A Simple Exchange

Author: BadgerGater

Email: [email protected]

Category: Drama, angst

Rating: R, language, sexual situations; mature themes

Season: Written during three but about season 4: Not much for spoilers, since I haven't seen these episodes myself

Summary: The Tok'ra have a request of the Tau'ri

Pairing: None,

Warnings: Language (the F word is used with due provocation), some sexual innuendo & situations

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.

Authors Notes: (This story grew out of an e-mail exchange with Penny, who graciously allowed me to use this deliciously wicked plot idea and we each wrote our own take on it. Many thanks, Penny)

With special thanks to Lin, she knows why; to Tanya, beta extra-ordinaire, mon ami; Jenni, who brings out the silliness in me; Margo, who always pumps me up; and Corine, who showed me a whole new part of the world, filled with castles.

Posted on my first anniversary as a fanfic writer, this fic is dedicated to all of you who have taken the time to let me know you read and enjoyed the things I've written: without your encouragement, I'd have quit long ago. Thank you, my friends, near and far :-)

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She felt a stirring, a strange never before felt need. Rising from her sleeping pallet, she roamed through the extensive tunnel system, for miles and hours. Searching. She did not know what or who it was that she searched for, only that she must search and find, soon, quickly. Her time would soon be upon her, that time, the need so great she sank to her knees, moaning with the insistent, undeniable demands of her body.

One part of her knew and understood. The other cowered in fear.

Prish'nala. The time of need.

She had never experienced it before, but she had heard of it and been schooled for it, long ago; to recognize what it was, what it meant, and what she must do. She had not imagined it would ever happen to her. Indeed, her whole people had despaired of ever having one of their own give them this precious gift.

One image came to mind, over and over again, during her long hours of aimless wanderings. The vision of one face, seared into both halves of her brain: brown eyes, gray hair, generous mouth, strong shoulders, and a tall slender frame; the heart and mind and body of a warrior. Her Chosen.

He was what she needed, wanted, must have. Only her Chosen could fulfill her insatiable hunger, her driving need. Only he could provide what her body demanded to fulfill the Prish'nala and bring forth a new generation.

Her Chosen. His warrior DNA mixing with hers, to provide the seed of life to her children, children who would carry her knowledge and his courage, continue her battles, and fill the universe with her kind.

The ancient need consumed her, and only the memory of that face and form could free her from the bonds her alien biology imposed upon her.

When a queen has Chosen, her people must obey. They must provide.

They would provide her with her Chosen One.

She staggered back to her quarters and fell exhausted upon her pallet. In the morning she would make known her demand. They could not refuse her. The Tok'ra had not had a viable queen, a breeder, in two centuries. They were a dying rebellion, because they could not grow. Until now. Now they could expand, create more of their kind. If she was satisfied, if *her* need was fulfilled, *their* need would be fulfilled.

In the morning, she called together the High Council.

Joy filled the tunnels, the excitement of the announcement palpable. A queen, ready to mate, to produce a long-awaited new generation.

The hormones already flowing through her veins left her chilled, shaking, excitement making her voice unsteady as she spoke the name of her Chosen One.

--------------------

Anise/Freya made her announcement, the request they could not deny, if they were to save their race. "We have selected our Chosen One, our mate, and you must bring him to us." The queen paused to look around the room at the expectant faces surrounding her. "We have Chosen the Tau'ri known as O'Neill."

There was chaos in the council chamber. Garshaw's face had turned a ghastly white. "Anise, that is not possible," the Councilor answered keeping her voice steady and reasonable. "He is not one of us."

Her eyes glowed, snapped. "His people are our allies, are they not?" She turned to stare at Selmak/Jacob. "You are a General of Earth. You can command him."

"I cannot," answered Jacob's human voice. "I am no longer able to do that."

"You must. We must mate, and soon, if we are to fulfill the Prish'nala."

"On my world, such a matter is discussed in private, between a male and a female, with either having the right to refuse," Jacob explained.

Her eyes flashed. "He cannot refuse! He is our Chosen."

"Surely Anise, there must be another? Someone more appropriate? Someone more amenable to us?" Selmak asked.

"No!" Her shout echoed through the tunnels. "We must have the Chosen One. We must have him. O'Neill. No other."

Garshaw, placatingly, bowed her head. "Queen, please, we must let reason prevail. By the time we could get him a message, even if he is willing.."

"*If* he is willing? He is a male, of the Tau'ri, he would not dare to deny the request of a Queen."

Garshaw, knowing the human in question, knew this would be no simple request. "My Queen, you must reconsider."

"Reconsider? We have Chosen. O'Neill *is* the Chosen."

"Please..." Garshaw started. "There must be some other..."

Eyes snapping, Anise turned on Garshaw, contempt dripping from her voice. "You would not know the power of the Choosing, the need of the Prish'nala, you, a dried up sterile husk of flesh, you could not know!"

"Please, mistress, you must calm yourself," spoke up one of the humans who served with the Tok'ra.

"We will not be calm. We must have O'Neill. And you must bring him to us." Anise/Freya's eyes flashed. "Now!"

With one last angry glare around the council chamber, Anise/Freya swept out of the room.

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Her demands did not change. Selmak talked to her, Garshaw talked to her, Aldwin and Baktar and Rudinka and all the members of the High Council talked with her. All attempts to calm her, comfort her or change her mind failed. She would not be swayed. Her Chosen had been named.

-----------------

"So, we must secure the DNA of O'Neill," said Garshaw at the end of the third day, exhausted by the raging emotions Anise/Freya had imposed upon every Tok'ra who had the misfortune to venture within a hundred yards of her. "Jacob?"

Selmak let his head drop, giving his human host control. "You may ask, but I do not think he will agree."

"We will offer your people a substantial fee for such a valuable commodity. A weapon system that would protect your planet. Would that be enough to ensure the compliance of the Tau'ri?" Garshaw asked.

"It would certainly be enough to provoke the interest of my government, I'm sure. However, getting Colonel O'Neill to agree might be another matter."

"And why would he have a say in the matter?" Garshaw asked. "Is he not pledged to serve his country, a military man, a man required to follow the orders of his superiors?"

Jacob blanched. "This would be a private matter, something no member of our military could be ordered to do. Look, couldn't we just obtain the required genetic material from someone else and tell her it came from O'Neill? She wouldn't need to know the difference," Carter suggested.

Garshaw looked puzzled. "And how would that be accomplished? A queen is not blind during the Prish'nala."

Jacob stared at her blankly, realization suddenly dawning. "You mean, he would have to..."

"The mating of the Prish'nala is carried out in the way that my host tells me is normal for humans, a conventional, physical exchange of DNA...."

"Holy Hannah."

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Part 2

"You want me to do what?"

Even General George Hammond, in the four years he'd been Colonel Jack O'Neill's commanding officer, had never seen a look quite like that on his Second in Command's face. Incredulous. Horrified. Shocked. Stunned. Infuriated. Outraged. Hammond didn't have the words.

"You want me to...to...to?" O'Neill repeated, his body suddenly gone cold, chilled from head to toes, as he stared from face to face in the SGC briefing room.

Hammond could clearly see the rage building behind the brown eyes. Having said nothing before, he tried to intercede. "Jack."

O'Neill's eyes flew to his CO's. "Not you too, Sir. I would have thought better of you," he snarled.

"Colonel!" snapped the Secretary of Defense. "I know this request is unorthodox, and a bit of a surprise I'm sure, but consider the consequences..." he suggested, thinking of the technology the Tok'ra were offering in exchange, a defensive weapon that could protect the Earth.

"That's exactly what I'm thinking about, Sir," and there was utter contempt in the way O'Neill spat the final word. "The consequences..."

Hammond tried again, tried to defuse this because he could see O'Neill was rapidly approaching a beyond-reason blowout. That was a thing he'd handled before, but there was enough brass in the room to start a band, and none of the rest of them had his patience, understanding or tolerance of O'Neill. "Son."

"Oh, that's perfect, Sir, just perfect, *exactly* the word I was thinking of," O'Neill leaped to his feet and paced to the window, staring down at the Stargate, his back turned to the room full of Generals and Pentagon officials and Washington high and mighty politicians.

"Colonel O'Neill..." started the Secretary of Defense again. "Technology that could save the world versus, well, just a few minutes of your time, and a simple exchange of bodily fluids....." He let the words hang in the air. "Look, we are all mature adults in this room, and this Tok'ra woman has obvious charms. I don't mean to be crude, Colonel, but if she's not your type, just close your eyes and pretend it's someone else..."

O'Neill laughed bitterly. "Oh, right, exactly, Sir."

Oh my God, thought Hammond, desperately searching his mind for a way to stop this madness before it was too late.

The Secretary of Defense plowed on, seemingly oblivious to O'Neill's rigid shoulders and explosive posture, the hands that were clenching and unclenching with the strain of holding it all in. Damnit, thought Hammond, why couldn't he and the Secretary have had a nice quiet talk with Jack in private, introduced this idea gradually, instead of forcing the man to submit to this travesty in public? George had tried to talk sense into the Cabinet member, tried to explain about the unique private aspect of the Colonel's personality. The man had simply been so sure that O'Neill would agree to this thing, once the Colonel knew the importance of the payment, that he'd ignored Hammond's concerns.

"Colonel, really, I do understand your objections..."

Hammond saw the eruption coming, couldn't miss the tight lines around the eyes, the taut jaw, the absolute fury in the brown eyes, and knew he had failed to protect his Second.

Jack spun around with speed belying his 45 years. "You *understand*?" The Colonel's voice was laced with fury, derision, disbelief, contempt. "You *understand*?" O'Neill was speaking to the Secretary of Defense now, to him alone, as if there was no one else in the room, and George had the sinking feeling that as far as O'Neill was concerned, there *was* no one else in the room.

O'Neill stalked around the table, spun the Secretary's chair around so that the man faced him, Jack bending down to put his face mere inches from the cabinet member's own. In a low, menacing voice, yet one that clearly carried around the room he snarled, "My only child is *dead* and you want me to help those sons of bitches make gould children? Create fucking snakes?"

The Secretary of Defense was a brave man. He blinked and ignored the man's language, but held his ground, answering calmly. "Get yourself under control, Colonel O'Neill. They are not 'snakes', they are Tok'ra. Our allies. Fellow warriors against the Goa'uld."

"You want me to 'exchange DNA' with that, that creature... and just get up and walk away." The incredulity was still clear in O'Neill's voice.

"Yes."

"No." O'Neill stood, and turned away.

The Secretary stared at O'Neill's back. "Colonel, this is a war and in war we are all asked to do reprehensible things."

O'Neill's laughter was a dark, bitter sound. "Reprehensible? Oh that's precious, Sir," and once again the words were dripping with contempt.

"Colonel O'Neill, let me make something perfectly clear, here. You do not have a choice. This is an order, from the highest level of the U.S. government, from your Commander in Chief."

"The President is ordering me to go to bed with that...that?" O'Neill waved a hand toward the gateroom. "I'll admit I'm not very good with the book of regulations, Sir, but I really doubt whether 'get the hell in there and breed with that alien' is considered a proper order."

"Colonel, we need that technology. I know it's an unorthodox request..."

"Request? Or command? Seems more like the latter, Sir," and the contempt was still clearly audible in O'Neill's voice. "So, Mr. Secretary, do you think they'll have my eyes? No wait, they won't, they can only have her eyes, can't they? How much child support do you think the court will order me to pay, eh? And can we just order them all to call me Daddy?" There was bitterness laced into every word, a bitterness most of the others in the room couldn't understand, thought George, exchanging a look with Gen. Jacob Carter. Jacob at least had the good grace to look as unhappy and uncomfortable with this as George felt.

"Colonel O'Neill," the Secretary continued, "you know as well as I do that this would not be the first time an American has been asked to use some rather out of the ordinary tactics to secure the safety of the country. You are not the first man who has been asked to indulge in a little romp between the sheets, shall we say, for the sake of national security."

"Romp between the sheets? Now there's a lovely euphemism for ya'."

"Well, call it anything you like, Colonel, but you have been ordered to do it. By your President."

"Well, fuck the President," O'Neill said, then turning to the Secretary of Defense with a smile, a dark look flitting across his face. "Oh, sorry Sir, for a moment there I forgot. It's that *snake* I am supposed to be fucking."

The Secretary had heard all he was willing to hear, even from this man whose cooperation he needed. He was on his feet and he snapped, "That, Colonel O'Neill, is enough!"

O'Neill stepped forward once more to look the cabinet member in the eye. "No, Sir, it is not enough, it is definitely not nearly enough. *Sir*."

"Colonel, you will obey your orders." The Secretary of Defense demanded.

O'Neill looked once more around the room, his eyes for a moment resting on Hammond's face, something lost, something sad crossing his eyes before being replaced once more by the fury. The voice was very soft, and very tight, and very controlled when he let his eyes slide back to the Secretary of Defense's face. "Sir. In nearly three decades as an officer in the United States Air Force, I have followed many orders, orthodox and not. I have done what I have been ordered to do, even when I have not agreed with those orders. I have, in fact, done some damned distasteful things in the name of my country." He paused slightly. "But... I... will... not... do... this... You can order me to do this but you cannot make me to do this, Sir," and there was a sudden note of pleading? of despair? thought Hammond, a desperate request for the Secretary to see reason and not force this upon the man.

"Colonel O'Neill, you will follow your orders, or you damn well will pay the consequences."

O'Neill's eyes met Hammond's for a brief second, a flash of apology this time thought George with a sinking heart, before glaring once more at the Secretary. "Then damn you, Sir," brown eyes swept the room. "Damn all of you, and damn the whole fucking United States Air Force," and suddenly, with half a dozen quick strides, he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

There was a deafening silence in the room.

"Well, that went well," said Hammond.

*********************************************

Part 3

Jack didn't know where he was walking, didn't care where he was walking, he just knew he had to get out of that room before he exploded. His brain was so locked on the conversation, on the bizarre, incredible thing they'd asked and what he'd just said, that he brushed past people in the hallway. Seeing nothing, not hearing their words, he was just fleeing, the cold hard lump in his gut growing at alarming speed.

"What the...?" muttered Daniel Jackson in surprise as a white faced Jack O'Neill brushed past him in the hallway. The archeologist looked over at Major Samantha Carter.

"Whoa," said the Major, turning to look down the hallway at the rapidly retreating back of her commanding officer. "That was...."

"Weird. He didn't even see us. He looked..."

"Upset..."

"No, that was more than upset," said Daniel, frowning, staring after his friend, mystified by what he'd just witnessed.

"Maybe you should go, see if he's all right," Sam suggested, worry clouding her eyes.

Daniel nodded absently. "I will. If I can catch up to him." Jackson hurried down the hall, not seeing Jack in the main corridor, so turning off into a little used hallway.

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O'Neill had to get away, had to find a place alone and now, before he lost it in public. He turned down the back hallway, the one that led toward the storage rooms and the unused labs, entering the first open doorway he saw. Three steps into the room, he stopped, fisted hands shaking, taking deep, gulping breaths that didn't seem to be drawing any air into his lungs. "Bastards!" he cursed, slamming his hand against the lab table, watching a beaker fall to the floor and smash. "God..." He swept his arm across the lab table, scattering beakers and glassware that smashed on the floor with a satisfying crash of broken glass.

Jack kicked the wastepaper basket that stood at the end of the table, bouncing if off the wall like a hockey puck off the boards. He kicked it again, and again, and then he walked along the room's back wall, methodically slamming shut each of the doors of the dozen or so standard Air Force issue metal lockers. They clanged shut and rebounded open, and he didn't care.

It wasn't helping, not at all, the knot in his gut wasn't shrinking, it was growing. In frustration he pounded his fist against a locker door, and then he stopped to lean his forehead against the cool metal. How could they? How could they think he would or could? Did they think so little of him? After all this time and all he'd sacrificed in the name of his country, how hard he'd worked, all he'd worked for and all he'd lost? Didn't honor or decency mean anything to them? They didn't even see him as a man, to them he was just a thing that they could order to do their dirty work. Dirty. God, it was so dirty...

In sudden desperation, he looked around the room, spotted the battered trashcan halfway under a table, and grabbed it in relief, securing it mere moments before the retching started.

His gut heaved, and he dropped to his knees over the wastepaper basket, bringing up his breakfast, his stomach spasming until he was gasping with pain as the dry heaves refused to stop.

Jackson had been standing in the hallway, listening to the sounds of destruction from the lab, figuring he'd better wait and give his friend a chance to calm down. He heard the new sound, recognized it, and carefully peered around the doorway of the dimly lit room. In disbelief, he saw Jack O'Neill on his knees, head down over the wastebasket, vomiting. Jackson paused in the doorway, waiting, planning to give O'Neill some privacy, but then he realized the retching hadn't stopped.

Worried, Daniel spoke up. "Jack..."

The Colonel spun toward the door, his face deathly white around haunted eyes, "Daniel, get the hell out of here," he managed to spit out before the spasms started again, and he turned back to the container.

Daniel didn't listen. In three strides he was across the room, down on the floor beside Jack, tentatively reaching out to touch the Colonel's shaking shoulder.

"Oh, God," moaned O'Neill.

"Jack, are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" he mumbled, eyes closed, head hanging, breath coming in ragged gasps around the retching.

Daniel tried to lighten the moment. "I never pictured you for the hangover type..."

Jack's eyes opened a fraction, glared at his friend, then slid closed again.

"Or did you eat something from one of those cartons in the back of your refrigerator?"

The eyes didn't open this time, but the head rather carefully shook a determined no. Just that little movement started the heaves again.

"Jack, stay here. I'll get Janet," there was concern in his voice.

O'Neill's hand snaked out and snared Daniel's arm. "No!"

"You're sick, Jack. You need a doctor...."

"Not sick," said O'Neill, retching again.

"Right. Sitting on the floor, cold as ice, shaking and throwing up, and you're not sick..."

O'Neill opened an eye to squint at the young archaeologist. "No doctor."

"Okay, okay." Jackson climbed to his feet, grabbed paper towels from the lab table, wet several at the sink, and handed them to the Colonel.

O'Neill took them gratefully, wiping his face as he sat back on the floor, scooting over toward the wall to lean his back against it, exhausted. For long moments, he simply breathed, head thrown back, eyes closed, concentrating on pulling air into his lungs. Finally, he pulled his long legs up, draped his arms over his bent knees, and let his hands hang limply.

Daniel Jackson watched his friend's chalk white face get a semblance of color back, watched the breathing steady and the hands stop shaking. Finally, not knowing what else to do, Daniel sat down on the floor next to Jack, shoulders almost touching. "You okay now?" he asked softly.

Jack nodded, unsure if he could speak.

"What happened?"

Daniel, always prying, always needing to know, thought Jack. He laughed, a hollow, empty, mirthless sound. "I just bought myself a one-way ticket to Leavenworth. If not a firing squad."

"What?" Daniel recalled the important visitors he'd seen gathering in the briefing room this morning, remembered O'Neill being called to the meeting. "Jack, what happened?"

O'Neill couldn't say it, couldn't force the words out of his mouth. It was like his tongue was paralyzed and his lips were frozen, because this was way too bizarre for words.

"Jack?" the voice was soft. His friend, Daniel, always his friend. And if anyone could understand, Daniel would . He'd been there, done that, earned the t-shirt.

"Do you know anything about horses, Daniel?"

"Well, I've ridden on them quite a few times, going out to dig sites, but really, no." Daniel's brow furrowed, wondering what that question had to do with O'Neill sitting on the floor in an empty lab, sick as a dog and pale as a ghost.

"My grandfather, up in Minnesota, he had a couple. Had this nice mare, and every spring he'd pick a stallion to sire her next foal, pay the stud fee, just ship her off in a truck to some farm, to breed." Jack's eyes were still closed. Taking a shuddering breath, he continued. "The Tok'ra, they have a queen, ready to 'mate'. Anise. And she wants me. And they're willing to pay us, Earth, a really big stud fee for my services. Just exchange a little DNA with her, O'Neill, and we'll get some Tok'ra technology that will save the Earth." The bitter, hollow laugh was back. "Stud fee. DNA."

Daniel shivered, remembering the incident with Hathor, their first encounter, when Hathor was on the base, and the men had all been drugged by her pheromones, or whatever they were. It still horrified him to remember her touch, her slinky voice calling him 'Beloved' her hands touching him in places only Sha're had touched, and doing things with her. Creating those, those, those...

For a moment, Daniel thought he was going to be sick, too.

"Oh God, Jack," the young man thought a moment, a horrible realization suddenly taking hold. "They actually asked you to do that?"

"Yeah. The Secretary of Defense sat right there and suggested I just close my eyes and enjoy it."

Daniel shuddered. "They don't know what they're asking."

"No, they don't," said Jack, opening his eyes, haunted, desolate, despairing eyes. "So next time I go to Charlie's grave I can tell him all about his new brothers and sisters, dozens of 'em, all those little snakelets. Do I buy cigars? Pink and blue baby blankets? Or, or, or..." A choking sound spilled from O'Neill's throat, and Daniel thought it was a sob. He'd never seen Jack cry, over anything. In fact Jack had told him once that he'd never even been able to cry over Charlie.

The Colonel was leaning forward now, head in his hands.

"You told them no, I take it?"

O'Neill laughed again. "Told them hell no, in no uncertain terms. Added a few colorful descriptive phrases."

"Oh boy."

"Yeah, well, when the SFs come through the door, just stay out of the way, okay?"

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Part 4

But it wasn't the Security Forces who found them, it was General Hammond.

He'd been searching for over an hour, once the meeting had broken up, checking every nook and cranny, all of O'Neill's hideout spots. Finally, almost by accident, he'd stumbled onto the low voices in the back hallway. Hammond took a deep breath. His own ears were still ringing from the dressing down he'd received from his superiors for "indulging that out-of-control lunatic." Hmmpph. That out-of-control lunatic (and Hammond being a straight-forward man did have to admit that O'Neill was never easy to rein in), well, he'd only saved the planet, what, four times? Five? If that was lunacy, then the Air Force needed more of it. Sure, O'Neill didn't fit the military's rigid mold, but that was exactly what made him both a great warrior and at times a piss poor example of how an officer ought to act.

At the doorway, having counted to ten but still completely unsure of what he was going to say, he looked in, seeing the scattered signs of destruction and the two men sitting side by side on the floor. The General knocked and asked, softly "Jack? As you were, Son. May I come in?"

At the sound of the familiar voice, O'Neill pulled his haggard face up out of his hands, nodding, making no effort to climb to his feet. "It's your base, Sir," the Colonel answered wearily.

His eyes met Hammond's briefly, then pulled back to stare at a spot above his CO's shoulder as the General entered the room.

"Thanks Daniel," said O'Neill softly, his hand reaching out to give his friend a pat on the arm, then a small shove. Taking the clue, Jackson scrambled to his feet, and left.

It had been a long time since George Hammond sat on the floor. This was not something a general's dignity normally allowed him to do, even off-duty with grandchildren, but for this man, he would.

O'Neill was staring at the polished toes of his boots like he'd never seen leather before.

"Jack..."

O'Neill said nothing, didn't move.

He isn't going to make this easy, is he? Hammond thought. "Son."

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" the anger was back.

"Yes."

"I am not your son."

"I know that, Jack," said the General in as reasonable a tone as he could maintain. One of us has got to keep his cool, he reminded himself. That was never easy for O'Neill, he knew that, but he also knew that that fire, that passion and stubbornness that accompanied it, were a large part of what made the Colonel such an extraordinarily effective officer.

Long moments of silence followed. Hammond, knowing his quarry, waited patiently.

"I can't believe you were a party to that," Jack said softly.

"Not willingly."

"You were there."

"Orders."

"Orders can be disobeyed."

"Ah, well, yes, you certainly proved that," said the General, dryly. "Rather dramatically, I might say."

O'Neill shrugged.

"Jack..."

"You didn't really expect me to agree to do that, did you?" the pleading note was back in the rough voice, the disbelief.

"No, I didn't. But I couldn't prevent them from asking."

"Ordering."

Hammond nodded reluctantly. "They didn't think they'd have to."

O'Neill snorted, his voice as weary and defeated as Hammond had ever heard it. "What, they thought I'd jump at the chance? What kind of a thoughtless bastard do they think I am? Do they think I'm that desperate for a one-night stand? Did they actually think I'd, I'd, I'd willingly play stud dog to her bitch in heat?"

"They don't know you like I do, Jack. They don't understand."

"Oh right. I'm sure they've seen my file, they know what's in there, they know," his voice caught, trembled, but he pushed on, "they know about my kid...."

"Yes, they do." Hammond smiled grimly, and gently he placed his hand on his second's shoulder. "Jack, I can't begin to know how you feel, about losing your only child. I've tried to imagine it, but I know I can't even come close. When I lost my wife, I was, well, lost. And yet, I could console myself with the fact that she'd had a long, full, good life; not always happy, but good. And I still have a part of her with me every day, in our daughters, and our grandchildren, and I thank God for that. I don't know how you managed it, Jack, how you carried on, but I've always admired you for putting your life back together and going forward."

They sat silent for several minutes. Finally, O'Neill sighed. "If it was just a case of going to bed with her," he shivered, "for what's at stake, okay, yeah, I suppose I could do that, and live with myself after. But, but..."

Hammond's hand reached out to touch O'Neill's shoulder again. "Jack, you don't have to say any more. No man should be asked to do that, to unwillingly father..."

"Please don't use that word." Under Hammond's hand, the broad shoulder was shuddering.

"...unwillingly be a party to procreating, especially with an alien..." Hammond shook his head. "We've been asked to deal with some pretty weird stuff around this place, suspend our beliefs, take a lot of things on blind faith." He paused. "I will do anything I can, Jack, because I agree with you on this, but you know it's pretty much out of my hands."

"Thank you, General," said O'Neill, softly. "I know, Sir."

Hammond climbed to his feet, and wearily walked out of the room and down the hall. At times like this he hated the Air Force, hated this thing he'd dedicated his life to, and the things it forced good men to do. He hated being a part of it, hated being unable to stop it, hated being unable to help this man who was about to be steamrollered by the power of the USAF.

Of all the men he'd ever commanded, and he'd served with some of the best, there had never been one like Jack O'Neill, one so exasperating and exhausting and deserving of so much better than the rotten hand life seemed determined to deal him time and again.

<<<<In a Washington D.C. building, in a non-existent room in a non-existent basement, a group of non-existent employees of an officially non-existent federal agency listened to the whispered report.

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Part 5

O'Neill hadn't really expected it, even though he knew it was more than possible. Hammond couldn't protect him from the power brokers in that room, the ones he'd defied and insulted. Illegal as the actual order would have been, and as desperate as the politicians would be to keep any hint of this out of the public eye, he wasn't naive enough to believe that there weren't going to be repercussions for his conduct. Still, it was a hell of a shock to have it actually happen.

He was sitting behind his desk, still feeling shaky and probably still more than a little pale, trying to finish some long overdue reports, and failing. He didn't have six words on his computer screen, and that wasn't due to the inexorable slowness of his one finger hunt and peck typing style.

He sighed, dropping his face into his hands, elbows braced on the desk, trying to wipe the memories of this morning out of his mind. Jesus, he'd thought General West had been a heartless bastard, but then again, the man had only condemned him to die. This time... he shuddered. Gave new meaning to the old phrase, a fate worse than death.

Hearing a noise at his door, he raised his weary eyes, thinking it was probably Daniel coming by to check on him. Jackson had only been there about six times in the last hour, always with a good excuse for visiting, until finally O'Neill had told the young archaeologist to just go away and let him work, he was fine, thank you.

So yeah, Daniel knew better, but Daniel also knew him well enough to know there were times Jack needed to brood alone. This was one of them.

The noise at his door wasn't Daniel. It was four pairs of booted feet, and he looked up and saw the emotionless faces, his heart sinking. Oh, shit, he thought.

"Colonel Jonathan O'Neill?" asked the SF.

"Jack to my friends, but then I guess you're not here for a friendly visit."

"No, Sir. We are here to take you into custody, Sir, for charges of disobeying an order, insubordination, and...."

O'Neill waved the man into silence. "You don't have to read the whole list, Major, I get the picture." The Colonel nodded. "Don't you have to read me my rights now? Oh, wait, I forgot, I'm in the Air Force. I don't have any rights."

Cold eyes stared, unamused, back into his own. O'Neill felt his heart sink even further.

"Assume the position, Sir," the security officer ordered emotionlessly.

Jack stood, leaning against the wall, feeling a little wobble in his knees.

Patting O'Neill down, finding nothing more deadly than a Swiss Army knife in the Colonel's pockets, the SF officer cuffed the man's hands in front of him, wrapping the chain around his waist, another set of links going to and around his ankles.

Jack's mouth felt a little dry, and the words lacked a little of the cocky snap he tried to put into the remark. "Hey, you didn't need to do that. I'd have come willingly..."

"Standard procedure, Sir, considering the severity of the charges. No exceptions."

"What the hell is going on here?" suddenly a voice thundered from the hallway. "Who are you men and what are you doing?"

The major turned to Hammond. "Sir, we're here to take Colonel O'Neill into custody. Our papers, General, Sir."

Jack saw his CO's eyes take in the scene in front of him, then quickly skim the document he'd been handed. And then he saw Hammond's face fall, and he knew there was nothing the General could do to help him. Jack caught his CO's eye, shrugged his shoulders, and looked away. He just hoped no one would make a scene, that they'd just take him out of here quickly before anyone else saw his humiliation, saw him dragged out of here in chains like a common criminal....

---------------

Too late, of course. There were Daniel, and Sam, and Teal'c, crowding behind the General, all with horrified looks on their faces. Teal'c, O'Neill realized with sudden dismay, was carrying his staff weapon. Jack plastered a smile on his face, at least he hoped it was a brave look. "No big deal, guys. Forgot to pay my parking tickets. I'll get this straightened out and be back in time for supper."

Teal'c stepped in front of the SFs, blocking the way, a menacing look on his face. "Colonel O'Neill, do you *wish* to go with these men?"

"Teal'c, it's okay."

"O'Neill, it is not okay. That is obvious," the big Jaffa said stubbornly.

"Teal'c, I have to go with these men. No, I don't want to, but it's just one of those unexplainable things we do here."

"You have done nothing to warrant such treatment."

O'Neill's answer was very quiet, void of either sarcasm or bluster. "They think I have."

"He has to go with them, Teal'c, " Hammond spoke to the Jaffa for the first time. The General turned to the SF officer. "There's no need for those kinds of restraints, Major. I'll vouch for the Colonel's conduct...."

"Sorry, Sir, they are required under the circumstances. We were informed of the Colonel's extensive combat training, General."

"I do not like this, O'Neill," Teal'c insisted, looking from the General to the Colonel.

"I don't much like it either, Teal'c. Please. Put the weapon down."

Reluctantly, the warrior did as his superiors ordered.

"Where are you taking him?" Hammond demanded of the SFs as they began marching his second away.

"Secure confinement, at Peterson."

--------------

O'Neill thought he'd never seen the hallways look so full, and he knew it had never taken him so long to make the short walk from his office to the elevators. He kept his head up, eyes fastened straight ahead on the wall, not meeting anyone's eyes. He couldn't.

Humiliation wasn't a feeling Jack O'Neill was fond of. He thought he'd gotten his fill of it already, back there in the briefing room and during that long walk through the SGC hallways, but he was wrong.

---------------------

Once upstairs, more disbelieving, staring eyes watched as he was shuffled out of the topside building, pushed into the middle of the back seat of a waiting van, and driven away.

It was a long, silent drive to Peterson AFB's lock-up.

O'Neill was processed, a nice word for more humiliation at the hands of his own people, the Colonel thought wearily. Not once did anyone call him by name; his uniform was replaced by a formless, rankless jumpsuit; all his personal possessions were confiscated; he wasn't even allowed a belt, or shoelaces. A bored doctor gave him an impersonal, perfunctory medical exam, coldly efficient, like he was vetting an animal. Never again would he complain about Fraiser and her staff. If he ever got the chance, he reminded himself.

Ages later, when the whole humiliating business was over with, Jack was escorted to a cell.

"Ah, my own private room," he smiled at the SF. Another humorless slug, thought O'Neill, getting not so much as a grin in reply. Where did the Air Force find so many guys who didn't know it was legal to show their teeth in public?

Finally, when the guard had gone, he sank down on the bunk, burying his head in his hands. He'd thought of a lot of different ways his career in the Air Force might come to a crashing halt, but he'd never imagined this one-- jailed for refusing an order to go to bed with an alien-inhabited woman. Refusing to contribute his DNA in the conventional manner to breed a whole new generation of warrior-allies.

He'd laugh if it wasn't so damn sick.

Fine kettle of fish you've gotten yourself into this time, O'Neill, he thought wryly, looking around at the stark, bare walls. There was a window high on one wall, and he jumped up, grabbing the bars, hoping to look out, but seeing only another wall. Letting himself down, he began pacing. Oh Great, Jack, you've lasted, what all of 30 seconds and already you're stir crazy.

---------------

Two strides by four strides. That was the extent of his world.

Jack never had much tolerance for small, tightly enclosed places, not since, well in the last ten years. Most people just figured it was part of his high energy, never sit still nature. You'd think that, unless you'd seen his personnel records and knew about the 124 days he'd spent locked up in an Iraqi prison back in 1990-91. Of course, that space was smaller, half the width, half the height, twice the... Shit, don't dwell on that, Jack.

It wasn't like he hadn't been locked up a few times in between, in the last four years. What with all those hostile aliens SG-1 had encountered, he'd been thrown in more than a few cells, mostly pretty primitive lock-ups compared to this. But a cell was a cell. So this one had heat and lights and a bunk, but the door was still locked. Those other times, at least then he'd had his team for company, there'd been the need to plan an escape as an outlet for his energy. This, this was... he didn't know the words, but he needed to *do* something, to move and to act, so he paced.

"You'll wear out your shoes doing that, mister," said the guard walking past.

Jack looked down at the paper slippers he'd been issued. "Yeah, right."

The guard kept walking.

At least it had been someone to talk to.

Later, they brought supper, or what they called supper, a congealed mass of some gray greasy meat-like substance (he'd eaten better on a dozen primitive planets around the galaxy, he thought. I will never again complain about an MRE), rock hard peas, stale bread, and minimally reconstituted potatoes. He couldn't eat any of it, probably couldn't have consumed it if the finest steak had been set in front of him, come to think of it.

So he resumed pacing, until the guard walked through once more and announced, "lights out."

"Hey, don't I get to make a phone call or something?"

The guard just looked at him. "You've been watching way too much TV, mister. Hit the bunk."

Jack tried. He couldn't lie down on the bare mattress, finally ended up sitting crossways on the bunk, knees pulled up, forehead leaning against them. He didn't sleep, his brain was on overdrive.

For hours, he sat, and thought about what had happened, what he had done and said, and knew he wouldn't take any of it back. Maybe there were some men the President could order to do what he'd been 'requested' to do, maybe some men could do 'that' and walk away without feeling tainted, but he wasn't one of them. He'd told Hammond once that he'd done some damned distasteful things during his years in the Air Force, and he was sure the General had the clearance to know about most if not all of them. Yet despite everything, he had always hung onto his principles. There were some things Jack O'Neill would not and could not do, not for the sake of his country, or his own life. There were lines he would not cross.

Jack had never been above bending a rule, re-interpreting an order, or telling a little, or sometimes not so little white lie, to get the job done. There were times he looked the other way or questions he didn't ask, because there were things he didn't want to know. Like about that reporter... Shit, don't go there, Jack, you don't want to go there again. He'd had more than a few sleepless nights over that whole mess. And then of course there'd been the whole first mission to Abydos cover-up that he'd orchestrated for the sake of Daniel and the Abydonians. That was something he was inordinately damn proud of, actually, what he'd done there.

And the promise he'd made to himself when he returned, the vow he'd made at his son's grave to always and forever after never do a thing he would be ashamed to tell Charlie about.

The end does not justify the means.

Obviously, that wasn't what the Air Force thought.

Then maybe he didn't belong in the Air Force anymore.

Well, he wasn't going to have much choice about that, was he?

--------------------------------------------

Part 6

He knew it was dawn by the waning darkness in the small window, and the sounds around him, the sounds of men awakening, of clanging metal, toilets flushing, men calling out to one another.

Oh God.

Jack refused the breakfast, drank a little of the coffee, ignored the rest until a guard came and took his tray, and resumed his aimless pacing.

O'Neill didn't know what time it was when someone finally came for him. "You, come on. You've got a visitor."

-------------------

It wasn't often that a General came to the lock-up-- well, truth be told, it wasn't often a Colonel got locked up in one of the Peterson holding cells, thought the guard as he escorted Hammond into a room. Usually the place was just a holding tank for a few airman sleeping off a night of too much partying, an airman who had a discipline problem, someone who'd taken a swing at a spouse or a roommate; rarely anything more serious than that. Rumors were swirling around this case like wildfire, though.

"They'll bring him in a minute, General," said the SF before leaving.

Hammond drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk, realized what he was doing was a Jack O'Neillism, not his usual behavior, and stopped.

George Hammond liked his 2IC, and he was appalled at what walked through the door. He hardly recognized O'Neill, and this hadn't even been 24 hours, he thought with dismay. Jack looked not one bit like the officer Hammond knew: his eyes were bloodshot, exhaustion exaggerating every line in his face, his eyes lifeless and hooded, his walk confined to the peculiar shuffling gate forced on him by the chains. Chains! Damn them. They were inside a prison for God's sake. What did they think the man could do in here?

"Jack?"

O'Neill sank into the chair on the other side of the clear plastic partition, and didn't meet the General's eyes.

Hammond tried to ignore the graffiti on the partition walls.

"Hello, Sir," Jack's answer was quiet, lifeless.

Hammond didn't know what to say. "Did you get any sleep?"

O'Neill rolled his eyes. "Ah, no, Sir. Mattress was too lumpy."

"Have you eaten anything?"

"Ah, the food was lumpy too."

"Jack, you need to take care of yourself."

"Yeah, right, so my life sentence can last years longer?" there was a hollow bitterness to the sarcasm.

"I've been told they're shipping you to Washington. I've got friends there, I'll see to it you get a good lawyer and a fair hearing..."

O'Neill laughed that nasty laugh. "Oh right, Sir. A fair hearing, so they can tell the world what I was ordered to do... You know better, General."

"Jack, look, don't give up yet..."

"Right."

"In the meantime, is there anything I can get you?"

"A file in my cake? A lifetime subscription to the Prison Sucks Newsletter? Maybe smuggle me in a bottle of good malt whiskey?" He paused. "Cigarettes. You know, I've been thinking about taking up smoking again, and now I should have the time for it."

"Son...."

"Sir, I think it's time you disowned me." The brown eyes were deadly serious as they rose to meet Hammond's. "There's no sense in letting them drag you down with me."

"There are things, and people, worth fighting for, Jack. You know that."

"Yes, Sir, I do. That's how I ended up here. And that's why you have to cut yourself lose from me and protect what you can, General. Please, Sir, don't let this, let me, take down the SGC." O'Neill looked away. "I don't think I could live with that, Sir."

Hammond nodded. "Jack, I've got to go. Don't you give up, because I and quite a few others aren't about to give up on you."

For a moment, Hammond thought he saw a glimmer of hope flicker across the solemn face before him.

"Goodbye, Sir," he said, and turned to go. Stopping at the doorway, he turned back once more to his CO. "Maybe if I'm lucky, General, I'll get my old friend Maybourne as my cellmate," and with those words, O'Neill was gone.

George Hammond sat for several long moments, silent, drained, before he climbed to his feet and walked slowly out of the lock-up and into the sunshine.

-------------

"This is rather out of the ordinary, Sir," said the Security Forces Non-Commissioned Officer in charge of the brig. "We don't usually allow prisoner transfers this late in the day."

"You don't usually have colonels as prisoners either, do you, Sergeant?" asked the spit and polish Major Smith who stood before the desk, sunglasses hiding his eyes, a grim look on what could be seen of his face. He was flanked by three massive, fully-armed SFs. "You'll find the paperwork is all in order, signed, dated and authorized by the Secretary of the Air Force, in triplicate. This man is to go with us, and go now. We need to move him to prevent any further incidents," the Major lowered his voice conspiratorially. "This is a matter of national security, Sergeant, and your cooperation will be duly noted." As the man watched the prisoner being led out the side door to the waiting vehicle, he turned again to the SF. "One of the reasons we are making this transfer at this hour, Sergeant, is to prevent any further rumors. We must use the utmost discretion when dealing with terrorists and the like. You do understand."

"Yes, Sir," said the young Sergeant.

"Any inquiries as to the Colonel here, just direct them to Legal Services. In Washington." That ought to slow down any questions, thought the Major.

-----------------

Jack O'Neill was once again escorted out into a van. He expected they would take him across the familiar base to the airfield, put him on a plane, and fly him east. The van turned onto the road toward the field, passed the turnoff, and kept going.

"You guys lost or what?" he asked, suspicion spiking through his brain.

His question was ignored as they sped past the airfield, toward the back gate. "Ah, guys, this does seem a bit irregular... Owww!" he looked down at his left leg to see a needle jammed deeply into his thigh.

"Nighty-night, Colonel."

"Oh, shit," he mumbled, and passed out.

--------------------------

It took him a long time to wake up. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, his stomach roiled, and his head ached. Hangover? Another visit to the infirmary?

O'Neill opened his eyes and wished fervently it was either of those possibilities, instead of what it was.

He was in the backseat of a car, stuffed between a couple of oversized goons, riding through the night. It was dark outside the car windows, he saw through slitted eyes. And then he saw the highway number, and knew where they were taking him. He'd driven this road before.

It went to Nevada, to Groom Lake, to Area 51.

"Hey, I think he's awake." said a voice he didn't recognize.

An elbow jammed sharply into his ribs. "You awake?"

Jack wanted to say nothing, meant to say nothing, knew he should say nothing, but his lips were moving, almost like they weren't even his. "Yes," he mumbled.

Drugged, he'd been drugged!

Whatever he'd been given, it hadn't been much, just enough to leave him feeling, odd, funny, sort of spacey, and definitely much too co-operative. He felt himself following the orders he was given even though inside he knew he didn't want to obey. He couldn't stop his body from doing what it had been told, no matter what his brain demanded.

Hour after hour, they traveled through the dark and barren countryside. Once they'd given him more of the drug, something they made him drink that time and he was powerless to stop his own compliance with their orders. It was like that damn stuff Seth had used, and Hathor, drugs that took away the ability of his mind to control his own body.

He tried to make himself think about escape, work on a plan, but he couldn't keep focused long enough to formulate any kind of strategy. If he could just get them to stop the car, he could try, something. "I have to go take a leak," he finally told his captors.

"Tough. Hold it."

They drove on.

-------------------------

The drug clouded his brain enough that O'Neil couldn't tell how long they traveled, hours at least, before turning off the highway into the desert. The vehicle entered a fenced in area through a padlocked gate and past checkpoints, until they approached a hangar.

"Get out."

O'Neill got out. His brain screamed at his body to run, attempt escape, but his body simply refused to acknowledge his orders.

He stood between two of the goons, while the SF Major (Major Smith! O'Neill thought with a snort. How original) went up to the building and entered through a small door. After a few minutes, the big overhead hangar doors began to roll open.

Oh Shit. Inside the hangar was a Tok'ra ship, one of those little tel'tac cargo ships, and with growing horror he knew what was happening. They were going to do it, force him to go to that planet and, and, and breed with that freakin' snake. And he was powerless to stop them.

-------------------------------------

Part 7

He was ordered into the ship, and his body acted without his consent. None of the faces there, all Tok'ra he assumed, were familiar. Escorted into a room, Jack obeyed the command to lie down upon a bed. There he was strapped down, his body again complying without protest while his mind raged helplessly.

A clip was attached to his shoulder, near the collarbone, and he could feel the flow of chemicals start, burning in his veins. More drugs, fluids, food, he didn't know what they were, and it really didn't matter, because he was helpless to do anything about them.

----------------

The Colonel didn't know how long he was unconscious, minutes, hours, days, weeks for all he knew.

He drifted.

-------------------

"What do you mean they don't know where he is?" Hammond thundered into the mouthpiece of his phone.

"General Hammond, he has not yet arrived in Washington."

"Well, he's not at Peterson, either."

"No Sir, they said he was to be shipped out this morning, but that flight is grounded by plane trouble, somewhere near Kansas City, I've been told. I'll keep in touch with officials here, and I'll insist I be allowed to see him as soon as he's been processed."

"Transferred? Processed? I'd swear we were talking about cheese here, not a human being, a highly decorated senior officer in the United States Air Force."

"I'm sorry, General, I know he's a friend of yours. But at the moment, he's not considered an officer, he's a prisoner."

"He's been convicted of nothing."

"Sir, scuttlebutt here is, it's a foregone conclusion. Just reading his file...."

Hammond snorted, knowing what was in O'Neill's files, and what wasn't. The real record of what the man had accomplished was so top secret it couldn't even be used to defend the man. "So he's already been tried and convicted in absentia?"

"I'm afraid so, Sir. We can fight it, delay it, insist on every formality, but I'm afraid, considering who and what they've got stacked up against him, there will be very, very little that we can do."

"Do anything and everything you can, Major. But first, find him." Hammond slammed down the phone, wiping a hand across his face.

Daniel Jackson had listened in with horrified fascination. "General, it's not possible that they, well, that they've somehow coerced him into going?"

"No, Dr. Jackson. There's no way to get him off the planet. And I guarantee you, there's not in a chance in hell that they could take him through this gate."

"What about the other one, Sir?" asked Sam. "The Arctic gate?"

"I've checked, Major. It's still stored, iris welded in place, at a top secret location. I've got someone watching it too."

"A ship?"

"And how would they land it on Earth?"

Sam and Daniel looked at each other.

"Look, it's entirely possible that what Major Alderson said is true, the flight's been delayed, and he'll be in D.C. soon." Hammond hadn't told O'Neill's team about what he'd seen during his visit to Peterson, the Colonel's ragged state after less than 24 hours in confinement. There was nothing they could do, and worrying them further would do no good. He would worry enough for all of them, he thought grimly.

----------------------------

Sam and Daniel left Hammond's office, starting down the hallway.

"God, I can't believe my father was a party to that, asking the Colonel to, to..."

"Well, as I understand it, he was as powerless as General Hammond. The Tok'ra High Council was calling the shots, just as the Joint Chiefs, the Cabinet and the President did here."

"Look, I'm going to contact my Dad, just to make sure there's nothing going on. I know they couldn't have taken him through the gate, but I don't buy that delayed flight story. It's too convenient. The Colonel always says never believe in coincidences."

---------------------------

"Colonel O'Neill, we will be landing soon," said an unfamiliar voice.

Hmm, steward instead of stewardess of this flight. Oh, that's a shame, thought O'Neill. Funny, he didn't remember the inflight movie, or the meal...

His eyes snapped open. He wasn't on an airplane, he was on a ship, a Tok'ra ship, on his way to the bed of Tok'ra Barbie to breed snakes. He groaned.

"Please, Colonel, sit up."

Something compelling him to please, Jack obeyed, sitting up, and instantly regretting it. The walls lurched, spun, swirled, and he slammed his eyes shut, his hands holding the sides of his head. "Oh God, my head."

"You must move more slowly, O'Neill. You have been unmoving for two days while we traveled." A hand pulled one of his away from his head, placed a container into it. "Here, drink this."

O'Neill opened one eye to see the glass, raised it to his lips and drank, gulping, unquestioning.

"Easy. Slowly. Sip."

Again, Jack felt he must comply, and did, despite his raging thirst.

"Better?" asked the bright young face in front of him.

"Yes."

"Good. Now, you may stand, slowly, lean upon my shoulder."

Jack swung his feet off the bed and to the floor. The walls shimmied again, but not as bad this time, so he stopped, eyes closed, needing only a few seconds before regaining control. Once he felt steadied, he pushed off the bunk and stood, wavering, but upright, leaning rather heavily on the shoulder of... he turned to the man, a question in his eyes.

"I am Nisslern."

"Nisslern."

"Shall we walk? You must, to regain your equilibrium and your strength."

They walked around the small cargo hold, O'Neill gradually growing steadier on his feet. After 20 minutes, Nisslern called a halt. "Sit, and I will bring you food."

O'Neill ate the food and drank the water he was offered, a nagging bit of doubt tickling the back of his mind, but he was unable to pin down any problem with this nice little trip, nice companions, nice food and drink, nice bunk..... Nice. It was all so nice and pleasant and... he drifted off to sleep again.

"By the time you wake, we will have reached out destination," said Nisslern, a smile on his face. "I am sure you will enjoy your visit to Midwara."

--------------------

Jacob Carter walked down the ramp of Earth's Stargate, a grim smile on his face as he looked at his daughter waiting for him.

"Hi, Dad," she greeted him warmly.

"Hi, Samantha," the peck on her cheek was perfunctory, his smile distracted.

"Dad?"

"I'm sorry, Samantha, but the news doesn't look good," the retired General looked at his daughter's companions, Dr. Jackson, Teal'c and his old friend George. "We need to talk, somewhere in private."

"My office," said Hammond.

Once they were crowded into the General's small office, Jacob quickly revealed his information. "I'm sorry Sam, but I haven't been able to find a sign of him."

"Then maybe this was for nothing. The flight might actually have gotten delayed and he'll show up in Washington," she started, optimistically.

"I don't think so. The High Council does not like to have their requests denied. They were very, very angry when we left the meeting with you, but before we left Earth, a General Langworthy called on Garshaw..."

"Langworthy? I don't think I know him," commented Hammond.

"I don't either, George, and the fact is, I don't think he actually *is* a General. He was the one dressed in the Marine uniform. But he was there, ostensibly to apologize on behalf of the people of Earth. After leaving Garshaw, he met with several of the members of the High Council. After he left, their mood improved greatly."

"Like he'd made some kind of a deal," finished Sam.

"Exactly. Not with Garshaw, she likes O'Neill too much to do something like this. But there are plenty of others on the Council, others who dislike Garshaw and O'Neill, who would be willing to go behind her back, break any law, risk anything. If they bring O'Neill to heel, Anise gets her wish and mates, and those who helped her will gain tremendous power within the council. A bloodless coup of sorts."

"And the only one who gets hurt is Jack," Daniel whispered with loathing.

"I'm afraid so."

"But how will they get O'Neill to her?" Teal'c asked.

"Well, I believe they are using a ship, one of the small scout ships could land on Earth fairly easily, with a little cooperation from the authorities."

"Like at an airbase?"

"Certainly," agreed Jacob. "Sneak him off the planet..."

"But he won't go, not without a fight," objected Daniel. "I mean, Jack was adamant. And he's the stubbornest man I know."

"They have drugs that will make him very, very susceptible to suggestion," Jacob reminded. "He'll follow their orders, even though deep down inside he may know it's wrong or know he doesn't want to, he'll do as they tell him..."

"Like Hathor's drug? But she said that stuff only works once," Daniel remembered.

"True, her drug could only be used once. But a variation, made from the pheromones of Anise, would trap him all over again."

"And afterwards?" asked Sam. "He'll remember what he did?"

"Yes." Jacob's face was grim.

"My God, when Jack wakes up and discovers what he did," Daniel shuddered. "He'll never be able to live with himself. He was so revolted just at the thought..."

"It wasn't his choice," whispered Sam.

"It won't make any difference, not to him. You know him."

"O'Neill will not forgive himself. It is not in his nature to accept excuses from anyone, himself least of all," noted Teal'c gravely.

"So we have to find him and stop this before anything happens. Jacob, what can we do to help?" George asked.

"Nothing." He raised a hand to quiet their quick objections. "Look, I can't take any one of you back to our planet. You know how paranoid the Tok'ra are about keeping their location secret. I'm going back now, and I'll inform Garshaw and a few of her most trusted people. We'll keep watch, intercept them before they can get Jack anywhere near Anise..."

"And what happens with the promised technology? This charade certainly wasn't carried out without some assistance from more than a few people in our own government, people who were willing to trade Jack for the weapons technology," Jackson reminded.

"We'll deal with them later, Dr. Jackson." Hammond declared, a sudden idea prompting him to pick up the phone the moment the others departed from his office.

---------

Jacob Carter returned to Midwara.

'We should not get involved,' his symbiote Selmak warned. 'This issue will greatly divide the Tok'ra and we are already too small a rebellion.'

'It is too late for that. Someone should have thought of that before they kidnapped O'Neill,' Jacob answered his symbiote. 'There must be another answer.'

'None that I know of, Jacob,' answered Selmak.

----------------------------------

Part 8

The small tel'tac ship settled onto a landing pad hidden in a rocky canyon several miles from the Tok'ra tunnels. Jack felt the gentle gliding motion stop, felt the sudden lurch and the cessation of motion, and knew they had landed. He didn't know where. One part of his brain didn't care, because it didn't matter where he was. Things were pleasant. Gentle. Easy. Carefree. Comfortable.

The other, deeper portion of his brain was desperate for answers, desperate to get the rest of his mind to listen, and act.

"So, O'Neill, we have arrived," said Nisslern as he unbuckled the straps that were holding the Colonel down and helped the man sit up. "We are going to take a little hike now. But first you must drink this."

Jack followed the Tok'ra's command, as he always obeyed, his hands and mouth and throat working despite the objections from his subconscious mind. And when Nisslern ordered him to change clothes, into the clothing of the Tok'ra, he did so quietly, though protesting bitterly and futilely within.

"Come, your Queen awaits," said Nisslern with a smile, and numbly, Jack followed him out of the ship and walked toward the distant hill. Once arriving at their destination, Nisslern and his companion again turned their attention to Jack. "Now, O'Neill, you must be quiet. Keep your eyes averted, your head down, and be as unobtrusive as possible. You must follow me and do as you are told, without question. Do you understand?"

The glazed brown eyes did not look up. "Yes, Nisslern." he answered slowly.

"Good. Come now," and boldly, Nisslern and his companion, Ogema, walked quickly to the transport rings. Nisslern activated his hand device, and the rings emerged from the sand. A fraction of a second later, the trio re-materialized in one of the distinctive Tok'ra formed tunnels. There were other Tok'ra nearby, but none seemed to pay any attention to the three new arrivals. Quickly, they walked away from the transport rings, and toward the private quarters Ogema occupied, in the same section of tunnel near the moody, broody fertile queen.

They didn't notice one furtive figure who was watching them from the shadows. "O'Neill is here," Sarepta whispered into his short range communication device. "Hurry."

----------------

Two more Tok'ra, a man and a woman, waited in Ogema's quarters, anxious smiles on their faces.

"My God, you did it, you brought him here!" gloated Warst.

"Are we in time? Anise is still in the throes of Prish'nala?"

"Oh yes, can't you hear her from here? Screaming and cursing at the poor maids who have been assigned to tend her, growling at any male who comes within 50 feet of her. She's still mad for her Chosen, all right," Warst answered.

"Good. Then we must get him ready." Nisslern turned to his captive, a smile on his face. "Ah,

O'Neill, who would have thought the likes of you would win such an honor, to father the next generation of my people? I guess there is no accounting for the taste of a queen when the breeding lust overcomes her. I must go now, and inform the queen you are here. You will go with Ogema and prepare yourself for this honor."

Wordlessly Jack followed Ogema into another room, a small room lit by many candles. "You will undress and bathe, here," Ogema pointed.

O'Neill obeyed. Though his hands removed the Tok'ra clothing without hesitation, his inner self was raging at the indignity of stripping in front of the Tok'ra, these aliens who had kidnapped him and forced him here, to be their, their, their, God, he couldn't even think of a word to fit this nightmare. And then he realized he was standing, naked, being scrutinized by Warst. "Well, I certainly don't know what it is she sees in him. Scars everywhere," she shuddered," and he's old for another thing."

"Ah, the Tau'ri age quickly. He is not half your age, Warst." Ogema defended the choice of his Queen.

"Well, he is certainly gray," she fingered his hair, and O'Neill did not move, though he cringed inside.

"Some think the gray makes a male more handsome. And that age imparts wisdom, and knowledge."

"Anise must be one such."

"And he is a great warrior of the Tau'ri, celebrated for his courage and cunning."

Warst was walking around the Colonel, inspecting him as if he were livestock being appraised for purchase. "If this is the best warrior the Tau'ri produce, then it is no wonder they cannot match the Goa'uld." She reached out a hand to touch his ribs, let her fingers trail along the outline of his hip.

Jack shuddered, mentally grinding his teeth in outrage.

Warst looked down, touched him, her fingers cold against his warm skin. "He doesn't seem to be much interested. Perhaps he is too old, and cannot."

Outwardly unmoving and unaffected by the words, Jack seethed inside.

"He will, once he is with her," Ogema stated confidently.

O'Neill endured the ministrations of the bath, and then was ordered to lie down upon a table where he was massaged with a fragrant oil.

There was not an inch of his body that was left untouched.

The inner part of his brain, the rational part that was still functioning, raged helplessly against the indignity, fighting the conditioning, the drug, and his unwilling, unresponding body. Maybe if he fought hard enough, he could regain some control, Jack doggedly insisted as he struggled against the betrayal of his own body. He thought he was making progress, he seemed to be making progress...

It was too little, too late.

Nisslern was back. "The Queen awaits her Chosen. Come, O'Neill. Stand."

Jack could not prevent his body from following the Tok'ra's order. Nisslern tied a loincloth about the man's waist, then draped the pure white ceremonial robe over the Tau'ri's form, adjusting the set on his shoulders. "Ah, ready. Come now." He led the outwardly unresisting man down the hallway to Anise's quarters.

--------------

Nisslern walked cautiously down the hallway, Ogema and O'Neill following ten paces behind. Nisslern turned the corner, checking that no one else was in sight, then motioned the others forward, and into a small alcove. The Tok'ra turned to the Tau'ri Colonel, pulling a small container from his pocket.

"What's that?" Ogema inquired.

"One more dose of the drug, a special mixture, designed to make him both compliant to her commands and ensure he is capable of satisfying her desire," Nisslern told the other Tok'ra.

Turning to O'Neill, he ordered, "drink this."

The man wanted to resist, wanted to clamp his jaw closed and refuse, wanted nothing to do with this, wanted to fight or flee or simply fall dead on the spot. Summoning every last ounce of willpower, he raised a hand and feebly swatted Nisslern's hand away.

"Ah, you still have spirit, O'Neill, good. Our Queen will appreciate that," the Tok'ra said with a smile, and with Ogema's help, forced the cup to the Colonel's unwilling lips. "You will drink this, Tau'ri." O'Neill could do nothing, as his body complied and he swallowed the milky, sweet fluid.

The Tok'ra stared expectantly at the Colonel from Earth. In just a few moments, the human's skin began to flush, his eyes glaze and lose their focus. His breathing seemed to deepen, his hands nervously drumming along his thighs.

"How are you feeling, O'Neill?" Nisslern asked.

The man's head snapped to attention, then the gaze dropped quickly, unwilling to meet his, the eyes staring down at the floor. "Good," Jack whispered. "Good. Good."

"You are ready now, to perform your duties for the Queen. You will please her, and obey her, regardless of your own wishes. You will fulfill her every whim, obey her every command, honor all her wishes. You will give her great pleasure and in doing so provide our people with strong children."

Inside the human's skull, the tiny portion of O'Neill's rational brain that was unaffected by the drug screamed in silent protest, but his body was not capable of listening. The chemicals thrummed through his system, his heart rate increasing, his breathing deepening, the blood singing through his veins.

"Go, now, go to our Queen, and please her."

Nisslern led O'Neill down the tunnel, turned in at a doorway, where he could hear Anise's angry voice. "Get away from me, you fool! If you cannot fix my hair better than that you have no reason to be in my quarters. Get out now, get....." A terrified maid rushed out of the room, brushing past Nisslern and his companion.

The voice from within suddenly stopped it's ranting, and changed.

Anise sensed his presence. She could not yet see him, perhaps it was his unique scent, perhaps it was the hypersensitivity of the Prish'nala, but she knew her Chosen was nearby.

And then she heard the footsteps in the hallway, tentative, unsure steps.

Her voice lost the shrewish complaining tone and she all but purred. "O'Neill, enter, our Chosen One."

The Tau'ri Colonel was there in the doorway, clad only in the ceremonial robe, the ruarsh. His eyes looked glazed and confused, but she did not notice. "Come closer, my pet," she cooed, voice gone smooth and silky, and he complied.

Through the haze of the drug, he stared at her, his eyes seeing her beauty, and he felt desire course through him, felt himself grow and harden, and he moaned with the sudden need just the sight of her produced. O'Neill knew what was happening to his body, knew he didn't want it to, tried to stop it. No, no, stop, no, don't, can't, won't, he frantically ordered his own disobedient flesh, picturing every gross and horrible thing he'd ever seen in his life, every turn off and cold shower moment he could imagine in an effort to stop what was happening.

None of it worked. The drugs had control. The moan that escaped him was as much one of horror as of passion.

Unknowing and uncaring of the internal battle going on inside the male body before her, Anise/Freya licked her lips in anticipation, her eyes straying to the thin folds of cloth that could not hide the obvious and growing reaction his body was having to her presence.

"Oh, my Chosen One, you have come prepared," she laughed in delight, "you have come ready to please your Queen."

"My Queen," the whispered words passed slowly across his lips, lips that felt hot and inflamed, and ached with the need to taste her mouth, her skin. His fingertips tingled with the need to touch her.

Anise stood, clad only in the revealing robe, and walked toward him. When her hand touched his arm, he shivered, the fine hairs standing on end, and Jack swayed toward her. "Oh, not yet, my pet, not yet. It is our turn to explore you, first." Anise let her hand trail across his arm, down the firm line of his muscled thigh, and come to rest, lightly, against the swollen groin. He moaned again, closing his eyes, leaning into her touch.

She laughed, a low throaty chuckle. "Ooh, so eager, my Chosen One, so eager." She pulled her hand away from his genitals, and slid her fingers up his muscled abdomen to his chest, under the folds of the robe, and up toward his shoulders, pushing the ruarsh off his shoulders and down his arms, until it fell in a silky tangle at his feet. He raised his hand to touch her face. "No," she ordered, "leave your hands at your sides. For now, you may not touch us, only be touched."

He obeyed, standing before her now wearing only the tiny loincloth that could not conceal his arousal. She let her hands run through the wiry gray hair on his chest, reaching in to nip his shoulder, and he shuddered so hard his knees buckled.

"Please," he whispered, "my Queen, let me, please, I must..." The hands clenched and unclenched in the suppressed need to touch, to initiate contact, while inside his head Jack cursed and raged in futile despair. Not even the disgust he felt for the snakes, the shame he felt over his lack of control, the horror over what his body was about to do could stop it from responding to the primal need the drug had awakened.

"You must first please us," she purred, her hands sending waves of heat coursing through him as she trailed them across his chest and began to circle around behind him. Her hands touched him in places he had not been touched in far too long, the intimate caresses his body craved at the same time his brain silently screamed no.

Anise let her fingers trace the outline of the scar on his back, up on the shoulderblade; another lower, along the ribs; a third on the biceps of his right arm. "The marks of a warrior," she smiled, "of a man who will give us strong, brave children." Standing behind him, her barely confined breasts tickling the heated skin of his back, she reached down and loosened the knot holding the loincloth. "Ah, my Chosen, you do not disappoint," she purred, her eyes delighting in the details of the wide shoulders and the tall slender body. Nude, he stood before her, and she stepped closer, her breath warm against his neck, inhaling his strong masculine scent. Her hands roamed through the silky gray hair, sliding down to his shoulders. Lowering to cup his buttocks, her fingers caressed the skin before reaching forward to circle his waist, then drift lower. When her questing fingers made contact with his achingly swollen organ, he groaned, sagging back against her.

"Please, my Queen, do not tease. Please," the words were a barely audible moan.

"You are ready, my pet?" She stepped around in front of him, one hand maintaining contact that inflamed his skin as her fingers trailed across his arm, his ribcage, and down to his throbbing groin. Smiling, she pulled her hand away, and opened her own robe as she sank onto the bed. "Then come to me, Chosen One."

He licked his lips, took a step, and staggered. The part of O'Neill's brain that wasn't the fully aroused primitive overwhelmed by lust warred with his drugged body, battling for control, fighting with every bit of willpower to regain command of his body. It was failing, fighting the double enemy of the drugs and his own body's hormone soaked desire. Noooo, his rational self shouted as his body betrayed him and carried him to the bed. One knee sank into the soft coverlets on the bed, hands reaching out to touch her shoulders and slide down the smooth skin toward her breasts, and lips seeking hers, the Chosen One knelt beside the Tok'ra Queen.

And then everything went dark.

-------------------------------------

Part 9

They had listened, the Tau'ri General patiently biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment. As he heard Anise order O'Neill into her bed, heard the soft sound of bodies sliding against cloth, he ordered, "Now!" Jacob Carter and the three men who accompanied him and Garshaw burst into the room, Carter's zat finding its target, seeing the Colonel's unconscious body collapse over the equally unconscious Anise.

"Quickly," said Jacob, pulling O'Neill away from Anise, allowing the Tok'ra physician the few brief moments she needed to complete her task. Carter pulled the coverlet over the man to give him a semblance of modesty. He took a moment to check O'Neill's pulse, finding it fast but even, indicating that physically he should be okay. But the rest? Only time would tell. He had a bad feeling O'Neill was not going to react well, not well at all, to what had happened here.

"Done," the doctor nodded.

"Okay, out of here. He'll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up, she'll just be a little confused," he said, looking at the specially modified zat he carried.

-----------

Anise woke slowly, feeling sated, her body telling her that her task had been completed, her need fulfilled. Beside her, her Chosen stirred and moaned, brown eyes slowly opening, looking dazed, and then snapping suddenly to awareness.

Oh my God. He was there, in her bed. Past the pounding agony in his head, Jack recalled vague, hazy bits and pieces, being bathed and dressed, presented to the queen, her touch on his bare skin, and his body moving to the bed. "No!" he scrambled back, away from her, clutching at a blanket to wrap around his naked body as he stumbled off the bed and slid to the floor.

"Damn you," he snarled.

Anise stared at him out of languid eyes. "We thank you, O'Neill, for this precious gift," she whispered, hand rubbing across her flat, smooth stomach. "Our body is content, our children have been conceived with your seed."

God, no, he hadn't, had he? No! He shuddered, feeling sick, his limbs weak, his heart gone cold, his head pounding. Please, no, I didn't, no. No! He didn't remember. He didn't remember! What had he done? He remembered his body disobeying every command, walking towards the bed, kneeling beside her, and his hands of their own accord reaching out to touch her and then... shivering violently, he remembered... nothing.

Had he just blocked it out? Had the drugs blocked his memories? Had his mind so completely lost control that he didn't even know what he'd done? he thought with rising panic.

"Oh God," he moaned, crawling away from the bed on hands and knees, head hanging, sick, revolted, outraged, exhausted, and ashamed. Halfway across the floor, O'Neill found the robe, wrapped it around himself in place of the coverlet, and staggered to his feet, anger fueling his desperation to get away from this room, from her, from what they'd made him do, from what he'd done.

"We shall be forever grateful," Anise purred.

Jack swallowed the urge to vomit on the spot and stumbled out into the hallway, gasping for breath.

As he emerged into the corridor, hands grabbed him. "O'Neill," said the familiar voice of Garshaw.

He didn't have much control, not yet, but he had enough to remember she was one of those who had come for him. She'd been one of those who had asked him to do this, and then someone had drugged him and forced him to, to....

Rage was the only emotion left to him.

There had been very few times in his life when O'Neill had wanted to hit a woman, but this was one. He slapped her, a pitifully weak blow, and she rocked with it. "Damn you. How dare you. You, you..."

"O'Neill. It is not I who brought you here or drugged you..."

"Liar," he growled.

"No, I tell the truth, O'Neill. I do not blame you for disbelieving, but we must go, and it shall all be explained to you soon."

Jack was still disoriented, and more than a little dizzy, the pounding in his skull making it hard to think but he knew he didn't trust her. "I'm not going anywhere with you," he slurred, wanting to strangle her and every damn Tok'ra on the planet.

"Colonel O'Neill, you must move now." She grabbed his arm, pulling him with her around the corner and down the long dimly lit tunnel.

------------

O'Neill staggered down the tunnel, away from Anise's quarters, pain and exhaustion and self-loathing leaving him unable to resist, uncaring of his destination. It didn't matter where he was going, nothing mattered, because he'd done that, had sex with her, and was a party to creating those creatures he loathed. He'd made those creatures, those things, those snakes, his children. His skin crawled and his stomach knotted.

Despite Garshaw's hand dragging at his arm, he had to stop to violently expel what little there was in his stomach. Those things, his offspring, those things, a part of him... there were no spasms violent enough to remove the shame, horror and loathing he felt at what he'd done.

Garshaw watched dispassionately. "That may actually help to get the drugs out of your system," she said, not unkindly. Once he was done and looking not quite so green, she again pushed him on down the corridor and into a small room.

A Tok'ra male waited there, and when he turned around, Jack saw it was Jacob Carter.

Jack stopped, staring. "You son of a bitch!" he cursed.

"Colonel O'Neill," Jacob stared at the man who looked ready to drop from exhaustion, face pale, eyes still drug tainted, weaving on his feet.

"You helped them?" Jack accused, voice raised in anger.

"O'Neill, listen, I'm sorry we had to do this..."

"Sorry? You don't know the meaning of sorry," some of the contempt Jacob had heard days ago at the meeting in the SGC was back in the voice, and anger, too. Good, he thought, that meant the drug was wearing off.

"O'Neill, hear me out. We had to wait until the time was right..."

"Oh, you timed it just perfectly," said the Colonel, his utter weariness allowing the anguish to show on his face. "Waited just long enough to get what you wanted, until I'd exchanged a few bodily fluids, as they say..."

"Colonel, listen to me. We zatted you and Anise before anything happened."

"That's not what she said."

"No, what she said was that her need was fulfilled. We helped her along, while you both were unconscious."

Jacob had O'Neill's undivided attention now. "We had a doctor with us, with a small anonymous donation from an Earth sperm bank. Anise has conceived, but not with your DNA, Colonel, with donor DNA. You did nothing."

O'Neill's throbbing head made it hard to think, hard to hear because he could have sworn General Carter just said he hadn't... "I didn't--? Not mine?"

"Not yours. We stopped it before any 'exchange' occurred, Colonel."

Relief flooded through him. Jack shook his head, staggered, clutching his head, wanting to grab onto this salvation, unsure if he could trust Jacob/Selmak any more than Garshaw. "Sorry, don't, just don't remember..."

"We zatted you and Anise, we artificially inseminated her, then let you wake up beside her. She thinks it's your DNA, but O'Neill, it was not. I swear on my daughter's life, it was not."

Jack's knees went weak with relief, and he let himself sink to the floor. He shivered, suddenly cold in the flimsy robe, exhausted and overwhelmed.

Garshaw knelt beside him, handing him a cup filled with a green fluid. "Drink this."

He couldn't keep the suspicion from his face.

"O'Neill, it is safe," she promised. "Just a drink to give you strength."

He looked at her. "Tok'ra Gatorade?"

Jacob chuckled. "You could say that. Drink up. It is nothing that will hurt you, I promise."

O'Neill drank, then let his eyes close and his head fall back against the wall. Someone covered him with a blanket, and he mumbled his thanks.

"Rest, Colonel O'Neill," said Garshaw. "I am sorry some of my people, misguided desperate people, put you through this. Believe me, we will find them and punish them."

"Ogema. Warst. Nisslern."

Garshaw shook her head. "Impatient young radicals, who think our progress against the Goa'uld is too slow. We will apprehend and punish them."

O'Neill nodded, feeling the drink begin to do its work, feeling a small amount of strength slowly returning to his wobbly limbs.

After a few minutes, Jacob took the Colonel's arm, helping the younger man to his feet. "We must go now. You are not yet safe, either here or back on Earth," said Selmak. One of the other Tok'ra handed the Colonel a bundle of clothing. "Change, quickly, then we must go."

---------

Though his head ached abominably and his movements still felt like he was wading through deep water, Jack dressed quickly, feeling better for having some real clothes on.

"Ready?" whispered Garshaw from the corridor.

"Yes." Emerging into the Tok'ra tunnel, he saw the others were already starting down the corridor.

"And just where is it are we going?"

"We're taking you home." Jacob explained.

Jack stopped. "Ah, no. Nobody is *taking* me anywhere. I've had quite enough of that."

"Colonel...." Garshaw began.

"I'm going to help you round up your little band of conspirators."

"Colonel O'Neill, you are in no shape to assist in a 'round up.' You need to rest, see your doctor..."

Jack shook his head, although that caused a grimace of pain to flash across his face. "No, I need to catch those SOBs..." He looked to Jacob, and the General nodded, understanding O'Neill needed to be part of the capture of his tormenters if he was going to be able to deal with this incident. It was a warrior's answer, to fight back was the way to conquer the inner demons. Carter remembered O'Neill's outrage at the Tok'ra's proposal, and though they had prevented him from being forced to unwillingly mate with Anise, he had been kidnapped, drugged, and paraded around like a prize stud horse. Jacob knew O'Neill's pride and determination, and knew the man needed to do this to retain control.

"He should accompany us," said Jacob to Garshaw.

She looked from one man to the other, and nodded. "Okay. If you must."

"I must," said Jack, feeling stronger with every passing moment.

As they hurried down the hallway toward the transport rings, another Tok'ra ran up to them. "Councilor, the conspirators have been spotted. A group of seven or eight were seen heading away from the tunnels, toward a small canyon..."

"That's where we left the ship..." O'Neill recalled. "Near a small lake..."

Garshaw smiled grimly. "Then we must hurry. Do we have anyone outside?"

"Torin and Aldwin are shadowing them," said the messenger.

"Have them travel ahead, to the canyon and prevent the others from reaching the ship."

"Yes ma'am," said the Tok'ra, pulling out a communications device and swiftly giving orders.

-------------

They hurried through the tunnels, reaching the transport rings in minutes.

Seeing O'Neill grimace, "Are you okay?" Jacob asked, concern in his voice.

"I will be," Jack answered, rubbing at his temple. "Headache."

Jacob reached into a pocket and pulled out another small bulb of liquid that looked just like the drink Garshaw had given him earlier. It was Selmak's resonant voice that explained, "this will help. But heed my warning. When this stimulant wears off, your body will shut down, and demand hours of rest."

Jack accepted it thankfully, gulping it down, nodding his thanks at the Tok'ra or maybe the retired General, this two... beings in one body thing always left him confused.

The rings activated, surrounding them, and in an instant Garshaw, Jacob and Jack joined a dozen heavily armed Tok'ra waiting on the surface. Someone handed him a zat and O'Neill took it gratefully.

They ran across the sand.

Whatever was in that Tok'ra Gatorade was powerful stuff, the Colonel thought as he sped across the dunes toward the canyon. They quickly covered several miles, before pausing just over a ridge from the canyon. By the time they'd reached their destination, the stimulant was beginning to wear off. O'Neill was winded, exhausted if he admitted it, but he would not. He was going to be part of capturing these bastards if it killed him. Which it just might, the way his head was feeling, he thought grimly, bracing his legs to stop himself from swaying as he concentrated on catching his breath. Guess even that Tok'ra booster fuel had limits.

He watched as Garshaw sent some of her force circling around to left and right. She turned to the Tau'ri with a grin. "I thought perhaps you would like to come with me, to confront our rebels."

O'Neill returned the grin. "Yes, Councilor, I *would* like that." Jack looked around, spotted a familiar cluster of rocks. Yes, he'd been drugged when they brought him through here, but his subconscious mind never quit working, paying attention to details as it always did, actions so ingrained he didn't need to think to carry them out. "There's a trail, there," he pointed toward the rocks. "Goes down into the canyon."

Garshaw signaled the remaining three troops who followed her, Jacob and Jack toward the trail.

Noise erupted ahead.

"Zats!" Jacob called. "I think they've made contact below." He started to run, Jack following, quickly outpacing Garshaw and the others as they careened down the trail. "We've got to stop them from getting to the ship!"

Reaching the bottom of the canyon, they could hear weapons fire, aimed at a small group of boulders. Torin and Aldwin must be there, keeping the rebels from reaching the ship.

As Jack and Jacob quickly assessed the situation, O'Neill realized one of the rebels was working his way into position part way up the canyon wall where he could fire down at the two Tok'ra. Jack leaped to his feet, running parallel to the canyon wall, and fired his zat. The shot took down the rebel, but brought the attention of his friends on the running figure. The Colonel dived for the meager shelter of a log, hugging the ground as zat shots sparked around him, and a staff weapon shattered rock a few feet away. These people mean business, Jack thought, using a staff weapon. And there were more of them than they'd figured, 25 or 30, he thought worriedly.

They couldn't move in on him, however, because Jacob was firing, and Garshaw and her companions had reached the base of the cliff now. Several other shots came from Garshaw's flanking forces, pinning the rebels down, narrowing the odds as the Tok'ra regulars made good use of the advantage of holding the high ground surrounding the ship.

But the battle was still far from over. A determined group of rebels was still advancing toward the ship, slowly but steadily. If they were to continue that progress, O'Neill noted, they'd overwhelm Torin and Aldwin's position and make their escape.

No way, Jose, thought Jack. I've got a few issues to settle with those SOBs.

O'Neill shifted, hoping to find a better view and another staff blast blew pieces of bark and wood from the log. This shelter isn't going to last long if they're using a staff on it, he thought, searching desperately for more cover. Spying more rocks, nearly halfway between him and the boulders Aldwin and Torin were behind, he took a couple of deep breaths, tensed his muscles, and ran.

He nearly made it.

Three strides from the rock, Jack shuddered as the agonizing electrical charge of a zat coursed through his body. He crumpled to the ground, half behind the rocky shelter, half exposed in the open.

--- ----------------------------

Part 10

Damn zat hurts, O'Neill thought fuzzily, muscles still twitching as the charge slowly dissipated. Unable to move, capable of little more than blinking as his body spasmed, he could see booted feet approaching. Tok'ra footwear, that was all he could tell, and he was unable to raise his head to see if the approaching Tok'ra was friend or foe. It wouldn't matter, anyway, he knew, he couldn't do a thing about it, since he couldn't move yet, wouldn't be able to for long minutes.

And then he heard the voice and he didn't have to see the face to know this Tok'ra was no friend of his. "Stop firing now or I'll zat him again," hissed Nisslern. Nisslern, mister nice guy on the ship who'd cold-bloodedly sent him to Anise's bed to 'contribute' a little DNA. Jack let his anger surge, knowing it would help him fight off the zat's effects.

Nisslern grabbed him, dragged him a few feet toward the ship, Jack's face scraping along the ground. "Get up."

"Can't." O'Neill mumbled.

"Get up," said Nisslern again, yanking on the Colonel's right arm.

"Oww, bastard," Jack muttered, curling the fingers of his left arm that was trapped under his chest, where Nisslern couldn't see. He fought to regain control of his muscles, forcing his fingers to flex, working to dissipate the stiffness.

"Come on, Tau'ri," Nisslern ordered again.

"What happened to 'Oh Chosen One,' eh?" the Colonel asked.

The Tok'ra toed him in the ribs, none too gently, prodding him. "Get up! Now!"

"Arrgghh," Jack moaned, putting a little theatre into it, pushing at the ground with his right arm, then letting his elbow sag, like he couldn't hold up his own weight. But the move had allowed him to pull his left arm out from under his body, and he was beginning to feel it again. The numbness was fading, the strength returning, he just needed a little time. A minute, another minute and he could...

Nisslern grabbed Jack's right arm, pulling the limply unresisting Colonel off the ground into a sitting position. Jack tried his best to look befuddled, blinking and letting his head sag.

"Snap out of it," Nisslern warned. "Or I'll zat him" he pointed the weapon at Aldwin, fired and the Tok'ra collapsed, "for the second time."

"Okay, okay, just hold your horses, huh," O'Neill made an effort to rise, pushing himself to hands and knees, staggering upright, trying to make it look unintentional that he'd managed to stumble forward a step, then two. Closer to Nisslern, closer, and he pushed himself upright, swaying. Once on his feet, then, with no hesitation whatsoever, in fact, with a great deal of satisfaction, Jack O'Neill pulled his left arm back and delivered a solid punch. Aiming the blow all the way through the Tok'ra's jaw, he felt the solid thunk of fist impacting flesh with obvious satisfaction a fraction of a second before he felt the grinding pain in his hand.

Nisslern went down, out cold, and Jack grabbed with his right hand for the zat, rolling behind the rocks again with Torin and the slowly awakening Aldwin.

Jack hunkered down behind one of the boulders, his back to the stone, pulling his left hand into his lap, rocking forward as the pain shot from his knuckles all the way to his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" asked Torin.

"No," said Jack with a feral grin. "Not okay. Not by a damned sight, but it was worth it," and he grinned again, nodding at the unconscious Nisslern. "Think you better tie him up, though, because I imagine he'll be a little upset when he wakes up."

Around them, the Tok'ra regulars were rounding up the last of the rebels. Aldwin was sitting up, looking a little groggy but coming around. Torin, having tied up Nisslern, moved over to O'Neill.

"Your hand?"

"Yeah, that's what it is."

The Tokra took hold of the appendage as Jack grimaced. Torin's hands gently manipulated the bones, as O'Neill's face blanched white. "Oww," he jerked the hand back.

"Broken," said the Tok'ra.

"Now that I could have told you," muttered O'Neill, sweat breaking out on his face as Torin used a piece of his shirt to tightly wrap the damaged hand.

"That will hold it until we return to the tunnels," said Torin with a grin.

Jacob Carter came trotting toward them. "Everyone okay?"

"Dandy," said O'Neill with a grin, climbing to his feet. He looked over to the man lying unmoving on the ground. "We've got one of your ringleaders for you," he told the former general and the councilor who had moved up to join them.

"Good work, Colonel."

"This accounts for all of those you named, and those we observed as part of this conspiracy," said Garshaw with satisfaction. "O'Neill, on behalf of my people, I do apologize for the disrespect and mistreatment you were subjected to. We owe you a debt, Colonel."

"No, actually, I think you owe us a weapon. And come to think of it, I've got an idea," he said with a gleam in his brown eyes. "Garshaw......" he walked away, one arm on her shoulder, whispering his idea. She smiled, too.

------------

O'Neill thought he was having a bad dream when he heard *that* voice call his name.

"Colonel O'Neill?"

The Colonel, who had been waiting for Garshaw and Jacob to return with the packages he was to take back to Earth, opened his eyes wearily.

"O'Neill, I must speak with you," said Anise, quietly.

Settled comfortably on the Tok'ra's version of a sofa, Jack wanted nothing more than to let his tired eyes fall closed, but didn't feel like he ought to, not with her in the room with him. Just the sight of her was making that uncomfortable feeling begin to coil around in his stomach again. He sat up. "What do you want?"

"We are here to apologize, O'Neill."

"Apologize? For what? Oh, yeah, having me kidnapped, drugged, humiliated and dragged around half the known universe like a piece of prime beef?"

The Tok'ra's face turned red. "O'Neill, I am sorry. We are sorry. When my species is ready to mate, the need is overpowering, it takes control...."

"Ahh, like that ponn'farr thing," he saw her confusion. "Spock and the Vulcan mating-thing...."

"Ponn'farr? Vulcan? Spock?"

"Oh yeah, don't suppose you Tok'ra spend much time watching Star Trek...."

"Star Trek?...."

He closed his eyes tiredly. "Television. Earth entertainment. You should give it a try." He waved a hand in the air in frustration. "Never mind, Anise. So it was all biology..."

She couldn't meet his eyes. "I know what they did..."

"Which they?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nisslern and the rebels. And Garshaw, Selmak and the doctor," his eyes snapped up to look into her face. "I know now that my larvae do not carry your DNA. I did not mean to insult you, or embarrass you, or cause you trouble among your own people. We did not understand. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, sure." He let his eyes fall closed again.

"O'Neill, I, when I chose you, I chose you believing it was an honor, I chose you because I knew you would father strong children..."

"You know nothing about the kind of children I would father," he said, bitterly.

She recoiled. "I'm sorry."

"You should be."

"I am. I did not know that what I asked would be an insult, and cause you personal anguish as well. I would not wish to do either to you, a Tau'ri whom I admire and respect. I have done you a great disservice. You must allow me to somehow repair the damage caused by my lack of knowledge..."

"There's no permanent damage," he said, not sure if he believed it himself, not yet, because he didn't know if the plan they'd come up with would get him off the hook at home. He opened his eyes. "You didn't know. Just next time, pick another Chosen One, okay?"

She turned to go, paused in the doorway. "I am in your debt, O'Neill, and someday I hope to repay you. What happened, and what did not, shall stay between us?"

He nodded.

"Good." She paused a moment, hesitating, as if to say more, and then she was gone.

-------------

Jacob Carter dialed Earth, activated the Tok'ra's GDO and received notification that the iris was open. "Colonel?"

"Oh, after you, General," deferred O'Neill, figuring it was best to let the former General pave the way a tad. He didn't want to spring too big of a surprise on the folks back at the SGC. Too many itchy trigger fingers and all that.

The Colonel watched Jacob walk through the shimmering surface of the Stargate, counted to 20, then stepped through himself. He experienced the familiar chill and disorientation, catching his balance as he stepped through the gate and on to the echoing metal of the platform.

Jacob waited at the foot of the ramp, Hammond beside him, the remainder of the gate room empty, much to Jack's surprise.

"General?"

"Glad to have you home, Jack."

"I can tell by the big reception committee, Sir," O'Neill looked around in surprise. "Not that I was really expecting a party or anything, but..." he waved a hand. "I'd have expected my team at least."

"You're not officially here, Colonel. Actually, the Air Force is sort of wondering where you are. You've been reported as missing and/or escaped."

O'Neill nodded. "Yes, escaped from the Tok'ra rebels...." his voice trailed off. "Oh for crying out loud. You mean I'm still under arrest? The damn SF's are the ones who misplaced me."

"Escaped, Jack," Hammond explained. "Or at least lost in the bureaucratic shuffle. No one seems quite sure."

"Well, that I can understand. The military has lost whole countries..."

"George, we're wasting time here, time we don't have," interjected Carter.

"Right, Jacob. Colonel, we need to get you back where you belong, into the custody of the SFs."

"What? General, I've been arrested, jailed, kidnapped, drugged, hauled halfway across the galaxy and you want me to return to custody? No way, Sir. I need a shower, some decent clothes, a real meal, and a few minutes of Doc's time, actually," he said, hating to admit it but the truth was his hand was swelling more by the minute and hurt like hell. And that wasn't even mentioning the headache and the exhaustion he could feel growing with each passing second.

"Colonel, you are in enough hot water with the Pentagon brass, and while I may be able to extract you from most of it, you really don't need an escape charge on top of it."

Wearily, Jack nodded, and followed the two generals through the quiet halls of the SGC. Seeing the look on O'Neill's face, Hammond relented. "Colonel make that a quick shower and get changed," the General ordered, pointing at the locker room. "You've got ten minutes. Jacob and I do have things to discuss in the meantime."

Jack wanted nothing more than to stand under the hot water and let it beat on his weary body for a decade or two, but he made do with a short wash and dressed awkwardly one-handed. Sitting down to put on his boots, he suddenly felt drained, every bit of energy evaporating from his exhausted frame as the headache suddenly flared from dull ache into hammering agony behind his eyes. The floor and walls lurched, tilted, settled, then spun. "Oh shit," he mumbled as he slid off the bench and slumped to the floor.

Hammond and Carter, talking quietly in the hallway outside the locker room, couldn't miss the muffled thump from inside. "Colonel?" Hammond asked. Getting no answer, he entered to find O'Neill flat on the floor.

Jacob was quickly at O'Neill's side, checking his pulse. "It's the drugs. They gave him some pretty potent stuff, probably from the moment they took him from Peterson. When we found him, I had to give him some quite strong stimulants to counteract the drugs and the zat blast. Then he went with us to capture the rebels, got zatted again, hurt his hand-- I'd say he's exhausted as much as anything. Usually, when we give someone those stimulants, they work for a few hours before they wear off. And when they do, the person needs to sleep for hours to recuperate."

"We better have Doctor Fraiser check him over, just in case," Hammond suggested.

Leaving Jacob on watch with the unmoving Colonel, George checked that Fraiser and her staff were busy with a patient. He grabbed a stretcher and blankets from the infirmary, and the two Generals carried O'Neill's unconscious form to one of the VIP suites before calling for Dr. Fraiser.

She arrived within minutes, medical bag in hand, a concerned look on her face.

Peering from one to another, she asked, "Sirs, I didn't know we had anyone staying here..."

"We don't, Doctor," Hammond answered softly, pointing to the inert form on the bed. "The Colonel is not officially here."

Fraiser grabbed her medical bag and headed straight to the patient's side. "What happened?"

"The rebels who kidnapped him drugged him, and we were forced to give him a strong stimulant to bring him out of it," General Carter explained briefly. "The stimulant wore off."

"And this?" the petite doctor held up the bandaged, swollen hand.

"The Colonel prefers to work out his own retribution on those who do him wrong, so to speak," Carter finished cryptically.

Fraiser nodded. "So he punched the guy responsible for his disappearance?"

"You could say that, Doctor," Hammond responded.

Janet quickly examined O'Neill, checking his vitals. "It seems you are right, General Carter. He appears to be simply exhausted, except for the hand, where there are several broken bones. I am concerned about the drugs, however," she continued.

"As far as I know, he was given nothing harmful. The drugs drain one's will," Jacob explained.

"The chemical was rather like that used by Hathor to control the men here on the base..."

Fraiser nodded. Looking down for a moment, she raised her gaze to catch Hammond's eye, and then Carter's. Putting it as delicately as she could, having been informed by Hammond of the request made by the Tok'ra, she asked, "do I need to check him for anything else, Sirs? STDs?"

"No," Jacob answered quickly. "We were able to ah, prevent any ah, interaction from actually taking place."

Fraiser heaved a sigh of relief. "Good, then. I need to get the portable x-ray unit in here and set this hand, and otherwise, I prescribe rest and a decent meal. He looks like he's had very little of either, lately."

--------------------------------------

Part 11

Jack awoke hours later, unsure of where he was. He was lying fully clothed on something soft and comfortable with a blanket of some sort thrown over him. The unfamiliar room was so dimly lit he could barely make out the form seated on a chair across the room. Letting his eyes roam across the room, he finally recognized where he was, one of the VIP suites at the SGC. "What?" he started to sit up, using his left hand to push himself up, regretting it instantly as pain flared up his arm. There was something heavy on his hand, and he looked down to see a cast. Oh, yeah, he remembered, a grin crossing his lips, hit that freaking Tok'ra. Deciding to sit up, O'Neill had to pause as the room tilted and shifted dizzily before settling back to normality. "Shit," he muttered.

"Colonel?" The figure on the chair stirred, moved into the light, and he recognized Fraiser.

"Doc?" O'Neill waved his good hand at his surroundings, noting an IV line taped to it. "Why here? Not that this isn't nice, but I sort of expected the infirmary. That's where I usually wake up," he said with a grin.

"You're here incognito, remember, Sir," she approached the bed, pulling out her stethoscope to listen to his heart and lungs, checking his pulse and taking his temperature. "You seem okay, except for the hand. The IV is to help flush the drugs from your system, and get you re-hydrated. How do you feel? Still have a headache?"

He had to think a moment. "No, that's pretty well gone. Don't feel too bad, actually, considering, just the hand's a little sore."

She nodded. "Unfortunately, Colonel, I can't give you anything for that, on top of the drugs the Tok'ra gave you."

"That's okay." He looked around, a frown furrowing his forehead, still confused. "Ah, how'd I get in here? Last thing I remember was the shower..."

"You passed out, Sir. The General's brought you up here. Seems those stimulants the Tok'ra gave you finally wore off. Other than that, and the hand, you seem in quite good condition."

"Good."

She looked away a moment, then met his eyes. "Are you okay otherwise? With things?"

She didn't have to say more, he took in the meaning from her eyes and the direct look. He paused, thought a moment, studied the cast on his left hand as he answered. "Doc, getting drugged, kidnapped and thrown into a woman's bedroom expected to give a little guy/gal baby making performance is not what I expected the Air Force to ever order me to do. But no, I know I didn't do anything, thanks to General Carter." He looked up. "I'll be okay." He held up the bandaged hand. "Getting this helped." He chuckled. "You should have seen the other guy. He'll be sipping soup for a month," and then the grin faded, because he suddenly remembered the damn Tok'ra had a parasite who'd heal him. Nisslern probably felt better than he did already, Jack thought unhappily.

Fraiser nodded. "Okay. I'm a little worried about the unknown substances I found in your blood, the drug residues aren't completely gone, but I'm going to clear you to go with General Hammond, so we can get this little mess cleaned up." She patted his arm gently. "It's good to have you back, Sir."

He grinned. "It's good to be back."

-------------

"So, how do we sneak you back in to the Peterson lock up?" Hammond looked over at O'Neill.

The Colonel grinned. "Just a little smokescreen, Sir."

-----------------

They waited outside in the chill Colorado air for half an hour before the brig's SF guard snuck out the back door for a smoke, the same routine O'Neill had noted during his three nights there. Carter grinned at her father, then slid off her coat and walked slowly toward the startled SF NCO. "Hi, Captain," she cooed.

"Ah, sorry, I'm not a captain. Just, just a, ahh, Sergeant."

"Oooh, an NCO. My favorite, not stuck up like those officers," said Carter, sliding the cigarette out of his hands. She read his nametag off his shirt. "Those things are bad for you, McMullen, really bad." Her hands slid down his shoulders, into his pocket, and she palmed the key card, her arms wrapped around him, her hands behind his back.

"Not that I'm complaining or anything, sweetheart, but where'd you come from?" he asked, suspicion playing at the back of his mind.

"Oh, Mully, does that really matter?" she was pushing him back, and O'Neill grabbed the card, slapped it across the door opener, and put it back into her hand. She grabbed the man by the collars of his shirt, pulling him toward her, talking, as O'Neill threw a mock salute at his CO hiding in the bushes and slipped inside the building. "Captain, I'm sorry I can't stay but, really, it's late. Maybe another night?"

Now this is one of the dumber things I've ever done, thought O'Neill, breaking into a cell. He knew the sergeant had used an emergency exit in a back corridor for his late night smoke breaks, so Jack simply walked down a few doors to an open cell and slipped inside. There he settled himself for another nap on the empty bunk. Not nearly as comfy as that VIP suite bed, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

------------

"What the hell are you doing in here?" a voice was suddenly shouting in his ear.

"Wha? What?" O'Neill blinked up into the bright lights.

He'd been discovered.

"You," the guard looked at him in alarm. "You were gone, what, three days ago? You left with those guys in the middle of the night," the SF stopped, eyes growing wider. "You've been listed as missing, a possible escapee."

O'Neill waved an arm around at the stark gray walls. "Escape? Leave such luxurious accommodations? Moi? Been here the whole time, sergeant," said O'Neill quietly.

"No way, Sir."

"Oh, yes, way, Sergeant. Believe me. I think you'd rather say you mixed me up with another prisoner than admit you lost me three days ago, wouldn't you Sergeant? Huh?" suggested O'Neill, cocking his head in that sideways glance.

-------------------

In the Washington office of Legal Services, Major Louise Alderson answered her phone. "You found him where?... How did that happen?... I'll just *bet* nobody knows." She tapped her pencil on the desk. "Is he okay?... Hmm.... Well, all right then. Keep him in Colorado. I'll fly out there to talk to my client. If you try to move him, you'll probably just lose him again." She finished disgustedly, dropping the phone back on its cradle. The Air Force. Sometimes she wondered how people like that could be entrusted with the safety of the world when they couldn't even keep track of their own prisoners. Hmmpph.

-----------------

By the time she reached Colorado, she was too late. Arriving at the Peterson security facility, she was told to go home. "Go home? Sergeant, I just flew halfway across the country to talk to Colonel O'Neill, and I am not going home without seeing him," the Major insisted.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but he's no longer here. He was released about an hour ago. General Hammond himself brought the paperwork and picked up the Colonel. You'll have to talk to them, ma'am, but the charges have been dropped."

-------------------

O'Neill was just settling down in front of his TV with a beer when the doorbell rang. Oh damn, he thought, can't a man just enjoy a quiet evening in his own house anymore? He'd already spent an hour reassuring Daniel, Teal'c and Carter that he was okay and wanted to be alone, and now someone else was at his door. Whatever happened to the days when a man's house was his castle? Guess he really did need to build that moat around the place to keep unwelcome visitors at bay.

The doorbell kept ringing. It was obvious whoever it was wasn't going to go away. With a muffled curse, Jack reluctantly climbed to his feet and went to the door. He found a steamed looking Air Force major standing on his doorstep. "Major?" he asked, surprised.

"Colonel Jonathan O'Neill?"

"Jack. Yes," he answered, suspiciously.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in secure confinement at Peterson!"

"Not again. I just got out of there," O'Neill answered wearily. "Who are you and what am I accused of now?"

"Colonel, I'm your lawyer, Major Alderson, Legal Services, Washington." She handed him her card.

O'Neill sighed. "Major, I'm sorry you've come all this way but I don't need a lawyer."

She smiled grimly. "Colonel, the United States Air Force intends to court martial you. You've not only had the whole book thrown at you, they've included the bookshelves and half the library."

Jack waved the woman into the hallway. "Look, Major, I guess you didn't get the memo. The charges have been dropped. That's why I'm here and not enjoying the lovely accommodations at Chez Peterson."

"Sir?"

"Look, Major, you can go home. Sorry the long plane ride was for nothing. Maybe you can do a little sightseeing before you have to leave, they say the Garden of the Gods is quite beautiful. But *my* problem's been taken care of."

"Problem? Taken care of? How?"

"Let's just say I had a little assistance from above," the gray haired Colonel smirked. "Now, I'm going to go back to my beer and my hockey game, and you can go back to Washington. Not that I don't appreciate the offer of assistance, Major, but I'm cleared."

She stared, stunned. "How did you manage that?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, it wasn't me. I had a little help from above." O'Neill handed her a sheaf of papers. "Read 'em if you like. I don't understand a thing, except they got me out of that lock-up."

Jack didn't bother telling her about the phone call, the one from the Secretary of Defense, the one with all the insincere compliments he didn't believe any more than he accepted the glib explanations. "Colonel O'Neill," the Cabinet member had told him, "the President thanks you for the excellent work you did in helping us ferret out those traitors in our midst. You've performed a valuable service to your country in helping us bring these people and their schemes to light." Yeah right, as if anyone would believe that cock and bull story, for crying out loud. He might put on that dense act, but Jack O'Neill was no fool. He'd spent far too many years in black ops, working within that dirty underbelly of American covert activities, to believe even ten percent of what he was told. Five percent? Maybe one percent, he thought cynically.

Alderson was thinking, too, remembering the SF mentioning General Hammond, and then there'd been those other phone calls earlier in the day, the ones from General Ryan's office, asking her about the case. She quickly skimmed the papers O'Neill had handed her, the release papers from Peterson, noticing that all the charges had been dropped. "How did you do this?"

He looked at her directly, the brown eyes smiling with some inner secret. "Sorry, Major. Classified."

She nodded. "Well, Colonel, I don't know who your friends are, but I have to say, considering who your enemies are (and she knew that from the well known and highly placed names that had been on the accusations against this quiet man), that your friends must reside where the air is quite rare, Sir."

"Oh yes, Major," he said, escorting her to the door. "Very rare indeed."

When she'd left, Jack returned to his living room, thinking. He wasn't sure just which strings Hammond had pulled to bring this off, but he did know it had something to do with a security camera video tape of a 'General Langworthy' visiting with the Tok'ra delegation. Seemed some of O'Neill's accusers had suddenly developed severe amnesia when confronted with the tape showing they'd plotted to turn a USAF Colonel over to alien rebel forces for nefarious purposes.

Then of course, there'd been that little package Garshaw had sent along home with him. Jacob had delivered it to the Tok'ra rebels' contact, the NID Colonel eagerly accepting the payment. Jack smiled, imagining the excitement when the box arrived at Area 51 and the consternation when it proved unopenable. Wouldn't make much difference, thought O'Neill with a chuckle, because it was just unconnected wires and useless doohickeys inside.

The SGC had the real thing, the real defensive weapon the Tok'ra had been willing to exchange as payment for what O'Neill had been subjected to.

It had all worked out in the end, or so it seemed. The Tok'ra had gotten what they'd wanted, the birth of a new generation; the Pentagon brass had gotten what they wanted, a new weapon, one that Carter was already going crazy studying; and Jack O'Neill had gotten what he wanted, to be left alone to do his job without wading around in anybody's gene pool, thank you.

So if it had all turned out so well, why did he feel so damned rotten?

He watched TV and nursed the single beer for hours, but peace wouldn't come to him. So in the end, though by then it was the middle of the night, he found his jacket and his car keys, and drove slowly through the quiet streets of Colorado Springs.

He parked the car along the empty road, pausing a moment, letting his forehead rest against his hand on the steering wheel, wondering why he was here but knowing there was no where else to go. Finally, tiredly, he opened the car door, swinging his long legs out, and walking silently across the dew misted grass.

The place was eerie in the moonlight, and he remembered visiting a place like this as a child, answering the dare to walk through the dark cemetery at midnight.

Even in the darkness, he had no trouble finding his familiar way to the small stone, and the bench across from it. He sat on the cold hard stone seat, head thrown back, cradling his aching left hand with his right. Alone with his thoughts, remembering what it had been like to be a real father, he knew he didn't deserve that gift ever again; knew he couldn't have lived with himself if he'd done what they'd ordered, even if, against his own will, he'd carried out their plan.

Since Charlie had died, there'd been so many long, empty nights. He'd never sought out comfort, not once, not without needing a little false courage to push him along. Kinthia's spiked marriage cake and Paynan's homemade hooch before he'd spent the night with Laira, and now again, with Anise, the Tok'ra drugs. Not that he was keeping score, more like, he was guarding himself against ever caring too much about anyone again, about getting involved and risking what little was left of his soul. There was a lesson in here somewhere, that he couldn't let go of the past without a little chemical assistance.

You are a mess, Jack, he told himself, a disaster looking for a place to happen. The truth is, Jack O'Neill, you sorry schmuck, you are all too human. He knew those drugs they'd given him had only stripped away his inhibitions, had revealed his need, had shown him that despite all his denials, he still wanted the comfort of a woman's arms.

He'd been alone so long, so empty and so lost, and when he admitted it, at times like these, in the darkest hours of the night, the loneliness stretched away endlessly in front of him. There'd been a time when he'd turned to alcohol to drown the feelings, but he'd been smart enough to figure out that didn't work. So he'd buried his feelings, buried them so deeply that they rarely surfaced into his conscious mind, and when they did he ruthlessly suppressed them. Of course, they'd come along with that damn alien machine and made him admit he had feelings for Carter, feelings he shouldn't have because he was a professional and she was a professional, and there were more important things than his feelings or hers, when it came to fighting the war against the Goa'uld. Sure, he was attracted to Carter, what man with eyes and a brain wouldn't be, but he knew nothing would or could ever come of it, because he messed up every good thing in his life and he wasn't going to mess up hers, too. Just ask Sara. There weren't words to describe the twelve kinds of hell he'd put her through.

So, yeah, mostly, his work kept those demons locked away, because his work *was* his life, now.

He'd almost lost that, too, that had been the terrifying thing, the thought that the Air Force could be taken from him the way every other good thing had been torn away from him.

Charlie had been the best thing in his life, there was never a doubt about that, the one bright light among so much darkness. He didn't know if he'd ever get another chance to be a father, truthfully he didn't think he deserved it, but alone in the night he ached for the touch of his son's small hand in his, for the sturdy arms thrown around his neck, for the bright eyes and the excited voice that had once given him hope.

He would have cried, then, if he could have, there, alone, in the darkness. But the tears never came, just the regrets, and the unending grief and the weary loneliness.

It must have been his imagination, the breeze ruffling his hair, the sighing of the wind in the leaves on the trees, because for a moment he could have sworn he felt a small hand on his head, and heard a voice whisper in his ear, "it's okay Dad. You won't always be alone."

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