Diplomacy

Author: Badgergater

Email: [email protected]

Season: 8

Episode: Sequel to Zero Hour

Spoilers: Zero Hour (doh!)

Pairing: None

Rating: PG

Warnings: None

Category: Episode Sequel, action/adventure, hurt/comfort, smartJack

Summary: General O’Neill goes off world to settle that Amrian treaty and trouble ensues

Disclaimer: The nitty gritty is: Don’t own ‘em, grovel to those that do; ain’t makin’ any money; but this is my fic, so don’t post without my permission, got it?

Author’s Pledge: This fic, as are all Badgergater fics, is honestly and accurately rated and summarized complete with pairing information, so the reader may make an informed decision on whether or not to invest the time to read this fic.

Author’s note: My 225^th fic… thank you to everyone who's feedbacked, beta'd, plot bunnied, or in any way contributed to this obsession with Jack O'Neill. Special thanks you to Margo (hang in there, kiddo), Sis, my beta Sid, Tanya, Carol, Martina, Corine, Cokie, and I'm sure I've forgotten a dozen other important folks… As ever with appreciation to all those who feedback and feed the muse.……… For a Jack lover, Zero Hour was a splendiforous episode

He was oh so ready to go.

Beyond ready.

They didn’t have to ask twice; hell, they’d barely had to ask once.

Any old port in a storm, as the old cliché went; any excuse to get out from behind that stifling, butt-numbing desk.

Brigadier General Jack O’Neill stifled a grin, forcing a scowl onto his face as he listened to Major Paul Davis give his report.

"The good news, General, is that the delegates from Amra have come to an agreement with us. The bad news is that they won’t sign the treaty without you being there, Sir." Davis sounded apologetic. "I did try to talk them out of it, explaining how impossible it was for you to leave your duties here, how busy you are.."

"That’s me, busy, busy," Jack could only hope he was keeping the smirk out of his voice.

"But it didn’t work, Sir. They’re insistent. No General O’Neill, no treaty. Seems you made quite an impression on them, Sir."

"I always do," Jack muttered with a sigh that quite effectively, he hoped, covered up his excitement. Forcing his voice to stay quiet and emotionless, he asked, "So, how long could – would," he quickly corrected, "how long would I have to be on PX-yaddayaddayadda for this trade agreement signing?" He’d never in his life wanted to attend a trade agreement anything, but this treaty couldn’t possibly be as dull as sitting 28 stories underground, behind a desk, attacking endless reams of paperwork, day after day.

"Well, Sir, you’ll have to travel be horseback to the treaty ground, which is where the River of Ottar crosses the sacred plains of Goran. I estimate 36 hours minimum, General."

"Thirty six hours?" Only 36 hours? Why couldn’t the blasted aliens, considering all of the trouble they’d already caused him, at least have the decency to get him a week’s vacation, err, travel time?

"I know that’s a long time, Sir."

Not nearly long enough, O’Neill thought plaintively, the sad look on his face genuine for once, but not at all for the reason Davis would be thinking. "You’re absolutely sure no one else will do?" Jack once again stifled the excitement in his voice.

"Absolutely not, Sir. Without you, they won’t sign, and we really, really want this treaty."

"Because they’ve got, what, FTL rockets?"

"Not quite Sir, but something nearly as good. Naquadah."

"Ah hah. So, what will I have to do? Nothing too difficult I hope."

"As it’s been explained to me, General, you’re only needed to witness the signatures of the parties, present a toast, and enjoy a feast."

"Feast you say? Sounds like…" he just barely stopped himself from saying fun, "like I should pack the Alka Seltzer."

"Definitely, General. I’ve tried their cuisine, and frankly, it’s, ah, different."

Jack nodded, and tried to make his voice sound plaintive. "It usually is, Major. So when do they want to do this?" O’Neill inquired.

"Thursday, Sir."

"Oh, now, that just won’t do. Thursday night they’re showing a Simpsons marathon. Can’t possibly miss that."

"General…"

Davis, Jack thought, was waaaay too serious. It would do the man good to lighten up. "Major, take it easy. I was only joking about the Simpsons. I will have to cancel the meeting with the floor sweepers union, maybe even postpone the decision on how many number two pencils to order for the next quarter. There could be *serious* repercussions over that."

"General O’Neill," Davis was looking perplexed again.

"Easy, Major. I understand the importance of this."

"So, Sir, can I tell them you’ll be there?"

"Just as soon as I clear it with General Hammond."
x----------x----------x----------x

He’d known the phone call was inevitable, and quite frankly, George Hammond was surprised that it took as long as it did. Jack O’Neill was tougher than he thought.

The man also did a masterful job of keeping his enthusiasm out of his voice. If George didn’t know better, he’d have believed O’Neill’s reluctance to travel to Amra.

"So, Jack, how are you?"

"Fine, Sir. I have a, uh, little dilemma here, though."

"No more giant plants I hope?"

"No, Sir. It’s about the Amrian Treaty."

"Major Davis failed to…"

"No, no, Sir, not a failure at all. A rousing success, actually. Major Davis did a great job under extremely difficult circumstances…"

"I hear he got a little… unorthodox… help from you…"

"I try, General."

George chuckled knowingly. "Yes, you do, Jack. So what do you need?"

"Well, Sir, I know it’s not standard procedure, but the Amrians apparently won’t sign the treaty without my presence. On their world."

"You want to go offworld, General?" Hammond asked carefully, baiting the SGC commander.

"Yes, Sir, I mean, no sir, I don’t really want to go to Amria," and that was the truth, in part. There were so many other places in the universe he’d rather go, but as long as he got out of the damn mountain, he wasn’t going to quibble. "But Major Davis doesn’t see a way to get around it."

"Ah hah. Yes, I have a memo here regarding the treaty and its importance. We need that naquadah, Jack, so how long would this take?"

"Three days, Sir. Starting Wednesday."

Hammond nodded, Davis’ report had been detailed and perfectly clear as to the time requirements. "You can be gone half that, General. Thirty-six hours. No more." He heard a sound that might have been a choked back gleeful shout. "And Jack, don’t make this a habit."

"I won’t, Sir. I promise."

"Have fun."

"Thank you, General," O’Neill answered.

Hammond smiled as he set down the phone. O’Neill was incorrigible, but he was learning.

x----------x----------x----------x

Diplomacy

Part Two

"I don’t need a damn entourage." Jack O’Neill, sitting at the head of the briefing room table, barely suppressed the desire to pound his fist down on the polished table top. He glared at the officers who were there for the mission briefing.

"But Sir, you’re a General now. In charge of this base. You can’t go offworld without adequate security," Colonel Reynolds protested.

"Adequate, yes. Overblown, no. I can still carry my own gun," the General snapped.

"Actually, I’m not so sure you should, Sir," Major Davis interjected. "After all, you are going there as a diplomat…"

"I’m there as a *general*, a general who locked them in a room together to get them to agree. I don’t think they expect me to be Henry Kissinger," O’Neill insisted stubbornly. "I *never* go off world without a gun."

"You’ve never gone off world as a General before, Sir," Davis reminded him. "And it would look very strange…"

"A P-90 is always the perfect accent to BDUs."

"BDUs? Sir, you need to dress…" Davis started.

Okay. That was waaaay too much. "I am *not* going off world in my Class As." O’Neill waved a finger in Davis’ face to stop the protest he could see working its way to the surface. "Ahah. They’ll get dusty. Full of horse sweat. The cleaners will never forgive me." Jack was not about to budge on this issue. Not one iota. Getting out of the office he detested only to get into the clothes he abhorred was a poor trade.

"Good point, Sir," Reynolds agreed.

"BDUs, then, General, but no P-90. A handgun wouldn’t be too obvious," Davis suggested.

Jack sighed. "Okay," he conceded, "I’ll take the 9 mil."

x----------x----------x----------x

Gearing up in the locker room seemed almost like old times. Only almost, however, since SG-1 wasn’t going with him. They were already off on P4-something something with SG-7, studying some ruins, and not due back until Friday.

Instead, Jack had chosen to go with one of the new teams, SG-19, get a chance to know the team leader and his personnel. Davis was going too, of course. Not that he disliked Davis but the major was always so damned logical, it was irritating. He needed to loosen up. Maybe he’d learn a thing or two on this trip, Jack hoped.

It felt right and comfortable as he slipped on his vest, tan to go with the desert camo, attached two canteens to his belt, and slid the 9 mil into his hip holster. He smiled as he pulled out the baseball cap, sliding it down to cover his spiky hair, pulling the brim low to shade his eyes. His sunglasses were hung around his neck.

He was ready for this.

Anxious.

Like a kid finally let out for recess.

x----------x----------x----------x

Standing at the base of the ramp as the Stargate kawooshed, Jack welcomed the familiar knot forming in his gut, the tension and anticipation of heading out into the unknown.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly unknown. Major Davis and SG-9 and the original survey team had all been there already.

But it was outdoors. Fresh air. Open sky. Alien landscapes. A whole other world.

Away from the phone and his desk and the never-ending demands of generalship.

O’Neill was first to step into the wormhole, a smile on his face as his nerves tingled in that moment when the cold wave of the wormhole flowed through him and into him.

x----------x----------x----------x

Jack and his team (he was sooo not going to call them his escort, like he needed one) emerged on Amra in the first light of dawn. Looking around quickly as the others came through behind him, the general saw a sweep of open plain covered with short, brown grass. Not a tree in sight, he thought happily, taking a deep breath of the outdoor air, not minding at all that it smelled of dust and horse droppings.

Stepping off the platform, the SGC personnel were greeted by a band of plainsmen, led by Gorth. The plainsman wasn’t dressed in the fine, elegant robes he’d worn to the SGC, but rather in a riding outfit of loose fitting garments, more akin to those worn by the desert Bedouins of Earth.

"Greetings, General O’Neill, welcome to our world."

Jack bowed slightly. "Thanks. Nice to be here. Looks like it’s gonna be a lovely day in the neighborhood."

"Yes, a lovely day. Now, please, General, we must ride far in the cool of the morning if we are to reach the treaty ground." He waved at several of the horseman who brought spare animals forward. Jack was handed the reins to a tall, elegant gray that looked remarkably like horses he’d ridden back on Earth. Thankful for all the riding experience he’d had in Special Operations in primitive lands where horses still provided the most reliable transportation through rough terrain, O’Neill expertly mounted.

He enjoyed the ride. His mount was spirited but obedient, yielding to rein and leg cues, moving at a comfortable yet ground-covering jog across the arid plain. Riding in front, beside Gorth, he was spared the dust that plagued those who rode in the vanguard of the small procession.

The sun, just gliding up over the horizon, was not yet too warm. A light breeze moved the air, bringing a pungent but pleasing scent that reminded him of rich, fragrant spices.

After hours of riding, at last, a ribbon of green appeared on the horizon.

"This is the River Ottar, where the plains and the forests meet. The treaty ground is there, neither woods nor plain, but on the neutral ground of the riverway," Gorth explained, pointing ahead to a small island where the General could see bright colored fabrics waving in the breeze.

The river was huge, reminding O’Neill of the Mississippi that bordered his home state of Minnesota. The dark water rolled along slowly, wide sandbars covered with trees dotting its midst. On the far side, thick trees grew to the water’s edge, their piney fragrance carrying across the dank smell of the waterway.

"Nice trees," Jack commented.

Gorth didn’t smile.

x----------x----------x----------x

At the water’s edge, they let the horses drink, then rode through the shallow flowage to the rocky island.

The tent was much bigger than it had looked on first glance. It was quite elaborate, in fact, O’Neill realized; it covered several hundred square feet with bright cloth. Dismounting outside the canopy which covered the front ‘door,’ the plainsmen took the horses away, Jack assumed to be watered.

Once Davis and the men of SG-19 had joined him, the General stepped toward the doorway.

Suddenly, Gorth threw a hand in front of O’Neill, stopping him. "You may not all enter," Gorth stated, "you are too many."

"Now, wait a minute."

"Each side may bring equal numbers to the treaty."

"Well, we’re not on any ‘side’, we’re only the neutral observers."

"But if you are allowed to bring so many, then the Woodsmen may demand the same," the plainsmen leader explained.

Jack frowned. "Look, my men have traveled a long way. They’re tired, hungry and thirsty…"

"I am sorry, General. Was I mistaken in believing that their duty was to see to security?"

"Well, yes, they’re security," Jack conceded.

"Then some must remain outside."

Jack sighed. "Okay, Davis and Schiffler, come with me. You three stay out here and keep the peace."

"Yes, Sir," the SG-19 leader replied.

Gorth was smiling, a nervous sort of smile, Jack suddenly noted, the kind that made him uneasy. "He looks awfully nervous," the General leaned over and whispered to Davis.

"The Plainsmen and the Woodsmen don’t like each other, Sir," Davis reminded.

"Oh, right," O’Neill straightened and followed Gorth into the tent.

The inside was cool and divided into several rooms. The ground was covered with bright carpets which bore intricate, elaborate woven designs that created pictures of horses and riders. ‘Daniel would be loving this,’ Jack thought, wishing SG-1 were here with him.

"The treaty signing will take place here," Gorth led them into the largest room. He waved at a stack of cushions piled against one wall. "You may rest there until the others arrive, which may be several hours. I will have one of the men bring you refreshments."

"We brought our own," Jack called after the alien, hefting his canteen.

Jack paced around the room, then threw himself down on one of the cushions, stretching luxuriously. "Comfy."

"Quite," said Major Davis, who stripped off his backpack and pulled out the treaty documents he had brought with him.

Feeling tired, long unused muscles aching from the unaccustomed hours spent riding, Jack took a nap.

When he woke, Davis was still reading; Schiffler was seated protectively near the door; and there were loud voices outside.

"Seems the rest of the delegation has arrived, Sir," Schiffler informed him.

O’Neill rubbed his hands together. "Good, then we can get this show on the road. I do remember something about feasting being mentioned?" he looked at the major, who nodded.

Standing to stretch, he felt and heard his knees pop as he twisted right and left to ease his back.

Davis looked up at him with alarm. "That didn’t sound so good, Sir."

Jack sighed. "You get used to it, Major."

x----------x----------x----------x

As the Woodsmen delegation entered, O’Neill got a glimpse outside. He was surprised to see the sun setting already. Px-whatever apparently had a short day.

He was too busy then to take note of the time as Waldro introduced him to his delegation, two of whom joined O’Neill, Davis, Miller, Gorth and two Plainsmen in the large room.

All four natives seemed to be just sort of milling around, as if waiting for something to happen.

O’Neill assumed he should take charge. "Well, looks like everyone is here, so why don’t we all take a seat, get comfy, get down to business?"

The Amrians exchanged glances, as if unsure if they should, then Gorth sat, and Waldro followed his lead.

"Okay, now, Major Davis has…"

Suddenly, there was a commotion outside.

The two Amrians looked at each other, fear plain on their faces.

"What’s this?" O’Neill demanded, leaping to his feet, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly standing on end. "What have you done?"

Without answering, the Amrian delegates bolted for the doorway.

And then the General’s attention was no longer on the fleeing Amrians as a harsh ripping sound filled the tent. A slit appeared in the structure’s outer wall and a tall figure stepped inside. In the dim and flickering light of the torches, Jack couldn’t make out the face but the form was eerily familiar. O’Neill’s hands automatically reached for the P-90 that wasn’t there. But it would have been too late anyway, because a pair of Jaffa, staff weapons at the ready, were already in the room.

Right behind… the man stepped forward, and O’Neill could see his face… Camulus. "Drop your weapons!" the Goa’uld ordered.

The other humans looked at O’Neill.

"Drop them, or we will kill him!" Camulus repeated as the Jaffa turned the alien weapon at the General.

"Sir?" Davis asked.

Jack shrugged, and watched helplessly as the major and the captain were disarmed, their weapons tossed aside.

The snake was grinning, a mocking smile curling his lips. "O’Neill of the Tau’ri. Imagine finding you here."

"Yes, imagine that," Jack’s smile hid the furious working of his brain as he sought an avenue of escape. "In this *whole *wide *universe, what a coincidence, you and me, on the same planet. How *could* that happen?"

"You should teach your people to talk more quietly. They reveal much to those who listen when they travel through the dismally dull hallways of your pitiful underground headquarters. …"

"Okay, the place isn’t exactly the Taj Mahal, I agree, but pitiful, now *that* I resent." Keep him talking, Jack, he told himself, keep him talking, while the adrenaline works in your veins and your brain comes up with something.

Camulus laughed. "Talk smart now while you can. O’Neill. My poor accommodations on Earth will be as nothing compared to the horrors of the place where you will languish in Ba’als custody."

The General felt his heart stutter at the thought. Ba’al. "Yes, Ba’al. I thought he was your enemy…"

"He was. But your treachery has made us allies."

"Oh really? Allies with the snake you wanted to kill, and who planned to kill you?"

"We are enemies no longer. I was able to trade information for not only my freedom, but a partnership."

"Oh come on, Cammy, don’t play dumb here. A partnership with Ba’al? You know he can’t be trusted."

"On the contrary, O’Neill, it is you Tau’ri who cannot be trusted, imprisoning those who seek to be your friends." Camulus waved at the two Jaffa, who stepped forward and took hold of O’Neill’s arms.

The human did not resist.

x----------x----------x----------x

Diplomacy

Part Three

Camulus stepped forward, thrusting his face inches from O’Neill’s, his voice soft and menacing. "I have already signaled Ba’al’s ship. He will be here soon. And I will enjoy watching what he does to you."

Jack’s mouth was so dry that for a moment he thought he couldn’t speak, but he forced the sound past the welling horror that threatened to close his throat. "Bite me."

Camulus didn’t. Instead, he angrily swept his hand across the human’s face. Held in place, unable to dodge the blow, Jack rocked with it, feeling the power of the alien’s anger as the hard impact rattled his skull, blood welling in his mouth as his teeth sliced into his cheek. The Jaffa released him and O’Neill staggered, falling to his hands and knees, staying there with head down, breathing raggedly, spitting blood onto the brightly colored carpet.

"You humans, such weak, pitiful things…" Camulus drew back one foot to kick at the downed man.

Wordlessly, O’Neill lunged forward, ramming his shoulder into the Goa’uld’s weight-bearing knee like a linebacker making a tackle. He heard something snap and crack and the snake shrieked as the human bore him backward. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs, O’Neill on his hands and knees on top of the Gould, only dimly aware of the sounds of fighting going on around them, intent only on each other. As one hand curled around the alien’s throat, the other fumbled to the belt at his back, Jack’s fingers frantically grasping for the comforting feel of the 9 mil tucked into his waistband. He found it and pulled the gun forward just as Camulus’ searching hand found his own weapon.

The deadly dagger flashed forward. O’Neill bit back a scream at the sudden sensation of cold steel piercing his skin, sliding along a rib before biting deeper into his chest. Jack sagged, his fingers loosing their hold on Camulus’ throat, and the Goa’uld surged upward, pushing the General aside. O’Neill fell back, the dagger still buried in his chest.

Jack landed on his back, gasping for air, while the alien, one leg useless, crawled toward the human, his hand searching once more for the knife. Reaching out, Camulus grasped the hilt and pulled, and Jack couldn’t hold back a hoarse shout as he writhed, pain rippling through him.

Jack watched as Camulus raised the blade for the killing blow that would not miss this time. "Kill me and Ba'al's gonna be pissed!"

The cold eyes flickered, and Camulus hesitated.

It was all the break Jack needed. Despite the blackness swirling on the edge of his vision, O’Neill had clung to the 9mil. His first shot took the alien in the chest at point blank range, spinning Camulus around and down as the third and fourth slugs found their mark.

Adrenaline surged through O’Neill, momentarily overriding the pain and weakness as he kept the gun in his upraised hands. Struggling to his knees in search of the other SG personnel, the General discovered that, around him, the tent was a chaotic, violent scene, humans and Jaffa fighting hand to hand. One Jaffa was down, but, even as he scrambled to take it all in, the General saw the other warrior, with Davis clinging doggedly to one arm, manage to raise his staff weapon.

O’Neill turned his gun on the alien warrior.

The two shots were fired simultaneously, O’Neill’s on-target, boring into the Jaffa’s symbiote pouch, killing the larvae and the host.

The Jaffa’s shot missed, or nearly so. Instead of taking Schiffler square in the chest, it seared across the human’s ribcage before burning a hole through the side of the ceremonial tent.

The captain went down, writhing, his agonized cry loud in the sudden silence.

Acrid smoke and the sickly sweet smells of blood and burnt flesh filled the air.

Jack coughed, and felt a searing pain start deep in his chest and radiate outward. He staggered, sliding to his knees, his hand at his chest. His fingers touched the warm wetness of blood.

"General!" Major Davis’ face went white with fear as he spotted the SGC commander on his knees on the floor, blood staining his tan shirt. "You're hurt!"

O'Neill looked down, seeing that his shirt was cut and the skin beneath was bright red with fresh blood where the blade had sliced across his chest. That hurt with a hard, sharp pain he recognized. More troubling, there was an odd ache deep in his chest, but he waved Davis away. "I'm okay, it's minor," he lied, hoping to convince himself as much as Davis. "Help the captain," Jack rasped, wrapping one arm around his chest as he hauled himself upright with a groan. "We’ve got to get out of here. Fast."

Staggering forward a step, he locked his knees, ignoring the pain. O’Neill willed his body to overcome the wave of weakness that washed through him, forcing himself to concentrate on movement. There was no time to worry about anything else. Spotting the gun Schiffler had dropped, Jack walked toward it, wavering but moving. Bending down, the room started to spin and he nearly fell, but somehow, he managed to pick up Schiffler’s weapon, the familiar weight of the P-90 in his hand feeling right and good. Leading the way, with Davis following and all but carrying the barely conscious captain, Jack made his way into the tent’s outer room.

It was empty.

At the doorway, Jack paused, listening. There was only silence. Cautiously pushing the tent flap aside with the barrel of the P-90, he heard nothing. Waving a hand to tell Davis to wait, Jack walked back into the treaty room, past the bodies of Camulus and his Jaffa. Cautiously opening the tear in the tent fabric with his hand, he stepped out into the darkness, dropping immediately to the ground and rolling away, biting his lip to hold back a gasp at the sharp pain the movement awoke in his chest.

He lay still, and listened past the thudding of his own adrenaline fueled heart, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the nearly complete darkness.

Silence prevailed.

No movement.

No sound.

Bracing himself with the stock of the P-90, Jack got to his feet, ignoring the light-headed feeling, concentrating on his surroundings. He eased along the side of the tent, and reaching the corner, chanced a quick glimpse around it.

Still nothing.

O’Neill stepped silently around the corner, and tripped.

He landed flat on his stomach, the hard fall driving the wind out of him, forcing a hoarse pain-filled "Arrraagh" past his lips before he could stop himself. Agony spiked through his torso as if cold steel had been driven deep into his heart. He fought to hold onto consciousness, and after what seemed like an eternity, the pain finally receded to a bearable level. At last he found the strength to raise his head. The starlight was dim, but there was enough illumination that he could see more dark lumps lying on the ground all around him.

Bodies.

Once again using the gun as a lever, O’Neill got back up to his knees.

The battle out here had been as vicious, and as deadly, as the one inside. Bodies littered the ground. Jack quelled his own ragged breath, but couldn’t make out any sounds of life. Pushing himself to his feet, he stumbled past the unmoving forms of several of the natives. A BDU clad form was similarly still, and seeing the scorched torso, indicative of a massive staff weapon wound, he knew he didn’t need to check for a pulse. Another human form lay nearby, similarly wounded and equally lifeless. The fourth member of SG-19 was also dead.

He waited another moment, making sure there was no other movement, before calling out softly. "Davis?"

"General?"

"All clear, Major! Let’s go."

While he waited for the others, Jack made his way to the pile of gear stacked against the tent. Ignoring the shards of pain that ignited into fire when he reached down, he found an SGC backpack and slipped it into place, hastily buckling it to his own vest.

By then, Davis, with Schiffler’s arm slung over his shoulders, had staggered out of the tent. "Sir, we need to check his wounds, and yours…"

"Not now."

"General…" Davis started.

"Major," Jack snapped, "that snake in there," O’Neill waved a hand toward the inside of the brightly colored structure, "said he’d signaled Ba’al’s ship. Which means the sonuvabitch might be here at any minute. We need to move, and move now, or it won’t make any difference how many bandages anyone is wearing."

Davis gulped. "Yes, Sir. Which way?"

"This way." Jack started toward the river.

The Major looked confused. "But Sir, the Stargate isn’t…"

"I know, Major, the Stargate is that way," Jack pointed behind him, back the way they’d ridden earlier in the day. "But it’s open desert, and there’s almost no cover. And that’s exactly the way Ba’al will figure we’ll go. So we go that way," the General pointed ahead, toward the river and the forest on the other side. "There’s cover. Water. And shelter from the sun."

"But…"

Jack’s instincts shouted at him that there wasn’t time for this, that every second passed was a second wasted, probably a vital second. "Major Davis, I do not have time to debate this with you. Yes, I’d rather be going back to the gate. *If* I thought we could get there, I’d head that way. But it took us all day to get here, with horses. And as you can see, there are no horses remaining. We can’t cross that desert without them, without water, and with one of us hurt."

"Two of us," Davis corrected, pointing his chin at the General.

O’Neill ignored him. "We head for cover, wait for the SGC to realize we’ve gone missing, which should only be a few hours, and signal for back-up."

"More than a few hours, Sir."

"Not that many, Major," Jack insisted, and began walking toward the river.

Part Four

The going was hard in the darkness, the sand making walking difficult, every breath rasping in his throat, reawakening the ache in his lungs. Jack could hear Davis and Schiffler struggling along behind as he moved cautiously down toward the water’s edge. He followed the tracks of several horses, knowing there had to be a crossing where the Woodsman had forded the river.

Finally, he found a spot where a multitude of hoofprints disappeared into the water.

The faint starlight glittered on the gently rolling surface. The river was wide, but, Jack had to hope, shallow.

Fixing his eyes on a point directly across the water, marking the shape of the shoreline and the trees, Jack waded in, proceeding slowly, feeling his way with every step.

It wasn’t too bad at first. The water felt warm and the current moved gently. A dozen strides carried him into liquid that was still less than knee deep, another dozen and he was pushing his way through water that was still well below his waist. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, not too bad at all. He could do this. He still felt a little light-headed, a little not-right, the unfamiliar tightness still there in his chest, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle, nothing he couldn’t deal with, nothing that he needed to worry about. Nope. It was nothing.

Well out into the water now, here it was colder, moving faster, the current pushing hard at him as the liquid seeped into his boots. Damn, he hated wet feet. Raising his arms, trying to keep the P-90 dry, once again ignited the ache in his chest, dull pain bursting into sudden fiery agony and he had to stop, gasping for breath.

Oh come on, Jack, you’re nearly there, must be halfway, maybe even two-thirds, he told himself. He could see the far bank more clearly now, the thick shadows of the trees, shadows that offered shelter and comfort.

A place to rest.

Once they got there. Looking back, he could see Davis and Schiffler struggling along in his wake.

He took a step and suddenly, the river bottom was gone and there was nothing under his boot. He tried to stop himself, tried to halt his forward movement, but his body’s momentum carried him onward, and down.

He hit the water, going under without taking an adequate breath, arms flailing in an instinctive but useless attempt to stop his descent. Fighting to hold on to the P-90, weighed down by the pack and the weapon, O’Neill struggled upward. The surface seemed impossibly far away as his empty lungs screamed for air. Days later, or so it seemed, he broke the surface and sucked in a deep breath.

He almost went under again as a wave of blackness washed over him, but he hung on grimly, treading water, spitting out liquid, coughing, throat aching at the burning tightness in his chest.

His arms felt weak, his legs leaden. Trembling with weakness, Jack surged forward through the water, frantically searching for solid ground. His feet brushed something, and then the bottom was there beneath his boots. He stumbled forward, standing in the chest deep water, his energy gone, unable for the moment to move any further, barely able to stand against the force of the current.

"Sir?" Davis called softly. "Are you okay, General?"

"I’m fine. Just decided," he staggered and nearly went under again, "to get a drink, take a bath, wash off the sand..."

"General?"

"Joke, Major," O’Neill gasped, still fighting to take a decent breath even as he knew how desperate their situation was. If Ba’al came now, when they were in the open… he didn’t want to think about the consequences. Jack coughed, shuddering at the stabbing pain that provoked in his chest, threatening to take his breath away. Damn. He didn’t have time for this. He pushed himself forward, feeling carefully for his footing, forcing himself on through the deep water.

"Sir…"

"The deep water’s about twenty feet across with a strong current," O’Neill told Davis.

"I can swim it, Sir," the Major answered.

"With Schiffler?"

"I can hang on, General," a second soft voice chimed in.

Jack heard splashing then. In the dim light he could just make out the swimmers coming toward him, Schiffler draped over Davis’ back. When they reached him, the General grabbed hold and helped them. Soon, they were all back in shallow water, pushing through the knee deep channel and reaching the other side at last.

Stumbling out of the water and up onto the bank, they dropped to their knees, pausing to catch their breath.

The General gave them all a minute, hell, he needed it himself, to get his breathing back to something near normal. "You okay?" O’Neill asked of Schiffler.

"Been better, Sir, but I’m okay."

"Good, good," Jack turned to Davis. "Major?"

"Ready, General."

"Okay, then, we better be going." Easier said than done. Sitting up, everything started spinning, and the ground and sky seemed to swap places. "Whoa," he muttered, throwing out an arm to brace himself.

"General?" worry suffused the Major’s tone.

"Just got up too fast," he lied, and stood slowly, keeping his eyes closed for a moment until the dizziness passed and things settled down. "We need to make those trees," he pointed to the dark forest ahead.

With O’Neill on point and Davis helping Schiffler, the Tau’ri headed into the forest.

x----------x----------x----------x

It was slow going. Once into the woods, it was pitch dark, but O’Neill knew they didn’t dare use their lights. They hadn’t gone fifty feet before he tripped over a tree root, landing hard on his stomach, the impact driving the air from his chest. Pain swelled and he had to bite his lip from voicing it. Instead, he pushed himself up from the ground and walked numbly on.

For a forest, there wasn’t much cover. The trees were tall, forming a thick canopy overhead that snuffed out most other plant life below. Here and there a few sparse bushes grew, but not enough to hide three men.

Over his own labored breathing, he could hear Davis and Schiffler struggling along behind. All three of them needed rest.

They trudged on, up a small rise, into an area where at last there seemed to be more brush and a scattering of rocks that held the promise of at least minimal concealment.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. "We’ll stop here," Jack told them.

Easing himself down to the ground, back against a rock, he left out a long sigh that ended with a sharp gasp. Leaning forward to ease the knifing pains in his chest, Jack closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing, willing the pain to recede. He stuck a hand inside his shirt and felt the warmth of blood soaking his shirt.

Damn.

A shape loomed above him. "General?"

Jack waved Davis away. "See to Schiffler."

"I have, Sir. But…"

"But nothing, Davis."

"General, back there, I saw Camulus with a knife…"

"It was just a scratch …" so he’d been telling himself.

"You were bleeding…"

"From a cut."

"Then let me get a bandage on it, Sir."

Jack waved a hand, "Okay, okay." Pulling a dressing out of his vest pocket, he handed it to Davis, who was kneeling beside him, looking at him critically.

Carefully, the major pulled O’Neill’s shirt up, feeling the blood-soaked material. "Sir, there’s a lot of blood here."

"Cuts bleed a lot," O’Neill insisted.

"There might be more damage..."

"And what would you do about it if there was?" the General challenged.

Davis shook his head, admitting there was nothing else he could do, and went to work, tying the bandage in place around O’Neill’s chest.

"That’s fine, Major."

"Sir…"

"That’s fine." Jack tugged his shirt down, wrapping his arm around his chest, suddenly realizing he was wet and cold and tired and a bit shaky. Very shaky, actually.

He felt like crap.

He nodded, thankfully, when Davis offered, "I’ve got first watch, Sir."

x----------x----------x----------x

He’d only just dozed off when he heard it, the whining drone of a Gould ship above the forest.

Jack sat up. "Davis?" he whispered into the inky blackness.

"Yes, Sir, I heard it. Ba’al’s ship."

Jack felt his heart skip a beat. Ba’al. He shuddered at the memory of Ba’al’s voice, at the remembered pain of knives and acid, of the smug cruelty in the Gould’s harmonic tones. He’d escaped the bastard’s clutches once, barely. He couldn’t even let himself think of the possibility of being in Ba’al’s merciless hands again.

"What are we going to do, General?"

"Hunker down and sit tight, Major."

x----------x----------x----------x

The night passed slowly. Jack slept fitfully, feeling cold, chilled all the way to the bone, each breath generating a dull ache in his chest. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to warm up, trying to ignore the feeling of wrongness, but it didn’t help.

Shivering and sleeping were incompatible.

"Davis," he whispered at last into the darkness.

"General?"

"I’ll take watch. Get some sleep."

"I’m fine, Sir."

"I know you are, Davis. But you need some sleep."

"So do you, Sir."

"I’ve been sleeping."

"No disrespect, but I beg to differ, Sir."

"Okay, maybe not sleeping. But I’ve been resting. Now it’s your turn."

"Gener…"

"That’s an order, Major."

He stood watch through the last hours of the night, and as the darkness softened and began to fade. The forest came alive with small sounds, birds and insects making tiny noises, the wind moving in the trees.

It was the start of a new day.

And General Jack O’Neill knew rescue had better come with it.

x----------x----------x----------x

At 0900 Sergeant Walter Harriman dialed up the gate and sent the routine contact message to Amra.

There was no answer.

At 0901, he tried a second time, with the same result.

At 0902, Harriman called the senior officer present on base, Colonel Reynolds, to report the failed contact.

It fell to Reynolds to call General George Hammond and deliver the bad news. With trepidation, Reynolds sat down behind O’Neill’s desk, picked up the red phone and dialed. When the line was answered, Reynolds asked for the head of Homeworld Security.

The laconic answer came quickly. "Hammond here."

"General Hammond, Sir. This is Colonel Reynolds."

"Colonel?" There was puzzlement, maybe even a first hint of worry in the even tones. "Is there a problem? You’re filling in for General O’Neill today, aren’t you?"

"Yes, Sir. And we do have a problem. General O’Neill and his team missed their morning check-in."

Hammond’s heart hammered. While he knew Jack O’Neill wasn’t above enjoying his time off-world, and he was certainly never one to stand on protocol just for the sake of protocol, O‘Neill was not about to miss a scheduled check-in transmission, not without good reason. Jack knew the sort of reaction that would result. "You tried calling?"

"Yes, Sir, twice. We’ve been unable to raise anyone on the planet."

"No one at all?"

"No one, Sir. General O’Neill, Major Davis, and Major Schiffler’s team all had radios, and none of them are responding."

"Any possible physical reason for the silence?"

"None that we know of, Sir. As you know, General, we’ve had teams on the planet several times before, and there’s been no previous trouble with communications. The MALP relay is working; we’re getting pictures of the area around the Stargate. The weather looks normal. Everything seems quiet."

"Too quiet." Damn it, Jack had a knack for getting himself into trouble. George glanced across his office at the wall clock, and knew it would take far too long for him to reach the SGC, even calling on the fastest jet. He’d have to manage this situation from here. "Get the S&R team prepped and ready to go ASAP. Have Siler forward your video signal here, to my office. Keep broadcasting, just in case…

"Yes, Sir." Now that he had a task to do, Reynolds was eager to get to work.

"Keep in touch, Colonel. I’ll leave the line open for you."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, General."

"Find them, Major."

x----------x----------x----------x

They stayed hidden all day in bare shelter of the rocky outcrop.

Breakfast consisted of two energy bars, split three ways, washed down with water.

The water was good, Jack craved it, quite honestly. The energy bars, never exactly his favorite, held little interest, but he chewed and swallowed them mechanically, knowing the need for the body fuel they represented. He forced himself to eat, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach, sipping sparingly from his canteen.

As the day wore on, he realized he was feeling progressively worse, lightheaded and sluggish. Whatever was wrong with him, whatever damage Camulus’ knife had done, was slowly and steadily taking its toll.

Toward mid-afternoon, they began to see movement and hear the sounds of an approaching search. The familiar wail of a Jaffa signal horn drifted through the forest.

They might have been able to elude the Jaffa, or the natives, but not both. There were simply too many people hunting for them, and, with the cover so limited, discovery was inevitable.

They did have a good defensible position, in the cluster of rocks on a little rise. But, Jack knew, they had neither enough personnel nor enough weapons and ammo to hold out for long.

And where the hell was the damn rescue team? Had everyone at the SGC gone to sleep, just because the boss was off playing diplomat? He was so gonna have a talk with his people, when he got back. If he got back.

Jack looked over at Davis and Schiffler. The leader of SG-19 had the P-90 Jack had given back to him, but they only had four clips for it. The major was using the ammo sparingly, single fire sniping whenever a clear target presented itself.

Davis had a 9 mil, as did Jack himself. At close range, the weapon would take down a Jaffa, but it wasn’t much to hold an armored enemy at bay. And once the enemy got that close that the handgun was effective, well, the jig was gonna be up. Sheer lack of numbers would do them in.

The General was sure he’d been in worse situations, but at the moment, he really couldn’t think of any.

Peering cautiously over the top of the rock he was hidden behind, Jack watched as dozens of Jaffa and probably hundreds of natives surrounded them. Even if his people used each and every bullet they had for a perfectly placed kill shot, the odds were impossible.

There *had* to be another way.

There *was* always another way.

Although, the other way wasn’t always easy or pleasant or without dire consequences.

With a sigh, the General sank back down behind the rock. He pressed a hand to his chest, as if that would ease the steady ache there, but it didn’t help. It didn’t make the headache or the queasiness or the weakness vanish, either. Not that, in their present predicament, it made much difference how he felt, or that he knew he wasn’t fit to move far or fast.

Just then, his radio crackled to life. "O’Neill, Davis, SG-one-six, come in… anyone acknowledge."

With a sigh of relief, Jack tabbed his radio, speaking quietly. "O’Neill here. Where the hell have you been?"

"General," even over the radio, Jack could hear the relief in Reynolds’ voice. "We had to send through another MALP, Sir. The first one was damaged."

"What’s your condition, Sir?"

"We’re pinned down, surrounded. We’ve lost three, and have two wounded."

"We’re ready to send a rescue team through the gate on your command, Sir."

Jack had a sudden sinking feeling. "But you’re delaying because…"

"There’s a strong force of Jaffa deployed around the gate, General."

"What?"

"We couldn’t send the rescue team through. Even now, we’re just using the MALP as a relay. I have a squad of volunteers ready, at your order…"

"Hold it! No one comes through that gate into an ambush, Colonel." As much as he wanted to be rescued, to get Davis and Schiffler to safety, he wasn’t about to risk more lives. "You got that, Reynolds? No one."

"But, Sir…"

"No, Colonel. You know the protocol."

"But General, we can’t leave you there."

"The hell you can’t. We’ll look after ourselves. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt a rescue mission until the area around the gate is clear. Do you understand, Reynolds?"

The reluctance was plain in Reynolds’ voice. "Yes, Sir."

"Keep monitoring the situation. We’ll let you know if anything changes at our end."

"Good luck, Sir."

"Acknowledged. O’Neill out."

He sank down to the ground. They were trapped. No rescue was forthcoming. They’d have to come up with a way to rescue themselves.

He looked over at Schiffler. The young captain was intently searching the forest around them, peering over the sights of the P-90.

Davis was watching, too, his 9mil in his hand.

Good men, doing their jobs, waiting for *him* to do his, to lead them out of this mess, to get them home safe.

Once again, he ran through the whole list of options. It didn’t take long, they didn’t have many left.

They could be Butch and Sundance plus one and go blindly charging out of their hideout, into a blaze of gunfire. Not a solution likely to have a positive outcome.

They could wait until dark and slip away into the forest. But since they were surrounded, two of them were wounded and barely able to move, and there was about zilch for cover, not a solution likely to have a positive outcome.

They could sit here and wait for their attackers to move in and overwhelm them. Not a solution likely to have a positive outcome.

They could call for Ba’al’s surrender. Yeah, right. Not a solution likely to happen.

One possibility, one slightly desperate and likely futile solution came to him. He could offer himself up in hopes that, in trade, the Gould would spare the two men under his command. Swap one life for two. Salvage something. Not a solution likely to have a positive outcome, at least not for him, but maybe, just maybe, for the other two.

Mind made up, Jack stuffed the loaded 9 mil into his vest pocket. "Major Davis."

The major turned toward O’Neill. "General?"

"I want you and Schiffler to stay here."

"Where are you going, Sir?" Davis looked around, baffled.

"Out there."

"Sir, they’ll shoot you," Schiffler sounded aghast.

"Ba’al wants me alive."

O’Neill saw the look of sheer horror cross Davis’ face, and hoped his own didn’t look as bad.

"General, you can’t!"

"He’ll have us all if we stay here. Maybe I can make a deal…"

"Can you trust the word of a Goa’uld, Sir?" Davis was obviously skeptical.

Jack shrugged. "There’s no one else to negotiate with, Major." Jack dug the extra clips for the 9 mil out of his pockets, and held them out to Davis. "Take these."

"No, Sir! You cannot do this…"

"Major, we are in a hopeless position here. I can buy the two of you an opportunity…"

"Sir, you can’t!" Davis protested.

"I can. Now, when you get back to the SGC, follow all the protocols to the letter. Lock out my DHD code, and change all the passwords and codes... that’s SOP."

"General…"

"Major Davis," O’Neill snapped, throwing all of his authority into his voice, using anger to keep the tremor out of his tone. "You will do as you are ordered." Allowing no time for his orders to be contradicted, the General turned toward their attackers and raised a hand, waving it in the air. "Hey, guys, white flagging here. I want to talk to your leader! To Ba’al boy. Don’t shoot!"

He pushed himself slowly upright, raising his hands above his head in a gesture of surrender, the motion sending a sharp rush of pain racing through his chest. The ground and sky wavered for a moment, and he stumbled but caught himself quickly.

Making his way slowly down through the rocks, he kept his hands high. O’Neill was soon surrounded by a half dozen Jaffa, staff weapons armed and aimed at him. "Take me to your leader."

"Ba’al will be only too glad to see you."

"The feeling is oh so mutual," Jack snarked as he was marched away into the forest.

It wasn’t a long walk, but within minutes, his arms felt leaden, the wrongness in his chest biting deeper with the strain. Just walking was taxing his ability to breathe, and he stumbled and stopped, bent over at the waist, gasping for air.

A staff weapon prodded him in the back. "Move, human!" the contempt-laced voice ordered.

"I’m trying," he muttered. "But I need a break."

"He is stalling," fumed a second Jaffa, pushing at Jack once again.

O’Neill didn’t move.

"Hey, don’t," the General protested as the Jaffa grabbed his arm, propelling him forward.

Another hundred yards, with the alien warrior half-dragging the human, and they reached their destination.

In a clearing within sight of the river, Ba’al stood waiting.

Jack suppressed a shudder and gathering his strength, shook off the Jaffa’s hand and straightened to his full height.

Ba’al smiled, the arrogant, superior, slimy smile that haunted Jack’s nightmares. "So we meet again."

"More’s the pity."

"For you there is no pity." Ba’al waved a hand at the Jaffa

"That’s a phrase we use on Earth, it has nothing to do with…" a hard blow from a staff weapon drove Jack to his knees.

He wasn’t entirely ungrateful to be down on the ground. It took less of his flagging energy than standing. And the landing hadn’t been bad, the forest floor was soft with countless layers of old leaves.

"So you have come at last to kneel before your God…"

Jack shook his head. "You might be able to convince them you’re their god, but I’m not about to…"

Another thump in the back drove him flat to the ground this time. He stayed down for long minutes before mustering the energy to push himself up with his hands. He got a foot underneath himself and got back as far as his knees, which was where the Jaffa once again stopped him. O’Neill waved a hand at the warriors. "Enough, okay? I get your point."

Ba’al had taken a step closer and seemed to be studying the human on the ground before him. Contempt dripped from his silken voice. "You do not seem so sure of yourself today, O’Neill."

"I’m always sure of myself. That’s why I’m here to accept your surrender."

Ba’al laughed. "I’d always quite thought the whole Tau’ri race was entirely boring, but you have changed my mind. You amuse me."

"I wasn’t being funny."

"You are delusional then, to think I would surrender all of us," he waved a hand to the surrounding forest and the dozens of Jaffa, "to you and your two companions."

"You should. You don’t know what weapons we might have."

"I have seen the weapons of the Tau’ri and I am not afraid."

"Not even of the ones we used to destroy Anubis and his fleet?" Jack asked, a sudden, ludicrous idea forming in his head as he talked.

"Weapons used once, and on Earth. Do not think I can be fooled into believing you have any such devices with you here. If you had them, you would have used them by now."

"So you think," he tried to make his voice sound sly and confident, hoping he was managing to hide the desperation and deception that was his only chance.

"So I know."

Jack struggled to his feet, swaying dizzily, and took the chance because he had no choices left. Back when this whole mess had started, Camulus had brought to Earth the tainted ZPM, the one that, if used, would have blown up the whole planet and probably the entire solar system. Jack had sent Camulus off-world, into the waiting arms of Ba’al, with a ZPM, but not that dangerous one. He’d sent the depleted one from the Ancients’ Arctic base. "What you don’t know is what I did with the ZPM…"

Ba’al looked confused.

"…The Ancients’ power unit, the real one that Camulus rigged to explode. I’m sure he told you all about it. And explode it will, on this planet, unless I’m allowed to return to where it’s hidden and deactivate it."

"You would not take such a chance."

"I wouldn’t risk off-world travel without it."

"The explosion would destroy you."

"And you," Jack grinned. "Not a bad trade, in the minds of a lot of people." O’Neill lifted his arm, pleased that it didn’t tremble, and pointedly looked at his watch. "I’d say you’ve got just enough time to gather up your people and get off this planet before we all go BOOM. If you hurry."

Ba’al continued to stare at the human, and then, with a flourish, turned to his warriors. "Jaffa, Kree! Return to the ship. Now!" Surrounded by a dozen Jaffa, the Goa’uld began to stalk angrily away, then stopped, and turned back to the human. "We are not done, Tau’ri."

Jack sighed wearily. "No, I imagine we’re not."

He stood and watched them go, keeping his knees locked, fighting to keep his balance. The Jaffa were marching away, the natives trotting along in their wake, occasionally casting fearful glances behind them. The General watched them as long as he could, and then, exhausted, sank back to his knees.

That’s where his men found him, Davis helping a stumbling Schiffler.

"General? What happened? Where are the Jaffa?" the major asked.

Jack smiled. "Confronted by a superior force, Ba’al withdrew."

"He withdrew?" Davis was stunned.

Jack waved a hand in the air. "Long story, Major. I’ll tell you later. Now I think we better figure out a way to get back to the gate…"

Just then, O’Neill’s radio crackled with static. "General O’Neill, Major Davis, SG-19, anyone who can hear us, come in please? The Jaffa surrounding the gate have withdrawn… what’s happening at your position?"

"I think you should answer that Major," Jack slumped further to slide down to the ground. "And have them send a medical team. I’m not feeling so hot…" His eyes rolled up in his head, and he passed out.

Davis grabbed the radio. "Colonel, we’re in the woods on the far side of the river. Get your ass up here, now. The General’s unconscious."

"Unconscious?"

"Don’t ask, damn it, move! We need a medical team and a stretcher."

x----------x----------x----------x

The wait seemed endless, though in the end, it was much less than an hour.

All Davis could do was cover the General with the blanket from the backpack. O’Neill’s pulse seemed slow and erratic, his breathing shallow. The gaunt face, beneath the grime and three days beard, was ghostly pale.

He didn’t speak or respond. "Hang on, Sir, help is on the way," the major told him, over and over.

\

At last they heard the noise, a familiar sound that seemed out of place on an alien planet. Within minutes, the slight hum had escalated to a throbbing roar. The elite combat medical team assigned to search and rescue arrived via four wheeled all terrain vehicles, having used the radio signals to locate the survivors of the diplomatic party.

"When did we get those?" Davis asked of the captain who stood watch as the medics knelt around O’Neill. One was taking the general’s blood pressure as the other cut open his blood-stained shirt.

"New Special Ops combat equipment," the captain answered. "Most times, we parachute ‘em in with an S&R team. We dropped ‘em right into the desert in Iraq. Allow small recon and rescue teams to move quick."

Just then, one of the medics turned from his patient. "Sirs, we need to get the General back ASAP. He’s bleeding internally. We’re getting him stabilized, giving him IV fluids, but he needs surgery."

"Do it then," Davis ordered.

The medics needed only minutes to prep the wounded general and get him loaded aboard one of the ATVs.

In less than an hour, General Jack O’Neill was back on Earth, and in surgery.

x----------x----------x----------x

"What the hell happened, Major?" The first words out of General George Hammond’s mouth were angry.

"It was a trap," Paul Davis had just cleared his post-mission check-up and was in the SGC briefing room. It seemed quite natural to see Hammond there, in his familiar spot at the head of the briefing table, surrounded by SG-1, just back from P46-870.

"A trap?" Lieutenant Colonel Carter asked.

"We were taken to the treaty site, where we were met by Camulus."

"Camulus? How’d he survive meeting up with Ba’al?" Doctor Danial Jackson demanded.

"Apparently, Camulus made a deal. To deliver General O’Neill into the hands of the system lords," Davis explained

"The Amrians sold us out?" Hammond asked.

"No, Sir, I don’t think they had a choice. A lot of their own people died. I think they were forced."

"How was O’Neill injured?" Teal’c’s calm tone demanded an answer.

"Immediately after we were captured, the General confronted Camulus. In the midst of the firefight that ensued, I couldn’t see exactly what happened, but Camulus was wearing a knife. I did see that the General was injured, but he said it was a minor wound, and he led us away from the meeting place and into the forest in an attempt to evade Ba’al."

"Which didn’t work," Daniel prodded.

"Eventually, with the help of native trackers, we were surrounded," Davis agreed.

"Then how were you able to escape from Ba’al?" Teal’c asked.

"And get him to leave?" Carter added.

"The General offered to surrender to Ba’al, if Captain Schiffler and I were allowed to leave…"

"Jack did what?"

"He offered to let himself be taken in exchange for Schiffler and myself."

"And you let him do that?" Jackson’s tone was incredulous.

"I followed orders, Doctor Jackson." Davis took a deep breath, and turned to Hammond. "Sir, I’m not sure exactly what O’Neill did, but somehow, he bluffed Ba’al into leaving."

"That would take quite some bluff," Hammond mused. Hopefully, Jack would be able to tell them what he’d done.

If he survived.
x----------x----------x----------x

Four hours later when Doctors Warner and Breitman emerged from the operating room, five anxious faces were waiting for them in the hallway outside the OR.

Doctor Warner looked tired as he pushed open the double doors and pulled the surgical cap from his head, nodding to his audience. "It was touch and go. General O’Neill had a torn blood vessel in his chest, and he’d been slowly losing blood for nearly 24 hours by the time we got him into surgery. However, we were able to repair the damage."

"He’s a very lucky man," Breitman added.

"Lucky?" asked Daniel, skeptically. "He almost died out there."

"A few more hours and he would have," the female physician answered. "They almost lost him on the trip back to the gate. Despite the work of the medics, his blood pressure was so low by the time he arrived here that he was on the verge of massive organ failure."

"He’ll recover?" Hammond asked pointedly.

Warner nodded, and let Breitman answer. "If there are no complications, and that is always a risk, General O’Neill should make a full recovery. He’s a strong individual, and in excellent physical condition, especially considering his extensive medical history and his age. I’ve read his chart, and it’s obvious he has very strong recuperative capabilities. He’ll need a week or more here in the infirmary, then some down time at home before he can resume even partial duties, General Hammond."

x----------x----------x----------x

Though he didn’t yet have the energy or muscle control to open his eyes, he didn’t need to. He woke to warmth and lassitude, with the familiar bitter chemical taste in his mouth, and the feel of plastic in his throat.

He’d been here too many times, and could never fail to recognize the place.

Post-op.

Oiy.

He could sense someone moving around, quietly, even as he drifted slowly upward toward the verge of real consciousness.

A hand touched his, gripping it strongly. "General?"

Oh, he had a visitor, Hammond… no, wait, he was the General now. Jack ordered his fingers to squeeze the hand that held his, and though he wasn’t sure they had worked, the hand squeezed back, and the unfamiliar feminine voice sounded pleased.

"Good, Sir. You’re in post-op."

He squeezed her hand again, and that seemed to encourage her to keep talking, which was nice. He wanted her to keep on, because it gave him something to focus on.

"The surgery went well. You had a nasty knife wound and internal bleeding."

That would explain the way he’d felt, back on that planet, how tired he’d been. He fought with his heavy eyelids and managed to open them briefly. Too-bright light assaulted him, and he let them fall shut.

"That was good, Sir. I know the lights are bright, but we need to keep them at high levels here while monitoring patients. We’ll get you moved out soon. Are you warm enough, General O’Neill?"

He squeezed her hand again because yes he was. It was the one thing he always remembered about post op, the warmth of heated blankets taking away the chill.

"Good, Sir. Then you should sleep some more."

Sleep sounded good, so he listened and did what she told him to do.

x----------x----------x----------x

When next he opened his eyes, Jack knew he was somewhere else. The light was dimmer, the plastic was gone from his throat, but the sounds and smells of this new place were equally familiar. This was the infirmary: he knew the gray ceiling, crisscrossed with conduits, the sound of steadily beeping equipment, and the hushed voices from somewhere nearby. Minutes slid by while he lay motionless, assessing who he was and how he’d gotten here, digging through wispy, scattered memories: Jack O’Neill, General, offworld on a diplomatic mission, confronting Camulus, going swimming in the river and hiking through the woods before meeting up with Ba’al. He felt his heartbeat quicken at the memory and heard the slow beeping accelerate. O’Neill recognized the soft sound of footsteps, then something green moved into his line of vision, not at all what he expected to see in the infirmary.

"Jack?"

That voice was familiar. Not Doc, or a nurse, though…

"Jack, are you awake?"

He blinked, and re-focused, and the worried looking face of Daniel Jackson swam into view.

"Mmmm ‘wake." He *was* thinking the right word, he knew that, he just couldn’t quite manage to say it properly. Yet. But it would come, he was confident.

"Do you need something? Should I call the nurse?"

"No." That word he managed to say distinctly. Of course, he’d been saying ‘no’ since he was a year old. His mother always used to say it was the first word he’d ever said, and it was probably true, he thought.

Some of the worry left Daniel’s face. "So you really are awake this time?"

"Time …?" he asked. His tongue felt thick and long unused, his throat scratchy.

"You talked to the nurse an hour or so ago, but you were pretty groggy."

"Don’t ’member." Managing to move his head a bit, he let his eyes slide past Daniel’s face, searching the bedside table for the expected white of a styrofoam cup. Finding it, he lifted his hand toward what he wanted, but it moved only slowly and only a couple of inches, dragged back by an IV line taped to the back of it.

"What do you need?"

"Wat…," he licked his lips and tried again, "wat…" but for some reason, the word eluded him, so he went to plan B. "Drink."

"I don’t think you can have water yet. There’s ice chips, though, I think." Daniel reached for the white cup, dipped the spoon into the ice, and lifted it to Jack’s mouth. "Easy. Not too much to start with."

He took the chips and sipped, savoring the cold and wet as it erased the nasty taste in his mouth and eased the rawness of his throat.

"Better?" Daniel asked.

"Mmmm. Yes." He was finding it hard to keep his eyes open, but he was trying. "More."

"So how did you do it?" Daniel helped O’Neill get another mouthful of the ice.

Jack took a long moment to savor the moisture, then swallowed. "Do what?"

"How did you convince Ba’al to leave?"

O’Neill smiled sleepily. "Bluff."

"You bluffed him?"

"Said I had the Z…Z…," his arm was too heavy to lift but his fingers flailed through the air, "you know, the Z-thingy..."

"The ZPM?" Daniel guessed.

Jack nodded. "Blow us all up. ‘Less he left."

Daniel smiled. "That was brilliant, Jack."

"Uh huh. Was." Still smiling, O’Neill drifted back to sleep.

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FINISH