The Candlestick Chronicles by Cjay

Chapter Eleven: Twisted Integrity

Odd images of searing radiance and bizarre revelations whirled in the intermittent elements of a nebula, mesmerizing his hazy mind. Bottle rockets, scattered bits of memory, flashed briefly in the darkness, and then; faded into embers. Awareness flittered like a lazy butterfly from thought to thought, as he fought his way up from the yawning abyss of obscurity.

Familiar sounds assailed Jon's sensitive ears.

Puzzling out the shrill strains of monitors and murmured voices, he reasoned that he was once again a 'guest' in the infirmary and struggled to return to consciousness.

Unable to open his heavy-lidded eyes, he focused his full attention on the hushed voices nearby.

"Where do you want him, ma'am?" Rubber soled shoes squeaked against a freshly waxed floor.

"Let's slip Dr. Jackson into the bed beside Jon's."

Whispering sheets. "Easy corpsman."

Something substantial plopped against a thick soft surface, eliciting a slight moan from the bedsprings. "We'll need to keep a sharp eye on them both."

Kris Martin's rich, melodic, and deeply concerned assertion penetrated his confusion - confirming the notion that he, 'replica O'Neill,' was, as yet, still among the living. And, that something unpleasant had happened to Daniel. 'Crap!'

Desperate for an explanation, Jon repeated his attempt to pry open his weighty eyelids. His inert limbs twitched with effort, rustling the crisp linen encasing him.

Warm fingers skimmed his contrary flesh.

"It's all right, Jon. Try to relax. The anesthesia hasn't completely worn off yet." Kris permitted her questing fingers to gently encircle his cool right hand. "You're here with me, Kris Martin, inside the SGC post-op recovery room."

She smelled lightly of fresh soap and a hint of antiseptic. Capitulating briefly, he searched for an explanation.

Memories of numbness and desperation flooded his mind threatening to rob him of breath.

Sickness invaded his belly as he realized he'd taken a hit, hot blood oozing over his torso. Kearney's soothing words, his freckled face a mask of regret, pressing his big hands painfully against the wound as he took in Clare's sightless gaze staring up at the gathering dusk.

Sorrow gripped his carefully shielded heart, along with the dark recesses of implicit failure.

Surrendering to extraordinary and unfamiliar acceptance as calm washed over him and life slipped silently away.

Wait just a damn minute! If Kris was here at the base looking after him, what had happened to Jack?

Redoubling his effort, Jon forced his rebellious vocal chords to comply. "Jack..." His barely audible rasp increased his frustration.

Dabbing his dry lips with a wet cloth, Kris leaned close. Whispering furtively in his ear, she gripped his hand tighter. "It's all right, he's safe."

Anger gave his previously limp fingers strength. "Where...?"

"Shush... we'll have to discuss this later." Kris cast a furtive glance at the SF standing watch just outside the door.

Wincing, she eased her sore hand from his clenched fist. "Trust me, Jon."

Adjusting his blankets, Kris moved away.

Still unable to open his eyes, Jon fumed. 'Trust her? Ya sure you betcha!' Jon's mind shouted. 'Where the hell is Jack?'

'Hey kid, I'm fine. Stop yelling will ya?' Jack's petulant Minnesota inflections echoed in his clone's turbulent mind. 'Sheesh, the rabble at a hockey game makes less of a din!'

Licking at the beads of moisture on his lips, Jon's trepidation shifted focus. 'Jack?'

'What?' Gossamer threads of Jack's deepening annoyance floated freely into Jon's awareness. 'Look kid, your thoughts are popping into my brain, a touch too loudly, I might add.'

Uncertainty rustled in their shared perception. 'At least, I think that is what's happening here.'

'Popping?' Jon's psyche repeated skeptically.

'Popping, exploding, banging, bursting...' Jack recited derisively.

'I get the picture.' Jon's inner voice groused. 'Okay, so, what? We're connected?'

'Yep. Near as I can figure.' Jack's tone was amused.

'Look Jack, I've been your clone... for what, almost two years now? This is the first time we've, ah, shared our thoughts.' Jon was feeling queasy.

Beyond the skepticism and self-deprecation, biting wit induced a snort. 'I mean let's face it O'Neill, we spend a good deal of our time trying not to think!'

'Jeez, get a grip!' Jack scolded. 'Look, I've got a theory.'

Sensing Jack's hesitation, Jon mentally tapped his foot. 'And?'

'Ah... hell, this is cracked...' Embarrassment colored Jack's response.

'Why are you so uncomfortable?' Jon carped. 'I'm your mirror image remember? We share the same carefully hidden intellect.'

'Habit, I guess.' Jack muttered with sincerity. 'When I heard you were dying...'

'Who, me?' Jon's mind protested. 'I was dying?'

'Crap, just how much anesthesia did Carson give you anyway?' Jack interrupted. 'For crying out loud kid, would you just for one minute shut the hell up and concentrate?'

'Fine,' Jon mentally quirked his brow, 'You were saying...'

'Try to center. Bright lights, a feeling of overwhelming power... My life force merging with yours... sharing the vastness of creation was astounding.' Jack's mind coaxed.

'Okay O'Neill,' Jon's tone was indulgent. 'Let me guess? You've got another head injury.'

'Ack! Have we always been this dense? Try to focus will, ya?' Jack censored. 'We tapped into the knowledge of the Ancients and channeled our energies.'

'I thought we weren't going to mess around with that stuff anymore!' Jon snipped uncertainly.

Ignoring his duplicate, Jack continued, 'I could actually feel strength coursing through me as our wounds vanished! Well, yours did anyway; mine simply healed up a tad earlier than normal.'

Sighing, he added, 'Ya, for sure, got a few new scars to add to my collection.'

Full awareness burst Jon's burgeoning incredulity. 'Sweet.'

'Succinct as always, kid.' Jack praised smugly.

'Ah, Jack?' Jon's fully restored memory troubled him a bit. 'Exactly, where was I when all this miraculous healing occurred?'

'Oh, that.' Jack responded playfully. 'Well my fine clone, let's see... Just how might old Will Shakespeare illustrate?'

Cool sarcasm flooded Jack's wobbly reproduction of a stage whisper. 'Ah, that is the rub!'

Jon's stomach clenched with dread. 'I was in the OR...'

'Bingo!' Jack confirmed lightly. 'A fully staffed operating room, actually.'

'Great timing!' Jon grumbled. 'I suppose you had no choice.'

'None.' Jack confirmed softly. 'Couldn't drift in and watch you die.'

Sucking in a breath, Jon contemplated their predicament. 'So, what now?'

'Stick to our usual routine.' Jack replied confidently. 'Play big dumb soldier and let Carter and her league of scientists do the explaining.'

'Why not?' Jon mused. 'It's worked before.'

'Yep.' Jack preened.

Satisfied, Jon took a moment to enjoy their newfound closeness.

'Don't get used to it kid.' Jack warned. 'I figure, once we are both recovered... this ah, 'mind-meld' will fade.'

'Ya think?' Disappointment colored Jon's quip.

'Yeah.' Jack responded regretfully. Their connection was strangely comforting - and spooky!

'Let's face it, this whole escapade is surreal!' Jon's inner voice concurred mutedly.

'Now get some sleep will ya, kid?' Jack added with irony. 'I'm not as young as I used to be.'

Jon settled back and let his awareness drift; secure in the knowledge that Jack's essence hovered nearby.

***

Kris dispatched the SF to find Dr. Carson. Then, returned to the bedside of the young man who was and wasn't her general.

Jon lay curled on his side snoring lightly. If only she could have known Jack O'Neill in his younger days, before covert ops and tragedy caused him to build a wall of protection around his heart. She supposed that Jon, as his reproduction, now had the opportunity to break down said wall. However, given his current condition, she suspected he hadn't.

Shaking her head with a tender smile, Kris returned her focus to Daniel's monitor readings wondering how the original O'Neill was faring.

A unit of whole blood slowly infused via a pump into Daniel's muscular left forearm. Kris traced the large vein away from the needle's insertion site, checking for infiltration. Jackson's pale skin was oddly soft to the touch, despite its fine pelt of dark blonde hairs. Under Teal'c and Jack's tutelage, the once spindly archeologist certainly had bulked up impressively, stimulating more than a few of the SGC's female population's interest. A combination of brains, good looks and muscle tended to do that.

***

Drained and exhausted, Dr. Brightman sipped coffee in her office. Given that her office door stood ajar, she easily overheard Kris and the SF's brief conversation. The departure of her unofficial guard gave the worn physician a boost of energy that caffeine consumption lacked.

Moving softly into the ward, Elizabeth hovered beside Jon's bed and marveled over the spectacular events surrounding his miraculous healing.

"He looks so very peaceful lying there." Fascinated, she reached out to lightly brush an errant tuft of hair off his unlined forehead. "You'd never guess that mere hours ago he was teetering on the brink of death."

Absorbed in her assessment of Daniel, Kris started. "Oh, Dr. Brightman, I didn't hear you come in."

Jon stirred slightly, burrowing his face more deeply into his pillow, but didn't wake.

Turning, Elizabeth shook herself mentally. Retrieving her stethoscope from her lab coat pocket, she placed it around her neck. "How's Dr. Jackson?"

"Vital signs are stable, but he hasn't come around yet." Kris matched Brightman's hushed tone.

"And, Jon O'Neill?" Brightman asked idly, pressing her stethoscope against Jackson's naked chest.

"He showed signs of waking a few minutes ago..." Kris began.

"Did he say anything?" Satisfied with Daniel's progress, Elizabeth stood up and rounded on Kris, her face intent.

"He fell asleep almost immediately." Kris hedged. Brightman's eyes shone with an almost fanatical interest. "Why?"

"You weren't there... you didn't see the miracle. This young man is special. He's been touched by grace." Elizabeth inhaled deeply, her small, refined nostrils flaring with effort.

Stepping away from Daniel's bedside, she pocketed her stethoscope and clasped her hands together. "You've been posted here for what, seven years at least? How much do you know about General O'Neill's nephew?"

Focusing her attention on Jon's sleeping form; Brightman's entire body seemed to vibrate with zeal. Her usually calm and serene countenance appeared enraptured.

"What do you mean?" Kris had the uneasy feeling the woman was about to burst into song. "Special how? What touched him?"

"Dr. Brightman has the peculiar notion that Jon O'Neill's recovery is the work of an Angel." Dr. Kyle Carson's cold and skeptical baritone interrupted.

Striding forcefully into the room, he thrust his body between Brightman and Jon's O'Neill's bed. "More than likely this is the work of the Asgard, or an ascended Ancient, I would've thought your brief tenure here at the SGC would influence your assessment of the situation in a more scientific way, Elizabeth."

The censure in his tone made Elizabeth wince. "I... whatever being or energy force assisted us in that operating room was no alien, Kyle. Nothing you can say will convince me of that."

Brightman stared up into his disapproving eyes. "However, I am open to the possibility that someone or something other than providence intervened."

"Would one of you please tell me what this is all about?" Kris demanded worriedly. This was so unlike the generally introverted and sensible Brightman's normal behavior. "I think I've been more than patient. You asked me to defer my questions until Jon woke up and like a good little captain, I have. BUT! As his nurse and the late General O'Neill's friend, I think I have a right to know what the hell is going on here."

"Ah, I second that request." Daniel Jackson interjected shakily. Squinting against the harsh infirmary lighting, he made an unsuccessful attempt to raise his head. "What exactly has happened to Jon?"

Kris rushed to his side; gently pushing his unsteady shoulders back against his pillow and settled his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. "Take it easy Daniel you're in no condition..."

"I've been in this situation a time or two and you know it." Daniel protested using his patented equitable professor tone. "So I'll be a good boy and just lie here, while you all explain what I just overheard."

"Captain Martin is right, you are in no condition." Carson told him firmly.

"Fine." Daniel barked stubbornly. Shoving weakly at his bed linens, he grabbed Kris's arm. "Help me up, Kris."

Fearing the stubborn archeologist would tear open the fine sutures he and Brightman had so recently used to close his wounds, Carson surrendered. "All right, Jackson, you win."

Expelling a harsh sigh, he pulled a chair up at the foot of Daniel's bed and indicated that Kris should have a seat. Over the next several minutes, he explained Jon's condition on arrival and the bizarre events that occurred in the operating suite.

Daniel listened quietly, his face expressionless, while Kris requested a medical clarification or two.

Objecting to Carson's clinical and matter of fact tone of voice, Dr. Brightman interrupted him frequently. Her additional emphatic commentary gave the unfolding events a unique spin. "I've seen footage of your transformation into an ascended being Dr. Jackson and trust me, the radiant energy force in that OR was nothing like it! Nor, did it resemble Thor's unique way of appearing. It was much more... celestial!"

Daniel Jackson, explorer and former ascended being, was not about to dispute her.

Pinching the bridge of his nose with a shaky hand, he wished he could have witnessed Jon's 'resurrection' himself. "Okay, so did either of you have a look at the security tapes?"

"Typically, Major Davis ordered them sealed for the time being." Carson replied arching an ironic brow. "Military types! They tend to close the barn door after the horses have run loose."

"He's planning on interviewing each of the personnel involved in Jon O'Neill's care." Brightman added. "I've already submitted my report."

"Ah, yes, the 'Angel' theory." Carson bit out. "Elizabeth, you're bucking for a section eight!"

"Kyle, as you so kindly pointed out," Elizabeth continued sardonically, "exposure to the wonderful world of the SGC has taught me not to dismiss any option."

"I just wish your so-called 'Angel' would've done the same for Jack." Daniel mumbled pensively.

***

'Oh, he did, Danny boy, he did.' Feigning sleep, Jon O'Neill suppressed a smile. 'Angel, eh? Ya, for sure, a fallen angel! So... 'Angel' O'Neill, what now?'

When Jack failed to respond, he repeated his snide inquiry expectantly.

Jack remained oddly silent.

'Jack? Hey, wake up, will ya?' An arctic splinter of alarm ran up Jon's spine.

'Simmer down, kid. I'm trying to think.' Jack grumbled peevishly. 'Dang! My head is killing me.'

Jon searched Jack's mind. 'Excuse me, Yoda. I thought we tapped into the almighty 'Force'?'

The words skull fracture jumped out at him. 'Why the hell didn't your fracture heal?'

'I was busy centering on your life-threatening dents and dings, guess I... crap... I don't know!' Jack's pain seemed to escalate with concentration. 'Just let me suffer in peace for awhile, will ya?'

Centering, Jon's agile mind was able to connect with the source of Jack's torment. Crap, he'd sustained one heck of a 'dent!'

Clearly, Jack had selflessly focused the majority of their newfound mutual power on saving his younger copy, allowing only a minimal amount to be wasted on mending his own injuries.

Jon's sense of justice and life-long habit of guilt prodded him. Drawing inward, he sought the portion of his brain that housed the information he needed. Ah, ha! Hey, this whole healing thing wasn't that complex! Given the lowdown, and a smidgeon of genetic predisposition, even a rough warrior such as himself could employ the delicate and precise art of healing. However, another visitation from O'Neill's angel needed to be timed just right. Allowing Jack to rest, Jon bided his time.

Kris tolerated Brightman and Carson's argument for several minutes. And then, completely lost her temper. "Ahem, pardon me, sirs!"

The duo stopped snipping. Three heads swiveled her way. "Both Jon O'Neill and Dr. Jackson, need their rest." She stated simply.

Flushing, Elizabeth Brightman nodded.

Mid-tirade, Dr. Kyle Carson offered a quelling look. "Thank you Captain. Dr. Brightman, perhaps we should continue our conversation in private." Spinning on his heels, he stalked out.

"The captain is correct Dr. Jackson. I think you should try to sleep now." Trailing Carson, Brightman's stance was both apologetic and defiant. "Please alert me when Jon wakes, Kris."

"Understood, ma'am." Kris responded in crisp military fashion. Adjusting Daniel's bedding, she rechecked his monitors and fluids. "I'm going to step into the next room and gather a few supplies, all right?"

"Sure." Daniel responded absently, his inquiring mind was already busy trying to absorb all that he'd just learned. Closing his eyes, he floated on adrenaline for a time, until sleep and residual anesthesia claimed him.

Jon shifted languidly, his eyelids mere slits as he gauged Daniel's alertness.

Daniel wheezed softly, his breathing remaining rhythmic and even.

Scanning the room furtively, Jon confirmed that they were its lone occupants. Lying back, he calmed his breathing seeking to traverse the lower regions of consciousness. Familiar with the Jaffa art of meditation, Kel'no'reem, he used the beeping monitor as his mantra, steadily lowering his heart rate.

Gradually, he became aware of a widespread tingling sensation in his limbs as warmth spread outward from his inner-self.

Jon O'Neill began to glow. As the light he emitted increased in intensity, his slender form levitated just above his bed.

Miles away, Jack's besieged body responded in kind. Allowing the kid to take the lead, they fused their life forces together seeking physical perfection on a cellular level.

Whining, Mischief jumped to the floor and loped off to find her master.

In the wake of incandescence, Jack's pain fled.

***

"I understand how it is you might have thought Kris was somehow involved in something shady, Draymak." Jeff pushed back his plate, his appetite for food sated. "What I still don't get is exactly how a pilot got involved in this intriguing affair, and precisely why anyone would want to kidnap a United Sates Air Force general and his teenage nephew!"

"Well, you could say the general is directly responsible..." Mischief's agitated arrival interrupted Karl Draymak's account.

The little sheltie jumped up. Pawing at Jeff's sleeve, she barked urgently and then spun in a circle. As Jeff made to follow her, she took off back toward the general's room, barking all the way.

Unsure what it was that had disturbed the little dog so, Karl scooped up the shotgun resting idly against a wall. Fumbling with his damaged left hand, he checked to see that it was loaded, and followed Prost.

Blinding light poured forth from the open portal of the general's room; illumination lit up the hallway like fireworks on a hot summer night.

Mischief plunged into the brightness. Standing just inside the entrance, she continued to sound the alarm. "Hush, girl!" Jeff commanded, hesitating beside her.

Shielding his eyes with his hand, Jeff peered inside and gulped. "Oh my God."

Pushing past the stunned doctor, Karl stormed into the room, just in time to observe the general's floating, shimmering form slowly descend and come to rest serenely upon the mattress of his sickbed.

"Um, Karl, I think... I think... we've just uncovered the reason behind a plot to ensnare the general and his kin." Jeff speculated with a stammer of amazement.

"Hot damn, Doc, you've got one hell of a gift for understatement." Karl expounded nimbly. Resting the shotgun on a nearby table, he eyed Jeff intently. "I am not sure what the hell I just saw, but one thing is for sure, now more than ever, we cannot let this man... that is, the general or anyone even remotely related to him, fall into enemy hands."

"Hoo-yah, major." Jeff snapped unconsciously into military stance. The light of battle readiness shone in his still recovering eyes. "Once I check the general out, perhaps we should see if we can gather a bit more intel on this ah... situation."

"Old habits can be very useful, eh Prost?" Cocking his head to one side, Karl slapped the game physician, and ex-major, on the back.

"I suspect the general will be more than happy to fill us in." Draymak arched an ironic brow, making eye contact with O'Neill over the slightly shorter man's shoulder. "Right, General O'Neill, sir?

***

Miles Pendleton, Vice President of acquisitions for GEOM, snatched the telephone handset away from his incompetent personal assistant. "Jefferson, what the hell..."

"Now, now, is that any way to greet an old friend, Miles? I thought you'd be happy to have a chat with me. Besides, I seem to recall that your doctor warned you about anger management and your high blood pressure." Ben instructed lightly.

Jefferson's fingers flew over the computer keyboard. Shifting gears, he adjusted the volume on his speakerphone. "Are you aware of the monumental chaos caused by your dimwitted decision to involve that sadistic bastard the Marquis in my operation?" He demanded harshly.

Pendleton had the good sense to swallow an angry retort. "I'll admit; Wellington's methods have had less than satisfactory results. However, he has assured me that the younger of the specimens will be shipped to our laboratory within the week."

"Really?" Ben replied benignly. "How impressive. Especially given the fact that said specimen is currently suffering from a gunshot wound and fighting for its life."

"What?" Pendleton bellowed. "You must be mistaken."

"I suggest you contact your sources and verify my information." Ben continued in a reasonable tone. "I'll be on my cell. Oh, and Miles? No monkey business, I've arranged for full disclosure of your firm's, shall we call them, 'business dealings'... should anything untoward happen to me."

Smirking with self-satisfaction, Ben severed the connection. He'd already tapped Pendleton's phone and invaded his computer connections. Now, all he had to do was sit back and wait, while good old shortsighted Miles led him directly to the Marquis and Hailey.

Humming the theme from 'The Simpsons', he wondered wryly if the ghost of late General Jack O'Neill had somehow possessed him.

***

Kearney looked up from his laptop as Teal'c glided silently through his open office door and carefully placed a security video on the edge of his desk. "Did the little weasel talk?"

Folding his hands behind his broad back, the solid Jaffa smiled forbiddingly. "I believe O'Neill would say he produced the melody of a small yellow finch."

'Melody of a small yellow finch?' Mystified, Kearney thought the reference over. "Oh, you mean, he sang like a canary!"

Blinking languidly, Teal'c nodded briefly and arched a brow. "I believe that is what I said, Major Kearney."

Biting his lip, hoping to conceal his laugh, the major closed his laptop and sipped his coffee. "Who is he working for?"

"The CIA." Teal'c replied shortly.

Coffee spattered over the major's desk as he choked.

Teal'c quickly moved beside the sputtering officer and heartily slapped him on the back. "Do you require medical assistance, Major Kearney?"

Pulling in a strangled breath, Kearney wiped at his watering eyes. "I'm okay, just give me a minute."

"I shall give you several." Assuming the seat next to the major's desk, Teal'c continued to watch the officer closely.

Once he'd cleared the hot fluid from his trachea, Kearney recovered quickly. "Why would the CIA plant an operative inside our ranks? General O'Neill has been cooperating fully with their liaison for months now."

"According to Airman Trent Stokes, he was assigned the task of protecting both the general and Jon O'Neill by the Secretary of Defense. In order to accomplish his task, he chose to eliminate any possible threat. Jon O'Neill's injury was unintentional." Teal'c's disapproval rang clearly.

"He's touting the friendly fire defense." Kearney snorted. "How then, does he conscience shooting at me?"

"He claims trepidation and adrenaline clouded his judgment." Teal'c responded with a sneer. "This, I do not believe."

Kearney silently concurred. It was highly unlikely that a trained CIA operative would make that kind of mistake. "Guess the O'Neill's aren't the only ones with enemies."

This was one hell of a revelation. Stokes had been a valued member of the SGC security staff for over a year.

"Perhaps." Teal'c agreed. "However, I believe once he injured Jon O'Neill, Airman Stokes sought to add to his defense of panic under fire by narrowly missing you."

"Does he have any idea who or what, Jon really is?" Concern colored the major's voice.

"The man is canny, but I believe he would have revealed such knowledge to me." Teal'c replied thoughtfully. Adding with a feral grin, "It would appear he does not."

"We need to report this information to Major Davis." Kearney's nostrils flared with distaste. "I assume he'll request clarification from both the Pentagon and the President."

Tilting his jaw, Teal'c heard the aversion in the major's tone. "Major Davis held O'Neill in high regard. I believe he will be most disturbed by this information."

Releasing a breath, Kearney refrained from comment. Diverting from the matter, his blue eyes searched his desk. "Apparently, the syringe Sheriff Dalton found near the site of Hailey's abduction contained a powerful veterinary tranquilizer." Picking up a thin brown folder, he thrust it across the desk toward Teal'c. "According to our pharmaceutical tech, the dosage was strong enough to take down an elephant."

Scanning the document, Teal'c frowned. "I see."

"Given the lieutenant's small stature and body weight, it's quite possible that dose killed her outright." Kearney continued bleakly.

Hailey was a tough little thing, but he imagined even soaking wet she weighed no more than ninety pounds. "I've requested a head count of the on-duty personnel and ordered all those off-duty members to return to the base immediately. If there is another mole as Dr. Jackson insinuated, one involved in Hailey's abduction, it's highly doubtful that he or she will comply."

"I concur." Teal'c growled; his blood ran hotter with each passing moment. "Major Kearney, should we uncover another rodent in our midst, I give you fair warning: I shall endeavor to destroy it."

Kearney studied the big man, gauging his resolve. Teal'c was deadly serious. Must be the Jaffa revenge thing General O'Neill mentioned with both respect and pride on several occasions. Surmising that a debate on the matter would be quite futile, the major ducked his head and cleared his throat with a noncommittal grunt.

"If you have no further need of my assistance, Major Kearney, I will adjourn to the infirmary." Rising, Teal'c ducked his head slightly. "I wish to inquire as to the health of Daniel Jackson and young O'Neill."

"Understood." Kearney fingered the cassette tape. Slipping it into a video player, he pressed play. "Oh, and Teal'c... I'm grateful for your... ah, restraint."

Bowing with great dignity, Teal'c smiled sardonically and left the room.

Grimfaced and frazzled, Kearney contemplated the implications revealed on the tape, knowing full well he'd need to balance diplomacy with proper military phraseology in his report to Major Davis.

Disturbed, the disillusioned security chief wondered just what other nifty little surprises the 'O'Neill situation' would reveal next.

***

Two a.m. The chime of the old clock penetrated the room's somnolent gloom, striking the hour.

Damien Wellington, alias the infamous Marquis, stared coldly into the darkness, his twisted mind filled with nefarious machinations; and strangely, a tiny tremor of grief.

Clare was dead. There could be no other explanation. Else, she would have made contact by now. How very odd that he should feel the loss. She was after all, an insignificant plaything. Still, on so many levels dear little Clare satisfied a hunger to which he rarely admitted.

Quite obvious also, was the elimination of the two dedicated men he'd sent to retrieve the boy and his beloved Clare. It could be the only explanation; his people never failed to meet their obligations. The lad was well protected, it would seem. No doubt the death of his uncle had precipitated closer scrutiny.

How very fortunate he'd approached his problem from several angles. Ensnaring the young female lieutenant proved to be a dash more difficult than anticipated. One of his men sported a broken nose and the other, thanks to the valiant, but ineffective Jackson, a shattered wrist. Ah, well, weak-minded henchmen were plentiful and easily replaced.

Flexing his long fingered hands, the Marquis's fluid and cruel mind provided distraction from his twinge of pain. Gleefully, he considered the various methods of retribution he'd wreak on the toothsome lieutenant's nubile body.

The strident jangle of the phone roused the vile faux aristocrat from his sinister muse. Flipping on a small lamp, he noted the number displayed on the caller identification mechanism and muttered a curse. Allowing the phone to ring several more times, he mustered a crumb of tolerance for the mindless fool representing his current employer. Finally seizing the handset, he purred. "Pendleton, to what do I owe this late honor?"

"Wellington, does the phrase 'royally screwed' ring a bell?"

***

Ben Jefferson boldly drove his flashy vintage Mustang convertible through the first security check with a sociable smile. "Hiya Metcalf, how's the wife? I see Kearney has doubled the number of men on the gate."

Gunnery Sergeant Metcalf scrutinized the airman's identification without returning a pleasantry. Frowning, he recognized Jefferson. Returning Ben's wallet, he brusquely waved him through the checkpoint.

Ben sighed, pocketed the case and shifted into first. 'Jarheads can be downright unfriendly at times.'

He supposed that stealing back inside the SGC unnoticed would have proven more difficult than slipping out. Still, given that the moon was shrouded by thick cloud cover it was full dark and, he reasoned, he could have safely maneuvered back by way of his exit point. However, if Ben wanted to avoid suspicion and blend in amongst those considered loyal it was imperative that he gain reentry via the main gate.

Kearney's recall gave him a clear excuse for reporting at 0400 hours, as long as no one questioned him about his departure the evening before. Providentially, he was the man in charge of filing the rosters for those entering and leaving the mountain, hence covering his tracks shouldn't be too tricky. He'd casually add his name to a previously 'misplaced' sign-out sheet; take the heat for the oversight and none would be the wiser.

The men stationed inside the complex were far friendlier in their greeting. Before long, Ben was slinking along the last corridor toward his base quarters wearing a smug grin. Unfortunately, his hitherto smooth strategy hit an unwelcome snag in the form of a bleary eyed Colonel Samantha Carter.

Stumbling into a solid body, Sam spilled her much needed black coffee with an oath of irritation. Looking up through her fog of fatigue, she acknowledged the airman as a member of the security staff, but his markedly relaxed body language coupled with an all too shrewd look, gave her the uneasy feeling that he was up to no good.

Jefferson craftily noted her suspicion, adjusting his plans accordingly. "Colonel, you and I need to have a talk."

***

Daylight broke above the mountains casting splinters of ruddy light over the landscape. A light breeze rustled through the trees and shrubs nearby, scattering a hint of nature's perfume into the cool air.

Early rising birds chirped and chattered, as they gathered in the boughs of the large pines in the backwoods.

Dozing on the front porch of the rustic clinic, Jack sprawled lazily in a hammock, his elegant yet deadly, fingers entwined cozily in the warm fur of his little guardian, Mischief. Prost's handgun nestled comfortingly against his flesh, tucked securely in the waistband of his borrowed scrubs.

Years of pre-battle calm trained old campaigners like him to relish stolen moments of peace such as these.

Following a lengthy discussion and planning session with the doctor and Draymak, the emptiness of night had, as usual, been filled with unwelcome memories and self-doubt.

Using his considerable gift for stealth, he and his diminutive companion had stolen out onto the wide wooden porch seeking the soothing balm of the natural world.

As with many a dawn before, and he speculated, after, Jack allowed his mind to drift and briefly enjoy the promise of a new day.

Still connected by thought to his younger counterpart, he was aware of Jon's similar attitude, each gathering their reserves for the coming battle; their possible personal apocalypse.

A faint smile traced his rugged lips as the little dog snuggled in closer, her wet nose poking him sweetly in the ribs. A similar curving of lips echoed on the face of his mirror image miles away.

Grateful for unquestioning friendship, clone and original continued to savor the serenity of break of day.

On to Chapter Twelve