father and most likely jimmied the lock to get to that weapon. Jack is too methodical to have forgotten to lock it. What had happened to Charlie was more fate then fault. A tragic occurrence no one could foresee.

As in a death such as that there is always an investigation, no one but Sara could remotely blame him, a senseless blame born from a senseless loss and a need to strike out at someone. He must have stood defenseless against her, blaming himself. He still blames himself.

Jack never mentions Charlie, and when asked by others, he will acknowledge the fact that he had a son at one time, telling them the boy had died. Period. No explanation. To my knowledge now one has ever pressed him beyond that, his very aura roils with pain at such times, a pain so obvious that even the most callus beat a hasty retreat from his presence. But many of the people here, who work with him on a daily basis know the truth; knows the pain he bears to this day and probably will every day of the rest of his life. They do their damnest to support him in every way, even if it means just having a piece of his favorite cake, fresh and available at all times. I know for a fact that he is partial to a certain tea and one of the women in the commissary discovered it. She began supplying it, paying for it herself when unable to requisition it. I sometimes wonder if he knows and chooses to turn a blind eye to that, to prevent embarrassing himself or them. It would be very in character for him.

These people didn't do these things because he was a father in pain, even if he is. No, they have seen him lay his life on the line to protect them again and again. That has the most impact, his willingness to sacrifice himself for their welfare. Oh, they know he can brawl out the hard command, the command that condemns all of the SGC to oblivion and they also know he'll fight to his last breath to avert ever giving that order. He has their absolute trust, essential to successful command, but he also has their affection. That he doesn't know what to do with, so he can only offer what he has to give -- himself.

Shaking the melancholy off, I checked my own watch against the official clocks on the walls. This was taking too long. Even before the young lieutenant turned to face me I knew that no signal had been received. Answers would not be forthcoming.

"Sir..."

"Thank you lieutenant, this was not completely unexpected. In six hours then?"

I'd learned long ago, that plans never go as anticipated. But I knew that SG-1 always pulled a rabbit out of the hat, but their timing was atrocious.

"Yes sir!" There was a proud salute in those two words, she turned and shutdown her station before quickly leaving. I watched, saying nothing, the others, who had no status here, including two members of SG-1 drifted from the room. Everyone knew that a second attempt would happen. Disappointment was evident on all of their faces, but not defeat.

Now, again, we wait.

Unknown Assailant

My aim was excellent, O'Neill's struggles weakened, his voice quieted, and his eyes slid shut as I watched. There was a burning anger deep within those dark amber orbs, he fought well, but it was inevitable that he succumb. Slowly I eased up from his body.

Turning away, I reached for the other syringe, readying it for use. The younger man is to live, the older to seemingly die at his hands. The lieutenant must live and be ostracized for his actions, then he will be vulnerable and easily spirited away, no one the wiser. No one caring. For he will have killed a man respected by many, yet hated by some few in power, those same who hold my leash.

This needle must appear self inflicted, into his arm, such as the one laying inner side up and flung slightly away from the younger man's prone, unconscious body. Going to one knee I study its pale flesh, poised with the drug filled syringe, ready to plunge it home. As I touch the tip of the needle softly to the tender exposed skin, something smashes into my side, flinging me away.

My head impacts the floor to momentarily stun me, immobilizing me long enough for a weight to roll onto me. It is Van Sickle; his face is red and angry as his forearm bits into my neck. His glazed eyes mere inches from my face, no recognition flashes across them, he is still stunned. My advantage. He straddles me holding me down. I claw at his eyes causing him to rear back. Hooking a leg onto an out flung arm I pull towards the floor, flipping him backwards, his head narrowly missing the Stokes.

Having heard the audible crack of skull to stone floor, I continue, my momentum carrying me in the direction of my foot as I flip to my knees and crawl up his body. With a balled fist I strike again and again at his head, hoping to create an opening in which to use the drug, which lies nearby.

He rolls, trying to dislodge me, pushing me back onto the motionlessly body in the Stokes, its edge digs into my side and back, above my hip. Abruptly, I'm rudely jerked back further, a bar of iron across my throat. Shuddery hot breathes gust across my ear. "nonononono," like echoes in my head, I desperately release Van Sickle to deal with this very real threat to life. Gripping with my hand I attempt to pry the sinewy arm from my windpipe.

O'Neill should be dead!

I struggle, but I'm unable to ease the pressure, the dimness of the light changes to a dull gray, lowering to a limp absolute black.

Lt. Eric Van Sickle

The cool, hard, unyielding stone bit into my body. Desperately my being wanted to find some comfort, but nothing seemed to want to obey my reptilian urge to move. Held rigid by my stunned mammalian upgrades, the cold blood of a past time raised a panic which nudged that newly acquired warmth to awareness, birthing a swarm of bright pin pricks flooding my preconscious thoughts, growing until they blanketed my blossoming awareness with a white noise of light, pain and confusion. My current evolution no less painful than my genetics had been.

Slowly it filtered into my sluggish thoughts that the discomfort of my position held no great priority to the searing, momentary pain radiating from the back of my head. Did I slip, trip or slide into a wall? From a kneeling position?

Then the curious feeling of another's nearby body clamored for attention within my muddled senses and my thoughts took another slow turn...

Still white-hot, an old memory reared its head, of lying on the floor, of feigning unconsciousness, of a body leaning over mine. Ghosts of that ancient terror gripped me, again fearing that if I moved the fists would return. Betrayal demanded tears, survival demanded passiveness, no movement, non-reaction, non-existence. Desiring to not be. Betrayal.

Then I remembered, that person, that terror was gone -- dead. And I mourned anew. Father!

Willing the past back into the past, I pushed away the still live ember of pain. Somehow summoning control over my own body, I slit my eyes to see, yet remained motionless, still feeling the old fear. Next to me, a slender back, twisted away from me, caught like a statue in a spotlight, suddenly to be transmuted to mobile flesh before my disbelieving eyes and the glint of metal swung towards me. The now very human figure halted, seemingly to study me. My held breath was sucked inward when the glint resolved into a needle, and then renewed its course, descending to rest against my arm. That part of me that was still reptilian swung my leg up from the floor to stop the slender dart from impaling me. When next, thought caught up with body, I was crawling onto this person, a person who wanted to hurt me, like another had hurt me. This time I was hurting back. Refusing to submit, no longer passive, that old ember fueled my shaking muscles with Herculean strength.

With my arm I pinned whom ever the hell this, man, woman -- demon was -- to the cold stone floor. Shaking my head, I tried to clear my vision. Who or what was this? Fingers shockingly raked my face and I reared back, only to be slammed to the floor. Too quickly, too easily I went down. Are there two of them? I grayed out, but determined, I held onto the one I could feel under my own fingers, the one I knew was out to hurt me. Using my weight, I bend this demon to the floor. Hoping the other didn't step in, if there were another.

Blinding pain erupted across my lower ribs, a sharp elbow, well placed, that distraction tumbled me to the bottom, my assailant once more atop me, reaching for me. Fingers brushed my face, but unable to dig in as I felt that hot body tugged from me. Blinking and raising my head, I see a shocked face, a hand desperately pulling at the strong arm locked across her neck, wrenched back against the chest beneath her, the Colonel's strain-reddened face buried in her neck, holding her, choking her.

Her! Just one person? A one-armed woman. I hurriedly scanned the chamber, fearful of further conflict, sure that I would not withstand a continued assault, but no one else was here. No one else had been here, as no sound of anyone fleeing filled my ears. Relief flooded me, prodding my pride, which, unwanted at the moment, chose to clamor, for I had been taken down by a one-armed woman. Shoving that useless macho reaction aside I passed a hand over my eye, still not sure of what I was seeing. Unable to track events, I couldn't react.

'Yeah, fine solider I was, frozen like this.'

My efforts to comprehend had sweat popping out across my forehead, I fumbled at my waist, tugging off my belt. At least I could bind the woman's ankles together, as those legs were more dangerous than her one arm. While letting my hands fumble through the difficult task of knotting the restraint I dumbly stared at the slowly flushing face of my assailant. Jerking violently in reaction to recognition of that face, I realized just who lay gasping against Colonel O'Neill...

'My God, Tina... Captain Tina Iron Horse.'

This shocking knowledge was just another indigestible chunk of information, so many thoughts swirled across my still recovering ability to think, and nothing seemed to truly connect. Something was escaping me. I knew it. My vision drifted to the arm holding her, Jack's arm. Jack's arm! But, he couldn't move his... Like an artillery shell illuminating a battlefield, joy erupted inside me. Then I saw his face, eyes clenched shut, rage his only expression, his forearm tightened across Iron Horse's neck, holding her, chocking her. Killing her slowly. My God!

"Colonel! Colonel, you can let go," my voice soft and pleading as I moved closer to him. My friend, my commander, my savior.

Iron Horse was slowly turning blue, she struggled wildly, jerking against the Colonel's arm, but he doesn't let go. Tugging at his arm, I feel those muscles bunch, pulling harder, Tina goes limp, yet he pulls. He's muttering.

"CharlieCharlieCharlie."

Pleading, stroking, touching, trying to catch his eye, nothing works. Tears streak my face in frustration as I do everything I know to get the man to let go. I know now that I'll have to hurt him. He's killing her and I can't allow that. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's not himself. But those reasons don't help me. God, I don't want to do that, not this man. I don't want to hurt him. He's never been anything but fatherly to me. Please I don't want to do this. God, do you hear me?

Teal'c

Stroking strongly, my body fought the pull of the water, my mind, however, contemplated my predicament. Effortlessly I perused my knowledge of the area, seeking answers. O'Neill and I had made numerous forays to scout the area. Into the creek canyon, along the forested cliff and the drop off that afforded such a magnificent view of the verdant grasslands and lake. It is the cliff, here along the Gate Canyon that drew us most frequently. Neither of us was able to find a safe way down that stone face. It jutted out from its unseen base rooted in that sea of vegetation. We had spent many hours together or separately, standing, watching and listening, hoping to gain information by our very presence. All that could truly be ascertained was that it was a long way down.

Only the most intelligent of Jaffa reach the heady position of First Prime, and the Jaffa of Chulac are among the most intelligent of warriors bred among the Goa'uld. That inbred ability told me that testing that vertical distance via inaction would have undesirable permanent results. Such results would prevent me from amusing my Warrior Brother with this line of reasoning and would cause me to break faith with those I had promised I would return safely to. With that in mind I rolled onto my back, to better see where I was being pulled towards and to discover a means to escape my dilemma.

My short swim fins gave me enough power to slow my inexorable course, providing time to notice an anomaly at one end of the openings. They did not extend to the adjoining wall as they had on the opposite end. Drawing closer, two had failed to function, and there was an obstruction across the last open portal beside them. This could be salvation.

Kicking against the current pulling me toward the open sky beyond the cliff I influenced my path to intersect with those dark portals. The obstruction resolved into a limbless tree, straight, slightly tapering and shallowly inclined about the escaping water. Its very existence had me sweeping my eyes swiftly across the heights towering above me -- no vegetation -- I would have been shocked to have found any as I recalled none, not even lichens, upon that stark stone; and within the Gate Canyon, only grass and small flowering plants entwined with the turf existed. No bushes, shrubs, nor trees. How had it gotten here? And just how could it be used to my advantage?

Pondering this question I judged the distance to that slim hope, it sat just above the water. That visual engendered a much-needed plan, now I must slow my rush to oblivion as much as possible. Placing my flipper clad feet before me, I spread my arms and using all my limbs to fight against the current, yet carefully aimed my path to slide under that trunk.

Harder and harder, I worked against the hastening flow of water being funneled out into a free fall to the grasslands yet unseen. The thought of my deep debt to O'Neill, his need, gave me strength beyond that my symbiote could supply. My will flowed freely. Nature would bend; I would live to fight another day. No doubt was harbored in my heart.

My resolve was unshakable; no matter how swiftly I seemed to be approaching, I would prevail. And at just the proper time I thrust my upper body upright, impacting the tree harshly. My symbiote freely communicated its alarm, flailing furiously within me. Upon striking the obstruction I flung my arms up to grasp the tree, kicked strongly with my legs, I forced my body upwards, I was nearly too successful, overshooting my intent. Convulsively tightening my arms about the trunk I dug my nails into the mud-covered bark-less wood, my nails splitting and tearing, imperfections in the surface of my safe haven tore gouges into the flesh of my arms, yet I held firm. My legs, followed by my hips, however, continued across the slimy tree to descend towards that jet of water that obeyed one of nature's unbreakable laws -- gravity. But, if I were to avoid the application that law I must now bend it to the point of rupture. The torrent was swift and my legs bounced off of it, to ride atop the water in shuddering bounds, threatening to break my hold.

My plan, sparked by a memory tugged at me, O'Neill and I had gone to the far west. A realm called Oregon to a river named Rogue. There we had chanced across a group doing a most strange and daring sport, like surfing, only on a swift moving body of water. The 'surfer' never traveled, but was buoyed up by allowing the moving water to travel beneath them. They used a small board, or their back or chest. I could do the same here. This was close to the situation they had. They had used an overhanging tree to achieve their opposing stationary immovable force or an anchored rope. One had shown me how to hop from tree to water and back again. This I could do.

Carefully I adjusted my hold on the subtly vibrating tree, then, as before, I swung my body in a glide across the moving surface of the water, pendulum like, using the muscles of my shoulders to power my movements, faster and faster until I had enough momentum to swing my legs and hips upward and onto the tree. Not successful the first time, I achieved my goal the second. Stilling, I took stock of my condition; all damage was minor and already healing.

Casting my vision back across the water filled Gate Canyon, there, gleaming in the tawny green-gold light, as water sluiced from its alien metal, the Chaapa'ai rose slowly from the water that choked it. Looking below me, the surface of the steel-blue water had also retreated, being now out of my reach. My feat of mere seconds ago would have been impossible at any other time. I knew not who to thank for my life, as the only gods I knew were false. Perhaps O'Neill's God, the one god, whom he denied with his voice, but not his heart, was my benefactor.

The Tau'ri's concept of 'god' is such a strange idea, a god that is invisible, all knowing, and whose presence one could not escape. How can one know that this 'god' exists? Cassandra had escorted me to one of his temples, so very different from those of Apophis. She explained that there were many temples, all with different, but similar, beliefs, that great wars had been sparked by these differences. It saddened me to think how like the Goa'uld it was and that O'Neill had suffered in one of those conflicts, even if Cassandra was quick to deny that being the reason for it.

Captain Montgomery Ellis

My ears were filled with the rush of water, water that I had just watched drained away. Leaning against the cool wet stone floor, my fingers passed on a subtle vibration. This was different; this wasn't about that little bit of water that Major Drake had unleashed into this dead end corridor. This sounded like more, much more.

Feeling the cold bent coin in my hand, I lifted it up again, noting the color. Silver, it flashed silver in the beam of my flashlight. Straightening out and rolling onto a hip I pushed it into my short's side pocket, knowing there in its depth it would be safe. It was a puzzle that could wait. This other, this sound, and what Drake had done, needed my attention now. Damn that woman!

Not wanting to chance falling in an attempt to stand on the wet stone without support, I rolled unto my hands and knees, letting my flashlight drag at its cord hooked around my wrist. Gingerly I crawled along, using my fingers as a guide to find where the vibration was emanating from, and it would seem that the sound of muffled rushing water was in the same direction. Both led me to the now gone tunnel that Drake had so swiftly backed out of. Supporting myself against that now smooth wall, I climbed awkwardly to my feet. Once upright I shook out my brace clad leg, hoping I hadn't bent the support bars, that would be painful, but apparently they survived intact much to my relief.

What had Drake been fumbling at on the adjoining wall? Was it some kind of control for the tunnel, a tunnel that must be some kind of access? Access to what? Leaning my face into the stone above the tunnel I felt the rough rush, pushing my hand down the smooth surface my fingertips encountered a barely perceptible join, a crack. Too straight to be natural, one of the edges of the tunnel, had to be. Confirmed through feel where it joined the two vertical cracks to begin forming a square hatch or cover and just a faint dark line in my flashlight beam. Turning and leaning my back against the wall, I illuminated the spot I remembered Drake had targeted for her fumbling. Nothing, not a damn thing.

Then a stray thought struck, moving the flashlight to the wall I shone the beam across the stone angling it from less than an inch above its surface. Slowly sweeping it, I almost missed the dull crescents the beam revealed. Three by three, nine in all. Placing their location in my mind I limped over to them, running my fingers across that section of stone. Dimples, just little round dimples in the stone.

As if contacting raw current, I snatched my fingers away. Drake had used them to open that tunnel and that tunnel sounded as if it were full of pressurized water. I sure as hell didn't want to open it now. I stumbled back a back a step, reviewing what she had said.

'Do? I fixed the problem.'

'Oh, my God.' The water in the Gate Canyon. She actually found a way to drain it! Was that it?

What had transpired here faded to insignificance. The only way to truly answer my own question would be to go and see if the water was draining way. Pushing myself away from that wall with the alien controls, I limped as fast as I could back the way I had come, thinking furiously about the shortest route to the ramp. I had a few false turnings, as I had been quite low in the system so I needed to go up to the lowest bolthole exit. Shortly I was crawling out onto the ramp and headed down it.

Keeping the light on the stone path before me I could see that it was wet, stepping carefully I approached the tall brilliant lower end of the ramp. Only at the very end did water lap at it, but even as I watched, it receded away from me until I stood at the very edge of the open canyon. Before me stood the gate, gleaming in the light, only its lower limb and its platform covered in water. Great gouges appeared in what had been a smooth carpet of grass, almost lawn like in appearance, these tears of dark soil drew my eye toward the plains side of the pit we called the Gate Canyon and to my astonishment there were tall door like openings in that wall, all across that side. Wait, now the end nearest me didn't quite have openings all the way. As if drawn by a magnet I stumbled blindly toward those openings, along one of the intact tongues of turf, and by chance towards those that were missing. There, at that point was a pile of debris out of which poked a tree across the last opening. Then something jumped from it, wading messily through the rapidly disappearing pool of water. It was dark, manlike and had a gleam of gold on its head. Jaffa!

How the hell did a Jaffa get here? Were there more? Fear shot thought me. I'm a fricking geologist! Drawing my side arm, I brought it up, the Jaffa seemed to put on more speed; I shouted:

"Kree!"

It just meant attention, or attend, or something like that but I had heard that they treat it like 'stop.' But this big scary figment of a nightmare Jaffa continued to advance so I yelled again.

"Kree! Damn it!"

My fear added my own version of 'stop' for effect. Great effect, cause my voice ran up the register and I damn near strangled on it. I shuffled backwards, brought my weapon up and took aim. The Jaffa practically skidded to a halt and slowly raised his arms. That had me shocked, would they actually understand enough to react that way. He looked calm, like he was waiting on me to simmer down. I squinted at the alien warrior and advanced, careful to keep my 9mm aimed at him, yet using my eyes to spot others, if there were others. I thought about using my radio, but from experience I knew it wouldn't carry out of the canyon, and hardly up the ramp when standing in its mouth. But I did raise my arm to grasp it before dropping it; the Jaffa's eyes appeared to follow that movement. Stranger and stranger.

The only Jaffa I'd ever seen in the flesh was SG-1's Teal'c, usually in Colonel O'Neill's company, not often and not for long. Otherwise, I'd only seen Jaffa in photographs and this Jaffa seemed weird, the only thing that had stood out about them to me, beyond their size, was the type of almost uniform they wore, I didn't.... Shit! He was wearing BDU's. Only one Jaffa would be wearing those. I swear he smiled when this revelation hit me; it had to have shown on my face. But just to make sure...

"Teal'c?" I yelled.

"Yes, I am Teal'c," was his reply.

My backbone became warm jello; it took everything I had to remain upright, so all encompassing was my relief at those words.

"Teal'c."

"Yes, I am Teal'c. I did not mean to alarm you."

"Teal'c!"

Unable to process this information I froze dumbly, looking at someone who must have come from the SGC. This wonderful figment of my imagination, his arms in the air, spoke.

"Yes, I am Teal'c. Captain. I intend you no harm."

"Oh," hastily I dropped the point of my side arm to the ground, thumbed on the safety, which I didn't remember releasing, and carefully secured the weapon in its holster, never once actually looking at the man who stood 25 feet from me. His shadow on the ground before me was the only indication that he had moved; so silent, setting my teeth on edge once more. Furtively I looked at him.

"Forgive me. My approach has made you uneasy"

'Uneasy.' Try downright scared out of my wits, the burn of adrenaline still coursed through my blood stream, making me hyper reactive to even the feel of the breeze across my face.

"No. No... Ah, that's okay. I'm just a little spooked. Jaffa and all. Where are the others?" Pointedly I looked around and then settled on Teal'c, finally coming to terms with his existence here, now.

He was wet! Raising a finger I was going to ask about that.

"There was much water when I came through the Chaapa'ai. That is why I alone came. Have you solved the silence that has brought me?"

"Silence? Well, I don't know. All of the water being gone is news to me; I'm the first to discover that. You came through the Gate, just you?"

"Yes. Is all well here?"

"Ah, no. There was an accident, Colonel O'Neill is... well, he's hurt bad."

"An accident?"

"Yes, there was a storm, he was caught in a flood in the canyon. That was a few days ago."

"Take me to O'Neill."

In those words I saw the First Prime of Apophis and I did not hesitate to turn and head back up the ramp, as rapidly as I could. He did not rush me, not physically, but something about him lashed at my psyche, pushing me hard enough for him to arrest my dash with a hand to my elbow. It was in his eyes, he knew something, something he couldn't explain, just as I felt something. At a safer pace, for me, we climbed the ramp.

Teal'c

The dialing device for the Chaapa'ai was easily within my reach, and Major Carter was certain that it would be unharmed by the water, yet, my heart said hasten to O'Neill. Now.

I turned my back on my duty, a duty that even O'Neill would accomplish before seeking any member of SG-1, even knowing that delay would result in a death. I am not O'Neill.

My guide felt my haste and foolishly pushed beyond his limits to accommodate it. Reaching out I touched his arm, brought his eyes to mine and let him see the nebulous fear that sang through my being. He saw, though did not comprehend, and that incomprehension exhibited itself in a terse tale of what had occurred here. I felt a modicum of relief; there was no mention of an occurrence that would indicate the presence of a malicious force bent on harming O'Neill or Lt.Van Sickle, or any of the others here. In this our fear would appear to be unfounded.

From Captain Ellis's words, it appeared that I was too late to protect my Warrior Brother. This saddened me greatly. To think that such a great warrior had been robbed of all movement and I knew what would await him on his home world. Should I steal him away, take him to a world replete with a sarcophagus? I would never be able to return to the home world of the Tau'ri. Could he? And if they denied him his right to return, could I convince him to join with me, to fight will the Jaffa rebellion against the Goa'uld? So much of him is rooted in the soil of his world, could he survive being separated from it? Would he live, knowing that he could never again visit that one place where he son lay? I think not.

Colonel Jack O'Neill

What...?

Charlie. Where's Charlie?

What... what's that, a...a man... a man on Charlie. No! Not him. God, please! Not that! He's just a baby.

"nonononono."

My God, Charlie! Don't hurt my boy. Get away from him.

Noooooooo!

You can't take him. Please don't hurt him anymore. Please! No! Charlie!

Won't let you take him. Won't let you hurt him.

Leave him alone you pervert!

Get the fuck off him!

Weak, so weak. I claw at the undulating attacker. Slowly pulling him to me.

A sob escapes my lips at the sight of my son dazed under this monster.

I locked my arm across the guard's throat and squeezed.

Kill you. God, DAMN you, I'll Kill you. KILL YOU!

"CharlieCharlieCharlie," I cooed his name. Love and shame. Don't look. Don't look.

Won't let go. Can't let go.

I can't get all of ya, but I have this one. This one dies.

CHARLIEEEEeeeee! I scream into the dark. Lost.

Teal'c

Surrounded, and with little hope of escape, I surrendered. Still my heart shouted to go, seek out O'Neill. Now.

My guide had happened upon others here one PBX 123. Passively I watched them.

Tau'ri are very different from the humans I have known, they are very loud, passionately so. Nosily mobbed around me, they relish the closeness of one another as explanations spilled between them; such closeness reveals their need for contact, even O'Neill, despite appearances, is tactual. Yet, within the din, each word spoken carved individuals from the meld. Words that struck me deeply, words of O'Neill's condition, words that told me 'go,' yet I must remain, for only they knew where my Warrior Brother lay. Tau'ri cannot be pushed, led or forced; they exemplify wild equines. Impatiently, I waited.

"...asleep. I'm in charge!"

Eyes narrowing, the speaker of those words emerged from the others, my fingers caressed the zat at my hip, habit measuring the distance between this voice and I. The words spoken were not inflammatory, if uttered by another they would carry a different meaning, it was the arrogance underlying them that drew my instant anger. This voice wished others to submit and it challenged beyond its power to command that submission. Petty tyrant.

"Not as in charge you as you want to be!"

"Yeah, who died and left you a colonel."

"He's from the SGC. Why shouldn't he be in charge?"

This speaker's finger impinged my personal space; his words effectively made me the center of group's attention, but only briefly, as the arrogant voice made further declarations. Each word from this individual angered me further. No honor existed within them.

"He's not even military. I'm a Major in the US Marines and ranking officer here. THAT puts me in charge."

Such traitorous words drew all eyes, even my own. Those around me appeared ignorant of my tightening grip upon the zat, they were too involved in the struggle for dominance, words their weapons on this moral battleground. It was the stance of those refusing to submit that eased my grip, I would wait, I wished to hear the full extent of this person's ignorance, to observe just how tolerant the group was towards such pompousness.

"The lieutenant isn't dead, injured, unconscious, missing or AWOL. He's asleep. Sleeping doesn't invoke anything that would put you in charge. At least not anymore in charge than carrying out HIS orders would put you... Sir!"

"You're certainly not in charge of me, I'm civilian. I follow who I chose. The lieutenant is in legitimate command here and I would follow Colonel O'Neill, even injured, before following you!"

"You're too blind to see the kid's a 'can't cut it' mercy case, given command out of guilt at the insistence of an over-the-hill has-been who looks to want more than just 'friendship' in return."

Being slow to anger is a tool of survival for any of rank among the Jaffa; this however, was beyond even my vast capacity to withstand, yet before I could move to defend my Warrior Brother's honor, the others had crowded around MajorDrake, their reproach plainly visible. Never had I witnessed such a negation of respect that rank provides blindly among the Tau'ri. Here those who should follow have found a leader unable to lead. An officer who is Ha'shak, a fool.

"Everyone hear that?"

"Yeah." "You bet!" "Like a bell."

"Major Drake, I formally protest that disgustingly self-serving slander against the team-leaders of this mission."

This betrayal of the followers by she who would lead them draws all my attention, my anger forgotten I allowed my fingers to slip from my weapon. All who have sided against Major Drake professed their support of Lt.VanSickle; he holds many of the same values as the man who had chosen him from the multitudes vying to lead. O'Neill had seen his promise as a leader and then saw more, for he chose him as his Son of the Heart. My Warrior Brother chose well, for here is proof that he and his chosen shares a most unusual trait in common, an ability to enlist an enemy's help in one's own cause. For in the beginning all were against O'Neill's choice of leader.

"How...!"

"Yeah, how dare you debase so natural a relationship as those two are building? Maybe it's you who has those kinds of thoughts."

"The only perversion here is in your head!"

O'Neill had feared that Lt.VanSickle would not yet have the strength needed to fight to maintain his command against this most vocal dissident and the distrust of the others, he hoped that his presence would forestall such a struggle. He will be pleased to know that his concern had been unwarranted in this regard. This revelation is most heartening, yet I cannot allow this contest of wills to continue. Now is the time to act.

"Enough!"

"Who give you the right to order anyone," MajorDrake spat at me, hauteur openly displayed.

She is fortunate that I am no longer a Jaffa under a false god; she would have suffered more than death under my hand for her show of contempt. My very station would have demanded it. Even under the ways of the Tau'ri she would suffer, not physically, but a reduction of status could be just as painful, a Jaffa would die before suffering that. This ha'shak will discover that there is one of higher status among those she wishes to command. I answer her.

"Hammond of Texas."

"And who the hell is that?"

A title honored on many worlds, contained in warrior songs among my own people and well know by all under O'Neill's command, Major Drake knows not of it, I endeavor to translate into words for simple understanding.

"Major General George S. Hammond. I speak and act in his name."

"You can't..."

"Do not tempt me," deliberately grasping my weapon most openly, as subtly seems to elude her. My open action causes her eyes to widen in alarm, affording me a degree of satisfaction.

"I..."

"You will cease," I barked and stepped forward, my action telling my intent, now I see fear within those eyes, if not upon her face. I lock my narrowed gaze onto her, letting her see that I will not tolerate her lies, nor her disrespect any longer. "You have a purpose here?"

"If you mean 'a job,' yes."

"Then go about it -- silently. You have no status here; only O'Neill or GeneralHammond can override this command. Do you understand?"

"No..."

My eyes rake the group ranged around us and speak again.

"Is there anyone here who does not understand my order?"

With glares and hostile postures the consensus was carried, with only MajorDrake in dissent. Even this ha'shak can see that further defiance is useless. Her submission need not be voiced; it is there for all to see, most pleasing to me, and the others.

"Then leave us, you have no authority over anyone until relieved of your task."

And with that declaration I assumed command. Hammond of Texas is wise, he had known that this might happen and had given me the tools to combat it. O'Neill followed him, as I followed O'Neill. It is only right that I now restored the power I now held to those who by right of blood and pain wield it most effectively.

"Where is O'Neill?"

Lt. Eric Van Sickle

'Oh God, No.'

This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I won't let it happen. Panic. I feel it taking hold. No, no way in Hell!

Iron Horse's lips were turning blue, her arm limp, as if boneless. Her whole body a rag doll, shaken by a rottweiler. Sometimes you have to kill dogs like that to get them to let go. Where does a thought like that come from? How can I compare this compassionate, caring man to a vicious dog? Because he sees himself that way, because he's capable of being that way -- that's why. He explained. He reacts. He can't always control it. It's too fast to control. And I wanted that!

I wish I'd never hear of it, seen it. That it even existed!

Crawling over the one-armed rag doll I straddle the Stokes awkwardly. It's too wide. Planting a knee painfully on the edge, I'm careful of the broken body it holds. Using both hands I pulled against that steel bar arm, and Jack pulled even harder in response. Damn, he couldn't have stay paralyzed! Guilty shock rolls through me. Just where do these thoughts come from?

Going nose to nose with him I try to get him to focus on me.

"Sir? Please. Let go. Jack, it's me, Eric. Please, please. You have to let go. You're killing her. Colonel O'Neill... Sir?"

My left hand cradles a stubbled jaw, patting softly. Crap! I have got to stop him. Screwing up my resolve I dig my fingers into the nape of his neck trying to wrench his face towards me. Just as I achieve some success he closes his eyes denying me that avenue of appeal. Shit.

It's my strong hand, strong fingers with which to grip short-silvered hair. A strong arm to pull back that head, I strain, but the angle is bad, the Colonel just curls into that neck. A heartbeat throbs in that slender neck next to his cheek, a throb that will still if I don't stop this.

Okay, Eric. If he kills Iron Horse that would be bad, for everyone, that's the problem. Solve it! But, he's not listening; he has no idea what he's doing. You HAVE to stop him. And to stop him you'll have to hurt him, and that is going to be better than if he kills her. Damn.

Pushing a knee up, I peg it against Jack's elbow, pinning it down by leaning my body weight into it. Taking a few deep breathes I begin digging my fingers down between his arm and her neck. My strong hand helps place the weak one. That little miracle of feeling reacts to the heat between the two combatants. I wished it had never returned, that I couldn't feel anything at all. Anywhere.

With my weak fingers placed I start digging in with the strong ones and I pull.

Thinking about how I've got to be hurting him, anger grows. Why? Why am I always in this kind of position? Hurt by or hurting someone I care for. What is wrong with me?

That anger burns through my blood, pushing my muscles beyond, powering them to new heights. I put my back into the effort.

Grunting and straining. To exist is to pull, the world disappears and I am the pull. Arrrg.

'Please.'

Feeling the crack of breaking bone, its sound drowned by Jack's scream of "CHARLIEEEEeeeee," his body went limp and had me scrambling away, horrified, causing me to tumble off the now unlocked bodies, onto the stone floor.

Stunned. This is not the way to learn what a word means. It should be something softly studied in safety, surrounded by books and quite people. Not laying on an alien floor, on a planet whose star can't be seen from the planet of one's birth. Not in pain, physical or mental. Not crying in regret at having just broken the arm of a man whom you respect, who you craved love from. Fatherly love and guidance. Something he seemed willing to give. Something I may have just lost. Something I'm not worthy of -- now.

Crap Eric, get a grip!

Iron Horse. You bitch!

Painfully I rolled onto my side, rising to my knees and lay ungentle hands onto the object of that hateful epithet. I jerked her free of my commander, a friend now I'm sure was lost to me. Regret gave me a brutal uncaring strength; blind hate had me kicking out at her still form, uncaring of where I struck or the damaging hardness of my boots. Burning anger and hate allowed the reptile to reign; its impacts pushed the object of hate beyond reach, almost as beyond as my reason was. Falling back to the floor I pounded it with clenched fists and kicked like a child, the pain calming, real. Just as real as the pain I had just caused.

Reason told me the histrionics were my avoidance of providing care for the person I'd just hurt. Delaying assessing the damage I created. For both of us. Dismissing my own pain as my just desert I required more punishment, anything to drown the feeling of my fingers bruising his flesh. I crawled to Colonel O'Neill, his first name now forbidden to me by my own conscience.

Fingers spread before my eyes, I knelt before the Stokes and partially blocking the sight of my efforts I focused on my hands. Dare I touch him again, with these tools of pain, with my cruel thoughts still so raw? Yes! I have lost him, but not what he stands for. My penance for this horror will be to live to his ideals, to exemplify as much as possible what he would wish to see in others. In me. I now have no right to my life my own actions took that. Even doing the right thing has a price. I will pay that price. Gladly.

Forcing my chaotic emotions down I gingerly reached two fingers to the pulse in his throat. Too strong. Too fast. He gulped in air. Even out like a light, he fought with his entire being. He cried out his son's name when I... when I... BROKE his arm.

Say it Eric. You fucking broke his arm. Why don't you look at it!

Cursing my luck to have an eye survive that stupid mistake that started this whole chain of events, I looked.

Long boned, tanned, with an underlying paleness that screamed distress, his arm lay before me. I focused on the little scratches and bruises, until, like an optical illusion, the newest insult to this man emerged. That gracefully long strong forearm wasn't quite straight, wasn't quite as well shaped as before. An ugly lump, red and bludgeoning, clung about midway between wrist and elbow, an elbow that bore a new bruise from my knee.

Sparks in the deepening gray shook me from my held breath at the damage before me and I forced myself to breathe. Disbelieving of my own violence as the red marks from my own fingers appeared before my eye I forced myself into action. Slowly, gently I lifted the limb, intending to straighten it. So absorbed in my own self-made horror I missed the pounding of boots on stone. Louder and louder.

"NO!"

Tears dripping from my face I looked up from the deformed arm that held me like a cobra holds its prey, only to become enthralled by another, more deadly cobra -- a readied zat. My eye skittered past that snake and up the sinuous dark arm that wielded it to have an angry face slam into me. Teal'c! I watched frozen as tiny contractions along that massive arm moved the finger on the trigger, as the face melded from alarmed anger to righteous triumph. My mouth was still forming an 'O,' I wanted to scream 'no.'

A scream I was unable to utter as my body jerked to the impact of weapon's energy, even before the discharge of blue barbed wire tendrils registered as visible, my nerves flashed into choking clouds of agony as those tendrils torn along them and drove me into the dark, the zat's whine harried me.

'No...'

[see Chapter Sixteen]