Zero Consequences

Author: BadgerGater

Season: One

Category: Action/Adventure Hurt/Comfort

Summary: In the first few weeks after SG-1 is formed, doubts surface; Can SG-1 learn to function together as a team?

Spoilers: Nothing after the first couple of episodes

Rating: PG

Warnings: A bit of Jack’s mouth, but that would be it.

Pairings: None

Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate; I don’t make any money off this; and I don’t intend to offend or infringe or do anything but have some fun and entertain a few friends.

Author’s Note: Janny gave me an idea, and a challenge, to write about the early days of SG-1

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"So, Colonel, how's it going?" General George Hammond asked of the officer who sat across the desk from him.

"Well, we're all still alive, Sir," Jack O'Neill answered, without cracking a smile. "Quite an accomplishment, if I say so myself."

Hammond looked at the commanding officer of his premier exploration team, SG-1, unsure if the Colonel was being his usual understated and sarcastic self, or this time, serious. It was hard to tell, with O'Neill. They had only worked together for just over a month now, and the most important thing Hammond had learned about the Colonel was that O'Neill was more than likely to say and do the unexpected, mostly just to be perverse, the General suspected. Not that he was disappointed with his choice of the once retired, always maverick O'Neill. The man was one hell of an officer and leader, no doubt about that. The unorthodox personnel choices he'd made for his team, the success they'd had on their first missions, and his ability to assess situations that were totally and completely out of the realm of his or anyone else's experience had led George to believe he'd made a good choice in the officer before him.

True, the man had his, ah, quirks, to put it kindly, yet, there'd certainly been no re-appearance of the depressed, suicidal man he'd been warned about by O'Neill's former CO. It certainly appeared that the man had found a way to cope with the personal tragedy that had led the Colonel to be both just over a year ago. He'd plainly put that behind him, concentrating on the task at hand. O'Neill did have an independent streak, however, and while Hammond had chosen him in large part because of that, it still concerned him. And that sense of humor, well, the General did have to admit O'Neill could be pretty darn perceptive with that caustic wit, even if as a two-star he couldn't always laugh.

Oh well, the good ones were rarely the easy ones, he'd learned in his long career. He and O'Neill would work out their differences, Hammond believed, because under the obvious surface disagreements, they were in fact men who thought very much alike.

George Hammond liked Colonel O'Neill, he just wasn't always sure he understood him. And for a man who prided himself on his ability to read people, that was more than a bit disconcerting. Sure, George had read the man’s file cover to cover, and one hell of an interesting file it was. The man had been involved in some of the dirtiest, deadliest work the military did; survived capture and torture at the ends of the enemy; he’d made a name for himself with his leadership skills and his ability to think on his feet, in the field. Sure, he had a bit of an attitude problem, but a lot of the best ones did.

Hammond had picked O’Neill, coerced him into returning to active duty in fact, and not just because the Colonel had taken the first team through the gate, but because he’d creatively interpreted his orders, and accomplished his mission. That was the kind of leader Hammond needed for his number one first contact team.

Yet, the brash officer *did* tend to take things too far, overdo the initiative thing on occasion. George reminded himself he was going to have to keep O’Neill well in hand.

O'Neill, however, was not the topic on this day's agenda.

"Colonel, you know that when I agreed to your rather, shall we say, *unusual* personnel choices, that I did so based on an agreement that we'd discuss the performance of your team after 30 days. See how things were going, take a look at how your personnel were working out."

"Yes, Sir," O'Neill answered non-committally.

"And the 30 days have passed."

"Ah, yes, Sir, I can count that far."

"So..."

"So, Sir?"

"So, I'd like your assessment, Colonel. Of your team."

O'Neill looked down, not meeting Hammond's gaze. "We're working things out."

"And that means what?"

"It means that we're working things out. Sir."

"Colonel..." Hammond used his best warning tone, letting O'Neill know that the verbal sparring had gone far enough, and it was time to get down to business. "I'd like some specifics, Colonel O'Neill."

"Sir, we've only had three missions," O'Neill stated.

"I know that, Jack, but I've had teams that I knew wouldn't work or couldn't work in the first ten minutes of the first briefing."

"This group isn't so easy to judge," O'Neill said cautiously.

"You have reservations, Colonel?" Hammond demanded.

"No, Sir," O'Neill answered quickly. "We just haven't worked out all the bugs yet."

"Bugs?"

"Bugs." O'Neill raised his gaze to catch Hammond's eye, then let his eyes slide away to fix on the red phone on the General's desk. "General, this assignment *is* a little unorthodox."

"Yes."

"And this *team* is a little unorthodox."

"Like their CO?" Hammond inquired with one eyebrow raised.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. I think. I've never tried to be orthodox."

"I know that, Colonel. That's why *you're* here. And I have no concerns with your work to date, Colonel. Despite your, um, recent time off, you've done an exemplary job of bringing the SG teams into place and I appreciate it. But this isn't about those other teams, or even about you. It's about SG-1, the team *you* hand picked."

"Two-thirds of it, General."

Hammond nodded. "Okay. Let's start there, then. Captain Carter? How is she working out?"

"Carter is an excellent officer. She’s more than holding her own in a difficult assignment, despite being a, ahh, a scientist..." O’Neill said the word with obvious loathing.

"Good. I appreciate your giving her a fair chance. Jack, I know you wanted to pick your own team, and Carter would not have been your choice..."

"No, Sir, she wouldn't have..."

"I asked you to give her 30 days to prove herself, and I expect an honest assessment. Does Carter stay on SG-1, or should the captain be re-assigned? I've got plenty of slots on the other teams or in the lab..."

"Carter can stay, Sir. I'd like her to stay. She does good work. Thinks too much sometimes, but then that makes up for me," O'Neill finished with a self deprecating grin.

"Good. Glad to hear it," Hammond smiled. He’d known Carter could do the job, if O’Neill did indeed give her a fair chance, and obviously, he had. His opinion of the officer in front of him went up another notch. O’Neill might gripe and complain, but he was fair, and he was willing to change his mind when it was appropriate. Good. "Now, on to the rest, the rather less orthodox members of your team." The General opened the next file that sat before him on the desk. "Our alien recruit, Teal'c."

"Teal'c is a veteran, well-trained soldier, Sir. Knows the ropes. Obeys orders. Contributes his own unique knowledge."

"Any problems?"

"A few language barriers now and then..."

Hammond raised an eyebrow.

"Idioms, Sir. American slang. Pop culture references. A bit lacking in the sense of humor department, but he's learning."

"No qualms about Teal'c's loyalty?"

"None, Sir."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

Hammond stared at his second. Considering what he knew of O’Neill’s history, if O’Neill was willing to trust the alien, then George had to believe Teal’c was indeed trustworthy. The Colonel, Hammond knew, was not one to trust easily or lightly; his trust wasn’t given, it had to be earned. "Okay, then, Teal'c stays as well." Hammond made a note on Teal'c's folder, closed it, and pulled open the next. "Dr. Jackson?"

The General didn't miss O'Neill's slow response.

"Daniel is....Daniel." The Colonel waved a hand in the air.

"And that means?"

"He has a lot to learn. Don't get me wrong, Sir, he's brilliant. He and Carter are so smart it's actually scary sometimes, General. Enough to give me nightmares."

"But..." Hammond prompted.

"I didn't say 'but'."

"Ah, no, not yet. Spit it out, Colonel."

O'Neill shrugged, studying his hands. "But he's having a little problem with the military thing, Sir," Jack answered with a grimace.

"The military thing?"

O'Neill nodded.

"Explain, Colonel."

"You know. Military stuff. Picking out the good guys from the bad guys. Following orders. Ducking."

"You said you'd handle Dr. Jackson's training, Colonel."

"Yes, Sir. And I-we have been working on it, Sir. And he *is* improving, General, without a doubt. But the, ah, well, the instincts just aren't there, Sir. Yet."

"So, shall I reassign him?"

"No."

"Are you sure, Colonel?"

"Sir, Daniel isn't a soldier, and he'll never be one. Quite frankly, I don't need another soldier on my team, or I'd be asking for one of the jarheads. But he does bring us other skills that we need, that all the teams need out there, Sir. Pardon the cliche but it is a whole other world through the gate, and orthodox military thinking just won't cut it. Daniel thinks out of the box, and that's important. It's just not always easy to deal with."

"Ah, hah, a challenge for you, Colonel?"

"Yes, Sir, but I *do* thrive on challenges."

"I know you do, Jack. And I know you asked for him on your team, and that you are shall we say mentoring him. I know that you have a personal stake in his ability to become part of your team. But a word of caution, Colonel, don't let that friendship go so far that it becomes a problem, for him or for you."

"Or the SGC, Sir?"

"You know we are on a bit of shaky ground, here, Jack. Just remember, Dr. Jackson's participation on SG-1 is an experiment, a civilian on what is essentially a front line combat team. It was not easy getting him on SG-1 and frankly, it won't be easy keeping him. This whole program is mighty iffy already. It has provoked some very heated debate about just what we should be doing with the Stargate, the kind of missions we should be undertaking, or even if we should be using the gate at all. There are those who think we ought to simply re-bury it."

"Ah, the perennial head-in-the-sand Ostrich sort of thing, eh, Sir?"

Hammond suppressed a chuckle. "Yes, Colonel. But they think they're being 'prudent,' avoiding the notice of whoever or whatever is lurking out there." The General waved a hand at the large metal ring that loomed over the SGC commander's office.

"Too late for that, Sir. We've already made ripples on the universal pond, so to speak."

"No need to convince me, Colonel, I agree with you.” Hammond paused, looking down to rearrange the three sheets of paper on his always tidy desk. The General raised his gaze again to meet that of his second in command. ”Jack, I don't need to remind you of the importance of SG-1, of making this program work, of proving the SGC is a valuable and viable enterprise. And that means keeping everyone, especially civilians, alive."

"I know that, Sir."

"Good. So, do you want to keep Dr. Jackson on your team?"

"Yes, Sir, we need him. And I'll keep both eyes on him, at all times."

"Colonel," Hammond's voice once again held a warning tone," don't think you need to make every one of your team choices work. We all make mistakes, and if Daniel Jackson is one, own up to it and we'll rectify it. If he doesn't fit in, he doesn't."

"Ah, round peg, square hole issues, Sir?"

"Exactly, Colonel. If he's not military material, and you and I both know not everyone is, then admit it and move on. We don't have time to waste on impossible chores or pet projects. We can't afford to take chances out there, and you have more to do than spend 24-7 worrying about one civilian archaeologist. While I don't want to have to explain to the Joint Chiefs how I lost Dr. Jackson, I don't want to have to explain how I lost you, either, Colonel."

O'Neill shrugged. "Understood, Sir."

Hammond nodded, closed Jackson's folder after making another set of notations, and stood. "Dismissed, Colonel."

O'Neill stood and started for the door.

"Thirty days, Colonel?

Jack turned back. "Sir?"

"We'll reassess again in 30 days."

"Yes, Sir."

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O'Neill sauntered down to his cubby-hole of an office, nodding at unfamiliar faces on the way. Until just recently, he'd known everyone who worked here, but the SGC was rapidly gearing up as more teams were put together, the roster of technicians and scientific personnel burgeoned daily, the medical staff reached target levels, and Security Forces were beefed up. The Stargate program was no longer comprised of just a couple dozen people, it was a rapidly growing full scale military juggernaut.

All thanks to the genius of Dr. Jackson in figuring out the meaning of the gate system's symbols and Captain Carter inventing the computer programs to make it work.

Jack shook his head. The whole thing was a puzzle way beyond his understanding. Then, of course, understanding how wormholes, event horizons and computers worked wasn't his job. He was a plain, old fashioned warrior, albeit one with a very different unit under his command-- a scientist, a civilian and an alien. Truthfully, like he'd told Hammond, the team *was* coming together nicely. Not perfect, far from that, yet, but getting better with each mission, learning, growing, each beginning to understand his or her role, functioning well, meshing, developing camaraderie and laying down a base of trust. That was his job, to put the team together, to see to it that they all worked together, each part of the unit doing its job so that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts.

And some odd parts it had.

He still wasn't sure about Jackson. Had he accepted Daniel onto his team out of a sense of debt, figuring he owed the man for what had happened? After all, if Jack hadn't figured out how to signal the archaeologist, Daniel wouldn't have opened the gate, his wife wouldn't have been kidnapped, and O'Neill wouldn't have been responsible for turning the man's world upside down. Then again, he thought ruefully, the USAF had wanted to just plain send through a bomb and Jackson and all the Abydonians would be nothing more than a pile of highly radioactive rubble.

Would they really have done that, nuked a planet? Maybe. Probably. Okay, yes, the US military would have out of a misguided belief that in doing so it would save the planet. O'Neill wasn't sure how Hammond would have dealt with it. Yes, the General had used the opportunity to bluff Jack into offering up the information he needed, and then volunteering to return to the program. Mild mannered looking guy, but George Hammond was no teddy bear. Jack was finding he respected and admired the bald Texan. Hammond might not have liked sending that bomb through the gate, but he’d have obeyed his orders. After all, Hammond was only a cog in the military machine. Even a two star had orders to follow.

O'Neill shrugged. He couldn't change what had happened. He'd asked for Jackson on his team, and he'd gotten Jackson on his team. He just hadn't expected the guy to be so much of a... a... a *civilian.* Geez, after all, the guy had lived on a primitive alien planet for a year, you'd think he would have learned a few survival skills.

The Colonel arrived at his office, and dropped wearily into his chair. God, why did he get himself into so many messes, huh? What caused him to always open up his big mouth and get himself into these situations? He wanted Daniel on his team. These first missions proved the young man could make valuable contributions, that he could stand up for himself in a military atmosphere, that he had courage if not always good sense. But if he let himself see the truth, Jack couldn't stand the thought of losing another life, of being responsible for another innocent's death. And yeah, make no mistake about it, Daniel was an innocent. Growing up fast, but still an innocent, compared to his cynical military comrades.

Was keeping Jackson on his team signing the man's death warrant? Or fulfilling his promise? Making the best use of a unique and invaluable resource, the man's ingenuity and rapid-fire thinking? Or sentencing him to death? Hell, there were times Daniel's 'I'm your friend' approach to alien encounters had damn near gotten them all killed, but there were other times when that same friendly, enthusiastic, kid in a candy store attitude had won them allies.

So there.

Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Well, Hammond had given them 30 more days, a month in which Jack had to get the young man militarily ship-shape, or at least savvy enough not to get himself and all of them killed.

O'Neill spent the rest of the day prepping for their next mission. He still found the whole thing so entirely incredible, that his job was to lead missions to other planets. Sure, he'd commanded missions to places on good old terra firma that had seemed like other planets: Third World countries, deserts, rain forests, sweltering tropics and freezing glaciers. But other planets, places with three moons and two suns, with weird looking plants and odd looking people and glowing eyed aliens with snakes in their heads? Ewww. The Colonel shivered, and continued making up his supply list for the next mission-- weapons, ammo, canteens, rations, flashlights, first aid kits, sleeping bags, maybe a bit more ammo...

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At 0900 the next morning, SG-1 was assembled in the gateroom. Teal'c's face was impassive as ever, Carter's eyes were alight with anticipation over another new adventure; Daniel's expression was also eager, not so much anticipation as grim determination, and hopefulness. Hopeful that maybe this time they'd find someone or something that could lead them to his wife.

O'Neill's brown eyes bore the wary expression of the veteran soldier, reflecting the need for instant alertness, knowing the responsibility for the safety of the team rested in his hands, in making good decisions. First contact, stepping onto another new world filled with unknown dangers was a kick: he hid it well, but he enjoyed the adrenaline moment.

The inner ring of the two story tall alien magic contraption stopped turning, warning voices sounded over the PA system, and the wormhole spit out its jet of blue-white material, then settled down to a film like cover over the center of the ring. Carter's smile was even bigger, O'Neill saw from the corner of his eye. Okay, he was hiding his own inner sense of wonder at watching the 'kawoosh' as people were already beginning to call it.

"SG-1," said Hammond from his spot watching above, "you have a go. Good luck and Godspeed."

The Colonel threw his CO a salute and, raising his gun, stepped into the wormhole.

A moment of ice cold disorientation, though he realized it seemed less and less with each passage, and then he was stumbling, catching his footing, gun leveled, looking around at an open, grassy plain. Greenish plants waved in a cool breeze, marching off over the top of a nearby hill. There were no signs of roads, trails or anything else that indicated recent or frequent visitors.

O'Neill heard the soft sound of each of his teammates emerging from the maelstrom, and then the abrupt woosh-snap as the gate closed behind them.

"Carter!"

"Here, Sir," she answered.

"Where's our destination?"

"A village, over there, Sir," the Captain pointed over the rise to their right, to a dimly seen second line of hills, shrouded in a fog or mist. "Ruins, but no sign of people. That way, Colonel."

"Then let's go, campers," he said, leading the way, letting the others fall into line behind him, not needing to check to know that Teal'c was the ever on guard caboose in their little train.

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

They'd walked for an hour before reaching the treeline, traveling then under huge trees that reminded O'Neill of the giant redwoods that grew in California. Things were quiet and uneventful for hours more, when they got a surprise.

Jack spotted smoke rising from a valley, and motioned the others to get down. Leaving Carter and Daniel, the Colonel and the Jaffa worked their way to the top of the rise, and cautiously peered over the hill into the small valley.

Smoke curled upward from several stone huts that peeked out from under giant trees, the buildings arranged in a cluster alongside a meandering stream.

"Now that's a surprise. Thought we were all alone on this little world," O'Neill commented as he studied the village through his binoculars.

"It appears that was an incorrect assumption, ColonelO'Neill," added Teal'c.

"I'd give you a big 10-4 on that."

Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "And what am I expected to do with these large numbers ten and four, O'Neill?" he inquired seriously.

The Colonel emitted a small "harrumph" of consternation, his eyes still glued to the field glasses he was using to study the village. "I'm not really giving you numbers, Teal'c. That's just a phrase, a saying."

Teal'c shook his head. "The language of your world, O'Neill, has many sayings that do not make sense."

O'Neill raised his eyes above the glasses for a moment, to glance over at his companion. "We like to confound folks, Teal'c. It's part of our culture. Speaking plainly would make things too easy."

"I see," said Teal'c and did not, but knew it was useless to pursue the issue with O'Neill. He had already realized that the Tau'ri Colonel delighted in using such odd phrases, and that sometimes even other Tau'ri did not seem to grasp his meaning. Perhaps later he would have the opportunity to ask Captain Carter what this mysterious 10-4 meant.

The Colonel turned around and waved down the hill at Carter and Jackson, motioning them to come up the hill and join them, a second motion telling them to stay low. As he waited, he continued surveying the village, noting what appeared to be ordinary humans tending the fires and working in what looked to be a large garden.

"Sir?" Carter asked.

Jack turned around, handing her the binoculars as she crawled to the lip of the hill beside him. "Take a look, Captain."

Daniel, scrambling on all fours, reached the others' vantage point at the top of the hill. "What?"

"People," said O'Neill, waving his hand.

"People?" Daniel sounded excited, craned his neck to see, and stood up.

Jack tackled him, employing a move worthy of an all-pro middle linebacker. "For crying out loud, get down!"

Daniel rolled out from under him, picking bits of leaves and twigs from his shirt. "Jack, from down here I can't see anything!"

"And they can't see you," O'Neill explained.

"Oh, right, but..."

"No buts. Wait your turn. You can take a look from there," O'Neill pointed to the spot where the captain was sprawled on her stomach, peering over the hilltop, "when Carter is done."

"Jack, there's no reason to assume people will be hostile..."

"There's no reason to assume they *won't* be hostile," O'Neill shouted, his exasperation getting the better of him. "Damn it, there could be anyone down there, Goa'uld or Jaffa or hell, the freakin' one eyed one horned flying Purple People Eater." He bit back his anger, his voice sinking to a taut, controlled whisper. "Daniel, I have explained this to you before. Until we know more, we *assume* those people won't like us."

"That's a negative attitude, Jack. Why assume the worst?"

"Because then, if it's *not* so bad, we can all be pleasantly surprised. And we'll be alive enough to enjoy it, huh?" the Colonel cocked his head and glared at the team's archaeologist. He fought to lighten his voice, placing a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. "Daniel, I know you want the universe to be populated by the good guys. But this isn't Mr. Rogers' neighborhood. Not everyone out here is gonna like us. Like the Touched. And the Goa'uld."

Daniel sighed. "Jack..."

"Daniel, you'll get plenty of chances to talk to these people, *after* we've taken a few minutes to check them out first. Then..."

"Sir," Carter interrupted, sliding down the hill, handing the glasses to O'Neill. "You'd better take a look, Colonel. I think we'll be checking them out real soon."

O’Neill grabbed the binoculars and quickly moved back into position to look down into the valley. Several people were milling around in front of one of the huts, pointing up the hill, toward their vantage point, and a group of men had already started running toward the hill. "Damn!" the Colonel muttered. "We've been spotted. The jig is up." He turned back to Jackson. "You'll get your chance to be Mr. Ambassador in a few minutes. The natives are on their way. And they don't look very friendly at the moment."

SG-1 stood calmly in the clear ground under the trees when they heard the harsh breathing of running men. Shortly, a band of 15 or 20 men crested the hill. They were dressed in muted tones of brown and green, wearing capelike coats, one arm exposed, the other, O'Neill noted unhappily, concealed among the folds of cloth.

"Hello," said Jack, warily.

Daniel stepped forward, features arranged in a pleasant smile. "Hi, I'm Daniel Jackson. My colleagues and I are peaceful travelers from, from, ah, far away."

The cluster of men spread out now in a line between the strangers and the path down to their village definitely did *not* have friendly smiles on their faces, O'Neill saw with growing concern. Fingers twitching nervously, he surreptitiously eased his MP-5 into better position for quick action. A man stepped forward, a tall man dressed in finer clothes, having an obvious air of authority about him. O'Neill looked at the man, and dismissed him, the leader yes, but not the man he needed to worry about. The Colonel's wary eyes drifted across the faces flanking him and fixed on a man just to the left of the one standing in front. In a split second one warrior recognized another, eyes locking in mutual acknowledgment of what each of them was. This man was an enemy, O'Neill knew, a man to be watched and guarded against.

The Colonel took a step further to his left, clearing his field of fire, eyes never leaving the face of his counterpart.

Daniel was speaking again, filling the uncomfortable silence. "She's Captain Carter, he's Teal'c and that's Colonel O'Neill," he said, pointing at each.

"I am Montal Ayanda, stellar of New Graunadar. Greetings, Daniel Jackson," growled the well dressed man, nodding his head slightly.

Daniel's grin turned into a fullblown smile and a nod in return, muttering "stellar, leader, okay" and then in a louder voice adding "greetings, Stellar Ayanda."

Montal's gaze swept from Carter to Teal'c to O'Neill. "Greetings, strangers." The eyes returned to Daniel's face. "Where are you from?"

"Ah, a long ways away. It's rather hard to explain."

"Are you of the Nandeese?"

"The Nandeese? No. Don't know them. We're, ah, we're the Tau'ri."

"Aieeeehhh," shouted the natives, stepping backward.

Montal raised his hand, his movement halting theirs, head turning swiftly from one member of SG-1 to another. "The Tau'ri? The fabled race of the Tau'ri?"

O'Neill, gaze still glued to the eyes of the man next to the leader, spoke up. "Yup. That's us, the famous fabled Tau'ri. The good guys from planet Earth."

"How did you get here?" the leader turned his attention back to Jackson, fear in his eyes now.

"We used the Stargate," Daniel answered. "You know, the ring, back there," the young man waved a hand behind him.

There were whispers, uneasy movements, looks of fear exchanged among the cluster of men behind Montal and his warrior, the gray-eyed man O'Neill still had locked in his gaze. That one didn't look afraid, more like angry, thought the Colonel, worried.

"The ring?" Montal asked. "Only the devils come through the ring."

"The devils?" asked Daniel.

"Devils, with glowing eyes, and their minions, bearing markings, like his," said the native leader, pointing at Teal'c.

“And he carries a staff,” said another.

“Temple robbers,” whispered a third.

Uneasiness gripped O'Neill, watching the men across from him. He couldn't spare a sideways glance at Carter but had to trust she'd kept alert and was as watchful as he. Teal'c would be the same. Jack had no time to look for Jackson, hoping Daniel was remembering a few of the Colonel's lessons on keeping alert and out of the way in a confrontation. Except O'Neill had the sinking feeling Daniel hadn't yet perceived that this *was* a confrontation and not some chummy gathering of long-lost relatives.

"We are the enemies of the glowing eyed devils, the Goa'uld," SG-1's linguist added.

Several of the men behind Montal hissed, others made a gesture, like a sign of the cross, even O'Neill recognized the sign of warding off evil.

"You have spoken the name that must remain unspoken!" one of them shouted.

"They came through the ring, like the devils."

"Only devils come through the ring."

"Devils."

The men suddenly surged forward.

In one fluid motion, O'Neill had his gun up and pointed directly at the head of the native leader. "Okay, boys, let's not do anything rash here, huh?" From the corner of his eye, he could see his gray eyed native counterpart had also produced a device, a metal oval with several long spike-like objects protruding from it. In the quick glimpse O'Neill got of the alien thing, he knew it was a weapon. And it was pointed directly back at the Colonel.

"Now, nobody needs to shoot anybody. We’re just having a nice, friendly conversation here folks," O'Neill said in a soothing voice, his vision fixed on his target. "Carter, Teal'c, move back a bit, would you guys?" He heard the soft sound of their footsteps as they obeyed his order. "Now, Daniel..."

"Jack, I'm okay. Nothing's happened."

"Not yet," O'Neill answered softly. "But it will. So ease back a step or two would you? Just to calm my overactive paranoid imagination?"

"Jack..." Daniel turned. In that one movement, everything changed.

Jackson's body was suddenly blocking O'Neill's target. The Colonel slipped sideways, but Daniel had moved the same way, still obstructing the military man's view of the native leader.

He did not, however, block the view of the native warrior and what the warrior saw was a stranger with an equally unknown but obvious weapon pointed at his leader, who suddenly had no target.

The man fired. His weapon was something like a crossbow, a metal bolt racing off the device. Too late, O'Neill saw it, screamed "Get out of here" at the Captain and the Jaffa at the same time he lunged toward Jackson. The officer tackled the civilian for the second time in one afternoon.

Except this time, O'Neill didn't get up.

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

Shuddering, Jack felt the projectile, the metal arrow, bury itself deep in his left thigh. There was a moment of stunned surprise, shock induced numbness, as his body hit the ground on top of Jackson, the fall driving the arrow even deeper into his leg. Pain shrieked from his leg down to his toes and all the way up to his fingertips, his MP-5 wavering as the shock numbed his whole body, the fingers on his left hand losing contact with the weapon. One handed, the Colonel tried to swing the gun back up into a defensive position while simultaneously struggling to push himself to his knees. From the corner of his eye, he could see the other two escaping into the trees just as he saw one of the natives shove Daniel to the ground.

Nothing was working. Everything was spinning, wavering; his muscles turning to mush; his vision graying. O’Neill could feel his whole body shutting down, his weapon slipping out of nerveless hands, blackness encroaching on his vision, the world sliding, tilting unsteady beneath him as his heart raced frantically, and then everything just stopped.

========================

Jack didn’t think he was unconscious long, because when he forced his eyes open, not much had changed except his perspective of the situation. Instead of on his feet, gun in hand and glaring eye to eye at his native counterpart, he was lying on the ground, looking up. Definitely in a subordinate position, the kind of place Jack O’Neill never wanted to be, even without the distraction of having a large arrow embedded excruciatingly into his leg.

This was not turning out to be a nice planet, he thought.

The warriors were still gathered around them, although there were obviously fewer than before, Jack noted. Some must have gone in pursuit of Carter and Teal’c, he thought. Assessing he situation, he realized that his weapons, backpack and vest were all gone, as were Daniel’s. Daniel in fact was standing nearby, surrounded by men holding weapons of the same kind that had been used to shoot him. The young man was talking steadily, but no one was listening, and the leader’s face was getting darker and more unhappy by the minute.

Just about then someone noticed O’Neill was awake. A booted foot planted itself quite firmly into his back. Jack grunted, biting his lip, eyes drifting upward to stare into the face of the warrior.

“Get up,” the man ordered.

Jack thought about the order a moment, and knew it wasn’t going to happen, not with the way his leg was feeling at the moment. “Sorry, no can do. If you wanted me on my feet, you probably shouldn’t have shot me in the leg,” he added through gritted teeth.

The big warrior guy was not amused. He grabbed Jack’s arm and yanked the injured man upright, O’Neill staggering, gasping with pain as his injured leg was forced to take some of his weight. It buckled, threatening to spill him back down to the ground, but unexpectedly he felt a hand wrap around his waist, supporting him.

Daniel was beside him, his face grim. “You okay?” his teammate asked hopefully.

“No,” O’Neill was hurting too much to be diplomatic.

“Move!” ordered the warrior, emphasizing his demand with a shove that nearly sent the pair tumbling to the ground. Somehow, Daniel managed to hang onto Jack and balance them both.

It was a good thing the path to the village was downhill, because O’Neill knew he couldn’t have climbed. As it was, he was leaning heavily on Jackson, cursing under his breath with every step. His good leg was soon trembling with the strain of trying to bear most of his weight. He could feel the blood trickling down his other leg, every step jarring the wound.

Daniel watched his friend out of the corner of his eye, saying nothing, not wanting to disturb Jack’s concentration. It was obvious it was taking all of the older man’s energy to stay on his feet. O’Neill’s lips were set and tight, his eyes focused on the trail ahead as they stumbled toward the village.

Finally, the natives and their captives reached the cluster of huts. The women and children had gathered to watch the strangers, whispering and pointing as the Tau’ri were marched through the maze of small structures. Finally, they were pointed toward a hut, pushed inside unceremoniously, and the door closed and fastened behind them.

Daniel eased O’Neill to the ground in the dim interior.

“Oww. Damn! Careful!”

“I’m trying, Jack.”

“Well, try harder,” O’Neill groaned as he settled himself onto the hard, rough ground. “I didn’t expect the honeymoon suite but at least they could have left us a fruit basket.”

Jackson turned away, pacing around the room in search of anything that might help them. There was nothing, the place was totally empty. “Not even a window. It’s going to get hot in here,” he mused.

“Ya’ think?” the Colonel deadpanned, wiping sweat from his forehead, sweat he knew was unrelated to the air temperature. He pushed himself up on his elbows, staring down at the blood soaked trousers and the several inches of cylindrical metal, as big around as his little finger, sticking out of his leg. “I think you better take a look at this.”

Daniel turned back. “Right.” He knelt beside O’Neill. Gently, he took hold of the edges of the torn cloth around the metal projectile, ripping the tough material of the green BDUs. The sturdy cloth resisted, then gave suddenly, and his hand bumped the bolt.

“Agggghhhhh. Damn.” O’Neill clutched at his leg then fell back with a groan, throwing one hand over his eyes. "God!"

“Sorry.” Daniel apologized. Trying to be even more cautious, he gently reached down and ripped the cloth further, carefully wiping the blood away. The flesh around the entrance point was already red, swollen and hot. With his left hand, the archaeologist felt along the underside of O’Neill’s thigh, nodding with satisfaction. “It didn’t go all the way through.”

“I could have told you that.”

Daniel just nodded, knowing Jack’s gruffness was simply his way of handling the pain. “If I pull this out, it’s, um, going to hurt a lot…”

“Sort of figured that,” there was sarcasm in O’Neill’s tone.

“And probably bleed a lot…”

“Figured that, too.”

“And I might do a lot more tissue damage…”

“Well I can’t go walking around with it like this!”

Daniel waved at their surroundings. “Not much room to walk in here.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve got no intentions of staying here and finding out *more* about these folks’ hospitality. I’ve frankly seen enough, and you know, this just isn’t my idea of Club Med. We need to find a way out of here and link back up with Carter and Teal’c.”

“Right,” Daniel looked doubtful. “Well, *if* we can figure a way out of here, you’re going to have trouble walking on that…”

“I know,” exasperation colored O’Neill’s words. “But to tell you the truth, I’d rather walk back to the gate and walk into the infirmary, where the doctor is going to have some slightly useful things like antibiotics and sterile dressings and drugs that will knock me out so I won’t feel like someone’s stuck a foot long metal bolt into my leg…”

“Eight inches, Jack, it’s only about eight inches…”

The Colonel glared.

“Ah, yeah, okay, then, doesn’t matter. We need to remove this and bandage the wound…” talking while he worked, Daniel used his teeth to rip the tough material of his t-shirt into several long strips for a makeshift bandage. “If only they’d left us the first aid kit…”

“And my MP-5 and a couple of grenades,” O’Neill added sarcastically. “If wishes were horses, Daniel, we wouldn’t need feet.”

Jackson raised a surprised eyebrow at the mangled cliche, then prepared himself for what he was going to have to do. “Jack…”

“Do it, Daniel.”

“Jack, it’s…”

“I don’t want to hear it. Just do it, uh?”

“I, uh…”

“What, you’ve never done anything like this before?”

“Never pulled an eight inch crossbow bolt out of someone’s leg while locked in a hut on an alien planet? Actually, no, Jack, I haven’t.”

“Do it before I do it myself…” O’Neill threatened.

“Okay, then,” the archaeologist wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt, then took hold of the metal shaft. He looked into Jack’s face, saw the pain already etched there. “On three, then…”

The Colonel nodded, staring up at the ceiling.

“One. Two,” Daniel pulled, hard, fingers sliding on slick metal, feeling flesh tear as blood spurted, coating his hands, making it hard to keep his grip on the smooth shaft. The bolt moved a few inches and stopped as Jack hollered. Frantically, Daniel jerked on the projectile again, felt it come free in another gush of blood, and he dropped it into the dirt.

“Arrrrgghhhh!” O’Neill writhed, gasping, his shoulders lifting off the ground, his hands reaching to bracket his thigh. “God damn. God…oh God.”

Daniel’s own heart was racing, his hands shaking as he quickly tied the makeshift bandage around the bleeding gash.

“Oh, God, damn, that hurt!” O’Neill, flat on the dirt floor again, was still fighting for control. “Son of a bitch, Daniel, can’t… you… count… to three?”

Bloody hands still occupied with the tasking of bandaging the wound, Jackson could only shrug. “Sorry. Thought it was best that way.”

“Right… Sure... Best…,” Jack was gaining some control now, pushing the pain back, slumping down to once again lie flat on the packed dirt of the hut’s floor, his breath coming more normally. With his sleeve, he wiped more beads of sweat from his face, licked dry lips and wished for a drink of water and a good old all American painkiller. Even in those old westerns John Wayne usually got a dose of whiskey before going though the likes of that.

Jackson finished tying the bandage in place. “How’s that?”

“Dandy. Very artistic. Martha Stewart would be proud.”

“You okay?”

“Just absolutely right as rain. Never better. Tip top. Ready to roll. Ummmmm,” he bit back a groan. “We’re still doing the marathon this afternoon and the IronMan race in the morning, right?” he finished sarcastically.

“Jack…”

O’Neill’s eyes were dark, his face tight, jaw locked with the effort of holding in the pain.

“Jack, I didn’t…”

O’Neill’s eyes were glittering with the combination of pain and anger. “That’s right, you didn’t. You didn’t listen, and you didn’t think. You stepped between me and the man I was toe to toe with in a Mexican standoff and it got me skewered like a shishkabob. And you know what? For some strange reason, I’m not exactly enjoying this.”

“I’m sorry.”

O’Neill’s words were grim. “Don’t be sorry. Be useful. Find us a way out of here.”

()()()()()()()()

At O’Neill’s shouted order, Sam and Teal’c had run. Reluctantly leaving their teammates behind for the moment, they knew it was more important for them to stay free, elude capture and either rescue the others or go for help. While the Colonel never liked to have his team separated, having his entire team captured was an even worse scenario in his book, the Captain knew.

Even as they ran through the forest, they could hear their pursuers following a few hundred yards behind. Carter increase her pace until she was heaving for breath as she ran alongside the Jaffa who seemed to hardly be breathing hard at all, thanks to his symbiote. After long minutes, each breath catching painfully, Sam slowed to a stop. “Teal’c,” she called breathlessly. “I.. have to…stop,” she gasped.

He paused, looking at her. “I will endeavor to hide our back trail while you remain here.”

She nodded, and watched him disappear into the silent forest. Sinking down onto a fallen tree trunk, Sam collected herself, and began to worry about her teammates. She was pretty sure the Colonel had been wounded, but he and Daniel were together, and if anyone could take care of himself it was O’Neill. Still, they needed help, and soon.

How to get them that help was the question. Would it be better to go back to the gate and call for reinforcements? That would take hours, to hike back to the gate and wait for a search and rescue team to be assembled. Did the Colonel and Daniel have that much time? Or would the natives, who had definitely not seemed friendly, do them further damage? Or march them off somewhere, never to be found? In this rugged terrain, that seemed all too likely. Best to follow, and try to effect a rescue, then chance losing them forever in the maze of forest and hills, Carter decided. That’s what they would do then, when Teal’c got back, they’d go after their teammates.

()()()()()()()()

Daniel had listened at the door for a long time, peering out through a narrow crack between the boards, able to see a guard standing in front of their hut. A few people walked past, women and children mostly, but the village seemed quiet otherwise.

Finally, turning away, he prowled around the tiny space, stopping to stand over Jack who seemed to be dozing restlessly. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any fresh blood on the makeshift bandage on O’Neill’s thigh, but the injured man’s face was beaded with sweat, and even as he rested, there were tight pain lines visible around his eyes. He knew Jack needed fluids to compensate for the blood loss. Making up his mind, Daniel returned to the doorway, “Guard?”

There was no answer.

“Guard? We need some water.”

There was no answer.

“Look, my friend here is hurt and we just need some water. That’s a simple request. It’s inhumane to leave us in here without any…”

“Inhumane?” Daniel was surprised to hear Jack’s soft voice. “Oh, that’s certain to get their attention. These folks wouldn’t want to treat us inhumanely, after all, they only *shot* me.”

“It’s worth a try, Jack,” Daniel whispered back, then turned to once again address the guard through the gap in the doorway. “Please. Your leader brought us here, I don’t think he wants us to die, and it’s extremely hot in here.”

Daniel saw the guard move and a shadow pass in front of the doorway. The latch rattled.

“Stand back,” the guard ordered. Jackson retreated to stand beside O’Neill, who’d raised his shoulders up by propping one elbow against the ground. Slowly, the door opened a few inches, something was set inside and then the door closed again.

Daniel stepped forward eagerly, finding a small gourd. A shake produced a sloshing sound, and the archaeologist grinned. “Thank you,” he called, and turned back to his friend.

Sliding a hand around Jack’s shoulders to help the man sit further upright, Daniel handed the container to O’Neill. The Colonel drank deeply, then handed it to Jackson, who sipped a mouthful, before setting it aside. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and it meant the natives didn’t want them dead, at least for the moment.

O’Neill sank back to the ground, letting his eyes close, savoring the liquid wetness in his mouth. Popping one eye open, he looked appraisingly at his colleague. “Good job, Daniel,” he muttered.

-----------

Drifting back to awareness, the first thing Jack knew was that his leg hurt, a steady dull throbbing that echoed through his body like an out of sync drumbeat. The next thing he realized was that there was an odd scritch-scritch-scritch sound coming from somewhere close behind him.

Groaning with the effort, O’Neill turned toward his right side to look around the dim hovel they were locked in. His eyes found Daniel hunched up against the hut’s back wall, his hand moving rhythmically up and down against the brick-like surface. His mouth was dry, the words rasping out in a dull croak. “Daniel? What are you doing,?”

The man jumped, turning back toward Jack, a small smile crossing his face. “You’re awake. Good.”

“Uh huh,” O’Neill answered noncommittally, agreeing on the awake, disagreeing vehemently on the good. He waved a hand at the archaeologist. “Digging for artifacts?”

“Ah, no, actually. Found a loose brick, thought maybe I could use this,” he held up the razor-sharp metal bolt he’d pulled out of O’Neill’s leg, “to loosen a couple more, pull them out and after dark we could escape.”

O’Neill’s eyebrow shot up in surprise. “Good plan, Daniel,” the Colonel nodded. “Need help?”

“No. I’m doing fine. You rest, save your strength for later.”

Nodding in agreement, Jack sank back onto the floor, knowing he was going to need every ounce of energy he could muster if they were to escape. “Call if you need me,” he mumbled, letting sleep claim him again.

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

Daniel worked steadily, his hands cramping painfully as he used the tip of the arrow to chip away at the mortar holding the large bricks. It was slow work, but he was definitely making progress. He paused to wipe his sweat slicked palms on his shirt, glancing over at O’Neill. Jack was quiet, and that was a bad sign.

The small container of water was gone, and the guard had ignored his request for more.

The day dragged on, the heat inside the hut building until the sweat was running down into Daniel’s eyes. He hadn’t been this hot since he’d last been to Egypt, although there it was a dry heat, unlike this humid climate, he thought as he wiped his forehead with a grimy sleeve. Just when he had worked a third brick loose, he heard voices and approaching footsteps and jumped forward to stand beside O’Neill.

The Colonel’s eyes popped open. “Company?”

Before Daniel could answer, the door swung open, and Ayanda and three men entered, weapons drawn.

O’Neill struggled to pull himself upright, reaching up to grasp Daniel’s hand and haul himself to his feet, or at least, mostly vertical and standing on one foot, listing against the wall of the hut. He wasn’t going to meet an enemy lying flat on his back, damn it.

Beside Ayanda was a new figure, a man dressed in heavy decorated cloth and leaning on what looked suspiciously like a staff weapon. “See that?” Jack whispered, rolling his eyes at Daniel, and Daniel nodded in response.

“Why have you come here?” the newcomer asked in a belligerent tone.

Before Daniel could answer, O’Neill spoke up, drawling, “In most societies it’s considered polite to introduce yourself before the interrogation…”

Ayanda’s bodyguard took an angry step forward, but the leader threw out an arm to stop him. O’Neill got the distinct impression that Ayanda himself didn’t care so much for Mr. Fancy Robes. The Colonel filed that bit of information in the back of his brain, hoping they’d be out of here soon and not need it.

“This is the Comtarr,” said Ayanda.

“Comtarr?” asked Daniel. “That’s a name? A title?

“He is the Comtarr,” Ayanda explained, “the leader of our temple, interpreter of the sacred writings, and the keeper of the holy relics.”

“Holy relics you say?” O’Neill’s chin lifted in interest.

The cleric sneered at the prisoners. “Only those who understand the mysteries of the People are allowed to witness the holy rituals and view the wonders of the temple. Infidels are not…”

“And how do you know we’re infidels?” Jack sneered back.

“Jack…” Daniel tried to warn.

Jack waved a hand at him. “I’m no infidel and neither are you, so…”

“So to these people we are.” The archaeologist turned to once again face their captors. “Look, Stellar and Comtarr, we meant no harm in coming here. If our presence offends you, we will be glad to leave…”

“Only after you have explained your devices and strange weapons to us…” Ayanda pulled O’Neill’s radio from his pocket.

“We’d be…” Daniel started.

Jack poked him in the ribs, hard, distracting him. “We’d be happy to do that but, well, those things are *our* sacred mysteries, and sorry, we can’t let you in on them either…”

Ayanda’s eyes blazed. “You are a prisoner, and you have no choice. You will tell us, or you will be subjected to the wrath of our God.”

O’Neill waved a hand in dismissal. “Gods, gods, gods, everywhere we go it’s the gods this and the gods that…”

The Comtarr surged forward, swinging the staff weapon like a club.

The blow wouldn’t have come within two feet of a healthy Jack O’Neill. The Colonel threw up an arm to deflect the weapon, at the same time taking a sideways step, losing his balance as his wounded leg buckled with the movement and the heavy staff clipped him across the face as he fell.

The priest smiled down at the groaning man on the floor. “The staff of Comtarr smites the infidel, as the holy text tells us. Tomorrow, you will face the wrath of our God.”

Daniel stood protectively over O’Neill while the priest issued his threat, and the men left. Bending down, he saw Jack’s eyes were open, if looking a little unfocused.

O’Neill managed to fasten his eyes on the worried face of his teammate hovering just above his own. “I guess I offended the priest guy, huh?” Jack tried to brush away the blood that was dripping from his nose.

Daniel used a piece of his t-shirt to wipe the gore off O’Neill’s face. “Gee, Jack, ya think?” Finally, the young archaeologist flopped down on the ground beside the Colonel, his back resting against the wall. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” O’Neill asked, once again lying flat on his back, eyes half closed. “Bleed when I get hit in the nose? That’s a, ah, normal human body function, I think.”

Jackson threw him an exasperated glance. “No. I mean why do you always jump right in and annoy people?”

“Just my natural charming ways. I like to be the center of attention,” Jack smirked, then, seeing the younger man was serious, he added, “smoke and mirrors, Daniel.”

“Subterfuge? Sticking your neck out and getting thumped in the face by a staff weapon was meant to be subterfuge?”

For someone so smart, when it came to confrontational situations Daniel just didn’t get and quite probably was *never* going to get it, O’Neill thought sadly. “Daniel,” he started in patiently, like he was explaining it to a child, not a 30-something grown man. “It kept them from looking around in here too closely, didn’t it? They didn’t notice the place you were digging at the back wall, did they?”

Daniel pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “Oh, right.” He stayed silent a moment, thinking. “So all these times when you jump up and make a lot of noise, drawing the attention to yourself, it’s…”

“A distraction. A shell game. A feint. A tried and true military tactic. When they’re staring at the right hand, they don’t notice what the left hand is doing. Or has done.”

“Right,” Daniel sighed, then slid across the dirt floor to the back wall and began digging once more at the mortar binding the bricks that comprised the wall of their hut.

More hours passed. No water was brought and no food, despite the fact that the hungry, thirsty captives could smell the savory aroma of something cooking on a nearby fire. The scent would have made his mouth water, if he’d had any moisture left, Jack thought dismally.

()()()()()()()()

The light in the forest was dimming noticeably by the time Teal’c and Carter reached the village. Studying the scene with her binoculars, the Captain could see no sign of her team leader or SG-1’s civilian scholar. “There’s no sign of the Colonel or Daniel, but I have seen a couple of the men we met in the clearing, and one of them is wearing an SG vest. So this is definitely the right village,” Carter assured Teal’c.

“What is our plan of action, CaptainCarter?”

“We wait until dark and keep watching. If we haven’t spotted the others by then, we’ll need to go in and start looking around for further signs.”

()()()()()()()()

“Jack,” Daniel gently shook O’Neill’s shoulder.

The Air Force officer started, instantly awake. “What?” he whispered back into the darkness.

“I’ve gotten four bricks lose. When I pull those out, the ones above should come, too, and we’ll be able to crawl out. Tight fit but...”

“That’s good,” Jack answered him encouragingly as he steeled himself to move.

“Are you going to be okay?” Daniel’s tone was worried.

“I’ll be fine once I’m out of here. Let’s go.” Gripping Daniel’s shoulder, the Colonel slid over to the back wall of the hut.

Carefully, Jackson pulled out three bricks from the bottom row, sliding them inside. A fourth brick just above it came free easily, and the one next to it. As Daniel was pulling that one away, a sixth brick started to slide and Jack stretched out a hand to slow its fall. Even then, it hit the ground with a loud thump.

The noise seemed loud in the darkness.

For long moments, the two men looked at each other apprehensively, but there was no reaction from the guard still stationed at the front door.

“You go first,” O’Neill pointed at his teammate.

Daniel flattened himself on his belly and began pushing forward slowly, using his hands to pull his body forward and his feet to push himself under the wall. Once outside, he climbed quickly to his feet, looking around, seeing and hearing nothing suspicious in the darkness. Turning back to the wall and kneeling, “Come on,” he encouraged the Colonel.

O’Neill bit his lip to cover the groan that threatened to escape his lips as he maneuvered in front of the small opening. Using only his hands and one leg, he silently propelled himself forward, dragging his injured limb over the rough dirt. Inch by painful inch, he dragged his body through the opening, and then Daniel was grabbing his hands and pulling him through.

Once outside, Jack lay still for a moment, willing the pain in his thigh to subside before accepting Daniel’s helping hand. Letting the younger man pull him upright, O’Neill threw his arm over his teammate’s shoulders. Jack swayed with dizziness for a moment, then, taking a deep breath, he nodded. He swung his leg forward, gasping sharply as the pain bit through damaged tissue and torn muscle, raced along frayed nerves, knees buckling, threatening to send him crashing back to the ground. Gripping Daniel’s shoulder more tightly, closing his eyes in concentration, the Colonel ordered his body to ignore what it could do nothing about. Taking a step, O’Neill used the bad leg only for a bit of balance, weight bearing down on Daniel’s shoulders, jerking his good leg forward to catch himself, like some macabre three-legged dance.

They moved slowly, hampered by the need for silence, the darkness, and O’Neill’s stumbling steps. He found a lurching, hobbling rhythm; it wasn’t too bad in the village, on the smooth packed streets but once they’d cleared the last row of houses and headed into the forest, the rough ground kept catching their feet, threatening to trip them, especially the already shaky Colonel. Despite the chill night air, they were soon both sweating.

“You should rest,” Daniel could hear the rasp of Jack’s rough, hard breathing.

“No time now,” the older man insisted, forcing himself on, into the darkness.

----------

O’Neill’s world shrunk to a pinpoint, one goal, one focus: the need to keep moving, ignore the trembling in his leg, disregard the warm feel of blood sliding wetly out from under the crude bandage, pretend he couldn’t feel the stab of pain with every stumbling step. He was leaning more and more heavily on Daniel as they moved, his leg able to bear almost no weight. It was damn awkward, staggering forward, and then his foot caught on something, a rut or a root and he suddenly found himself face down on the forest floor, breath driven from his body, the pain washing through him. Rolling over onto his back with a groan, Jack could see Daniel standing above him, the younger man’s face worried in the dim light.

“Jack?”

“I’ll be a’right. In a minute,” he mumbled. “Catch… my breath.”

“Let me check the bandage…” the younger man offered helpfully.

“No!” Jack swatted the hands away from his thigh. “Leave it,” he grunted, pushing himself up to grab Daniel’s hand. “Pull!”

Daniel pulled, Jack staggering upright, hunched over as he fought to contain the pain, fought to keep the swirling darkness at bay. Deep breaths, slow, even, contained, controlled. Ignore the dizziness, ignore the weakness, ignore the desire to lay down and rest, because this isn’t the time or the place, O’Neill reminded himself.

“We should stop,” Daniel insisted, concern furrowing his forehead. “*I* need a rest,” he admitted, hoping that would get Jack to stop. And it was the truth, the archaeologist *was* tired, half carrying his flagging CO wasn’t easy.

Jack shook his head. “No time. We’ve got to get to the ‘gate before they find out we’re gone,” he rasped. “How much further?”

“To the Stargate? I don’t think it’s too far. Two miles, maybe three.”

“Oh, yeah, right, piece of cake. Not far at all.” With a grimace, O’Neill began walking once more.

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

They didn’t get to the gate.

They were only a few hundred yards into the trees, just starting to climb the hill where they’d been captured, when a dark, silent, figure suddenly stepped in front of them.

O’Neill fumbled instinctively for his 9mm, before remembering the natives had taken it.

“Daniel? Colonel? Is that you?” the whispered voice of Captain Carter came from the right of the looming shadow.

“Geesh, why don’t you say something? Give a guy a heart attack, would ya’?” O’Neill groused.

“Why would you wish me to give you such an illness, O’Neill?” Teal’c intoned solemnly.

“I don’t want… aw, Hell, forget it. Just give me a hand here, so we can get off this freakin’ planet, huh?”

“That I can assist you with, O’Neill,” the Jaffa agreed, moving to take O’Neill’s other arm. With Daniel on one side and Teal’c on the other like a pair of human crutches, they began to make better time as they started up on the hill toward the gate.

----------

They didn’t get to the gate this time, either.

“Halt!” This time, less than halfway up the hill, a dozen or more dark figures stepped out of the shadow of the trees, weapons drawn. SG-1 was quickly surrounded. A torch was lit, revealing the familiar face of Ayanda’s bodyguard walking up to check on the captives. “How nice. We now have all of you together once again. It makes things so much more convenient for us, not to worry about stumbling over strangers out here in the dark woods.”

“You could just let us go, then there’d be no one to stumble over at all,” O’Neill suggested.

Ayanda’s man laughed. “You talk boldly, for a man who carries the mark of my bolt.”

“I carry a lot of marks.” Jack shrugged.

“When the priests are done, you will not talk so boldly, if you talk at all,” the man turned and walked away, signaling his men with a wave of the hand. “Bring them. The Stellar and the priests await."

=====================

The team was quiet now, even O’Neill too weary to talk on the long trek back down the hill, through the forest, retracing their path to the village. Dawn was brightening the sky when they finally arrived back at the village, exhausted. They were shoved unceremoniously into a different but equally small and empty hut, guards at front and rear this time.

“There’s no place like home,” O’Neill looked around contemptuously, pointed to a spot on the floor. “I’ll take that bit of dirt.” Teal’c and Daniel eased the wounded man to the hut’s floor, Jack sprawling flat on his back.

“Oh, this is so not a fun planet,” O’Neill said, letting his eyes slide closed. “Next time, we go to a planet with real houses, no huts, no hovels, no yurts, no caves, no teepees, no tents, no igloos,” he opened his eyes to fix his second with a glare. “Real houses, got that, Carter?”

“Yes, Sir,” she agreed. She was rummaging in the pockets of her jacket, pulling out antiseptic and a sterile dressing. “I managed to save these before they took our vests, Sir,” she told the Colonel as she knelt beside him. “Let me rebandage your wound.”

“Do your worst, Captain,” O’Neill sighed, throwing one arm over his face as he felt her hands begin removing the old bandage.

Carter couldn’t hold back the gasp as she removed the old dressing. Even in the dim light of the hut, her CO’s leg looked awful, red and swollen streaks fanning out from the angry looking entry wound in the flesh of his thigh. Blood had soaked into the dark camo cloth all the way down past his knee. Willing her hands to stop shaking, Sam steeled herself to use the antiseptic wipes to clean the edges of the ragged wound. She felt the Colonel flinch when she began, heard his first sharp intake of breath, his rapid breathing, and the curses mumbled under his breath as she worked as gently as she could.

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

They were ignored through the long, hot day.

As the hours passed, Teal’c prowled the confined space; Daniel tried to talk to the guards, to no avail; Carter sat beside the Colonel, occasionally wiping the sweat from his forehead. O’Neill, knowing something was going to happen, tried to sleep, to hoard his strength and encourage his team to do the same, dozing between desultory conversations, listening quietly as Carter explained how she and Teal’c had hidden from their pursuers; as Daniel detailed their escape of the day before; as they discussed escape strategies.

The heat built inside the hut, the air seemed lifeless and still, stifling.

There was no sign of rescue and no escape in sight.

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

Evening arrived. They could hear the sounds of activity outside, smell the aroma of meals being prepared. Nothing was brought to them, even Daniel’s continued requests for water were ignored. As the sun sank toward the horizon, the heat began to taper off.

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

At dusk, they were dragged out of the hut, hands tied tightly behind them, and marched through the village and into the temple, two of the natives half dragging, half carrying O’Neill. Daniel tried to look around at the ornately carved walls as they were hurried through a large room and to the front of another echoing chamber. Stone stairs led up to a platform, where, side by side, they were forced to their knees on a narrow ledge facing toward an altar. There the bindings on their hands, still fastened behind their backs, were fixed to rings on the floor between their feet. A noose was set around the neck of each captive, the end of the rope looped over a ceiling beam directly above them, and snugged tight against their throats. As long as they stayed immobile, they would be able to breathe. Any movement, down or side to side, choked off their air, like the choke chain on a dog.

The situation forced them to stare forward at the centerpiece of the temple, a lifesized carved statue with a distinctly Egyptian countenance, eyes painted white, wearing a lion headdress and carrying a long, deadly looking sword.

The Comtarr prostrated himself in front of the gleaming image.

“A Goa’uld,” Sam whispered, noting the eyes.

“Oh goody, looks like we’ve found one of Ra’s old friends, hey?” Jack cracked.

“Silence!” the priest ordered angrily. “The voice of the infidel may not tarnish the sacred walls.”

“They look like plain old walls to me,” Jack snapped. “And that looks like another phony god wanna-be.”

The priest spun toward the captive and slapped O’Neill’s face, the blow knocking him sideways, the noose going taut across his throat. Gasping for air, the Colonel struggled to right himself as the others watched, unable to help. Finally, he managed to get himself back onto his knees, his head held high enough for air to once again fill his lungs.

“No one insults The Lord of the Massacre,” the Comtarr grinned maliciously and walked away.

“The Lord of the Massacre?” Carter whispered, trying to look at Daniel out of the corner of her eye, since she couldn’t turn far enough to face him. “Daniel, do you know anything about this Goa’uld?”

Daniel was searching his mind, filtering through the endless lists of gods and goddesses. “Lord of the Massacre. Lord of the Massacre…” He closed his eyes in concentration for a moment before the name came to him. “Mahes.” He looked up and around at the writings carved into the temple walls. “But it doesn’t say Mahes anywhere. Still, the gods had many names, depending on the city…”

Daniel stared at the writings on the wall, thankful he’d managed to keep his glasses. The symbols were familiar but distorted somehow. The archaeologist blinked, concentrated, knowing the answer was there, just beyond his grasp…

“Mahes, Mihos, Miysis, Mysis,” he recited to himself in a whisper. The name could be any one of those, and the wrong name wouldn’t help them at all. He had to be right the first time, no guessing. “An ancient Egyptian lion-god of war.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” O’Neill mumbled, listening to Daniel thinking out loud.

“Believed to help Ra fight against Apep each night,” the archaeologist continued mumbling, “a god who protected the pharoah while he was in battle. Sometimes portrayed as a lion devouring a captive…”

“That doesn’t sound so good, either,” Jack mumbled, eyes closed.

“Patron of punishment…”

“Oh, great,” O’Neill muttered.

“…Rarely referred to by his name. Sometimes called The Scarlet Lord in reference to his bloody sacrifices, or the Lord of Slaughter.”

“So not the Lord of the Dance, huh?” Jack whispered, concentrating on Daniel’s words to give him something to focus on, something besides the pain and the fever and the really awful way he was feeling.

“Mahes son of either Bast or Ptah or Sekhmet. Mahes repels evil,” Daniel was still trying to read the words on the temple wall, stumbling over the translations. They were similar to The Book of the Dead, but different, words changed here and there. Was it just poor copying or deliberate distortion? By the Goa’uld, or the locals themselves?

-----------

Carter had long ago tuned out the endless droning of the native’s prayers. Now she was watching the Colonel worriedly. None of them had had any water for almost 24 hours, and while that meant they were all thirsty, the others were okay for a while yet. But the Colonel, with a bleeding, infected wound, was already suffering the effects of dehydration. Even as Sam watched, she saw O’Neill sway dangerously, then catch himself at the last second, his fever flushed face straining with concentration.

Shifting uncomfortably, the Captain wondered how long her CO could endure this. Hours ago her own shoulders had become bundles of cramped, stricken muscles screaming for release. Her knees and hips ached from the uncomfortable position she was forced to maintain. How the Colonel did it, she didn’t know, not with a gaping hole in his thigh and a raging fever. If he passed out, he’d strangle.

More hours passed.

And then people began to shuffle into the temple. Daniel could hear their footsteps behind them, though he couldn’t move his head far enough to actually see them. They were eerily silent.

Jack O’Neill raised his head. The world around him was gray and shimmering, but he wasn’t so far gone that he missed the subtle sounds of people coming up behind him. Damn. He tried to shake his head, nearly falling over, barely able to catch his balance, gasping for air as the noose around his throat tightened once more. God, he wanted a drink, a few minutes to lie down; he wanted everything to stand still, the floor and the walls to quit spinning and the pounding pain in his leg to quit, if only for a minute. His raw throat ached, his hands felt numb, his shoulders throbbed with the tension of muscles held locked in a rigid, uncomfortable, unnatural pose. O’Neill shifted his weight, hoping even the slight change in position afforded by his bonds could help ease the pain in his leg.

Didn’t help. He raised fever glazed eyes, and looked into the face of the Goa’uld.

For a moment, his fever baked brain mistook the statue for something real and his heart began to race, his body lurching, struggling to escape in a mindless fight or flight reaction. The noose around his throat tightened once more, and Jack gasped for air as black dots began flickering across his vision.

“Jack!” Daniel whispered. “Jack!”

“O’Neill!” Teal’c’s solemn tones.

“Colonel,” Sam’s voice added.

And then he remembered. Just a statue. In the temple. Snakehead phony god. O’Neill straightened his exhausted body with a groan, shivering.

Suddenly, the priest began to chant.

Funny, it didn’t sound much different than the priests of his childhood had sounded, speaking in a language he didn’t understand.

Daniel understood. He recognized the words, they were words he’d read just in the last few hours, words carved on the walls of the temple around them, words nearly the same as those he’d read many times in textbooks back on Earth. But they were subtly different somehow. The idea kept nagging at him as he listened to the priest’s words, droning on.

“Hear us oh mighty Most Holy One! We beseech you to listen to your people, to hear our cries and to grant our prayers,” said the priest, once again prostrating himself before the great statue. “We bring before you infidels, unbelievers, they who would blaspheme you; who claim to be friends, extending the hand of peace yet carrying the weapons of war.” The priest lifted himself back to his knees. “Behold the scribe your Comtarr, whose word is truth and brings Homage to you…”

Daniel recognized the words, well known passages from the Book of the Dead.

“…ye who live for the endless and infinite eons of time which make up eternity. Deliver us. Grant ye to me that my mouth may speak your truth, for I know you and I know your names. I know the mighty God before me. Show me the Eye of Horus burning with fire, the fire in your eyes. The things which have been made are Eternity and the things which shall be made are Everlastingness, and that Eternity is the Day, and Everlastingness the Night.”

The Comtarr paused, turning to glare at the prisoners. “Oh mighty One whose name we do not speak, grant us your wisdom. Give us a sign, so we may know your will.” The man rose, stepping forward to the altar, lighting a tall, slender candle, shaped oddly, shaped like a staff weapon. “The flame is the flame of their lives. Tell us you wishes…

The archaeologist knew this ritual. If the flame burned, the captives would be allowed to live; if it went out, it was a sign from the god that the captives were to die. A nice, simple ritual, and one very easy to cheat.

If the priest wanted the captives to die, a little puff of air, an extra wave of the arm in its billowing sleeves, and the flame would go out.

Comtarr turned once again, his eye catching Daniel’s, and then he lit the flame. Throwing his hands into the air, the flame guttered, flickered, and died. "The God decrees death!"

The crowd behind them sighed.

Daniel was desperately forcing his head to the left, to read the remainder of the text engraved on the wall. The movement cut off his air. A few seconds, he could see the words, then the lack of oxygen would make the walls grow dim and waver, and he’d have to turn his head, losing his place. Moving his head back into the forced position, he gasped for air, and tried again, his eyes skimming the ornate writing. The answer had to be there. He mumbled aloud, concentrating on reading, the task made difficult by the flickering dim light cast by the torches, and the oddly stilted script. The name had to be there, it had to be…

‘Oh Most Holy One,’ he read, ‘whose name we cherish and hold pure in our hearts, hear our praise. We carry out your bidding, in the name of the Nameless One, Lord of the Massacre, Mihos…’

That was it! “Mihos!” shouted Daniel.

The crowd behind him gasped.

The Comtarr leaped to his feet, whirling to face the captives, his face showing astonishment, then fear. “You speak the sacred name of the God! How can you know?”

“I read…” Daniel nearly told the priest the truth, then remembered Jack’s warnings, about not telling all your secrets, about holding a few cards close to your vest. “I, uh, have read the words of the Gods, in the Book of the Dead.”

The priest stepped forward, glaring now. “You know the Sacred Book? How do you know his name? How dare you speak the name of our God?”

Subterfuge. Illusion. Take advantage of whatever resource the situation offers you. How many times had Jack told him that? “We are the emissaries of Mihos, sent to test the worthiness of his people.”

More gasps from the stunned villagers gathered behind them, followed by frightened whispers.

“Test us?” Comtarr asked.

“To, uh, see if you’re following the rituals. To be sure you are honoring him. To find out how you would treat strangers who came to his temple.” Daniel ad libbed.

The priest stepped forward, cunning in his eyes. “If you are truly the emissaries of Mihos, free yourselves.”

Daniel shook his head theatrically. “Ah, Comtarr, would you fail your god? Fail to honor Mihos’s representatives once they have revealed themselves to you?”

“You are devils. This is a trick,” Comtarr hissed.

“Then how does he know the name of your God?” Teal’c spoke up for the first time.

The people behind SG-1 were whispering, the noise growing steadily in volume.

“Silence!” screamed the priest.

“Do not silence the people in their worship of the mighty God Mihos,” Daniel read the words from the writing on the wall. “Let them raise their voices in praise of the glories of the god of wonders. Let Mihos hear their words, their songs; let them bring their gifts to Mihos, the fruits of their labors; let them learn the words of adoration, let them offer their eldest sons and their most beautiful daughters to the service of the God.”

“He knows the sacred words,” shouted a voice from the crowd.

“We will be punished for harming them!” cried another.

“Set them free!” pleaded a third.

“Free them! Free them!”

Many voices now were crying out to the priests.

Comtarr was not convinced; there was doubt on his face.

“We must obey!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“He speaks the holy words; how can he know them if he is not of Mihos?” shouted another.

Suddenly, a lone figure moved forward out of the crowd, a knife in his hand, and he sliced through the bonds holding Daniel. Rubbing his chafed wrists with numbed fingers, the young archaeologist forced himself upright on wobbly legs, long cramped muscles protesting every movement.

“They shall reach out their hands to me. I shall stand up. I shall be master of him that would subject me to restraint,” these words, from the Book of the Dead, Daniel didn’t need to read from the temple wall, he knew them by heart. “They shall open the holy paths to me, they shall see my form, they shall listen to my words. Oh ye gods, whose powers advance, conduct me to the Star-gods which never rest!”

“The Star-Gods, he knows of the Star-Gods,” murmured one of the priests in awe.

“He told us the strangers came from the Star-Gate…”

“We must let them go! The gods will be angry.”

“Words are not enough. Prove you are truly from the right hand of Mihos!” demanded the Comtarr.

“The staff,” Teal’c whispered at Daniel.

Jackson looked at the seven foot metal rod, and then glanced at Teal’c, sudden understanding dawning. These people saw the staff not as a weapon, but as an icon, a ceremonial staff.

Grasping the device out of the hand of the priest, praying the thing still worked, Daniel looked to Teal’c, trying to remember how he’d seen the Jaffa operate the weapon. His hands found the knob-like protuberance, pushing. A momentary panic when nothing happened, when the switch didn’t move, felt stuck, and then it slid, minutely, but it moved, and he pressed harder, and the switch clicked into place. Turning the staff, pushing the second knob down and then sideways, he was rewarded with the snap of metal sliding, the tip opening, the crackle of the weapon charging.

The priest backed up a step, the crowd behind Daniel going silent.

“Behold the Eye of Horus!” Jackson proclaimed and depressed the switch once more. Power surged from the tip of the weapon, blasting a small crater in the floor, stone chips flying.

The people screamed, dropping to their knees; the priest shrieked and fell to the floor, terrified.

“Untie us, quickly, DanielJackson,” Teal’c hissed.

Daniel grabbed the knife where the native had let it fall, cutting through Teal’c’s bonds. The Jaffa surged to his feet, taking the staff weapon as Daniel cut the Captain free, then turned to O’Neill. The man looked to be all but unconscious, eyes closed tightly in concentration. “Jack,” the young man said softly, rewarded by the eyes opening as the archaeologist cut the noose first, then gently untied the bindings holding the Colonel’s wrists, and finally the ropes around his ankles. O’Neill sagged against the younger man, spent, too tired to move.

Carter picked up a jug set in front of the statue, sniffed, discovered it was wine, and set it back down, trying several before finding one containing water. “There’s not much,” she warned, handing it to Daniel, who held the liquid to O’Neill’s lips. He drank a sip, coughed, then drank more, emptying the cup.

“We must leave quickly, before they regain their suspicions, and their courage,” said Teal’c suddenly.

“Right,” Daniel agreed. “Jack, can you walk?”

Brown eyes opened determinedly. “Oh, sure. Yup.” O’Neill made a feeble attempt to push himself to his feet, failing until Daniel grabbed one arm and Carter the other. Supporting him between them, they headed for the door, Teal’c covering their retreat with the staff weapon.

All around them, the villagers remained prostrate, shaking with fear.

As the members of SG-1 reached the doorway, Daniel paused, “Wait here a minute.” Easing Jack to rest, propped up by Carter on one side and the temple wall on the other, he turned back to the natives, raising his voice. “Your god has spoken. Listen well. Do not be so eager to see evil in strangers; do not harm those who come seeking peace. Stay here and meditate upon your failings until the sun rises, and then fast until the darkness returns. Spend the day seeking forgiveness for doubting the emissaries of Mihos. Contemplate ways to do good in the name of your god.”

“And have a nice day,” Jack mumbled.

Daniel quickly moved back to once again slide an arm around O’Neill’s waist, draping the Colonel’s arm over his shoulder. Teal’c in front, they hobbled out of the temple, straight into a contingent of natives, led by Montal Ayanda.

The native leader stood staring at them. “You are leaving?”

“Yes,” Daniel answered. “We have no wish to harm anyone…”

“But we will if we need to,” Jack forced his rough voice loud enough to be heard.

Ayanda looked from them to Teal’c, and the way the Jaffa was holding the staff.

“We witnessed the activation of the staff,” Ayanda said quietly. “We will accompany you to the ring. Though I do not believe so strongly in the power of the god as those do,” the leader nodded at the temple, “I would wish you gone, returned to wherever you came from, and my people left alone to decide on their own about their gods.”

“That would be wise,” said Jack, softly. “Pick your own gods, and be sure they really are gods.”

Ayanda nodded, moving back to allow the members of SG-1 to proceed down the path, out of the village, and back towards the Stargate.

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

Daniel was first through the gate, even as his feet landed on the grating he was shouting frantically, “Medical team. We need a medical team!” Quickly then he spun back to watch the gate. His eyes flicked back and forth nervously as he waited for the others.

General Hammond had arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “Dr. Jackson?”

The archaeologist turned a worried face toward the SGC commander. “Jack got hurt. He’s unconscious…”

“The Colonel?”

Just then the subject of their discussion was carried through the gate by Teal’c.

Doctor Fraiser was immediately at his side, waving at the waiting gurney. The man from Chulak carefully placed the still form of his unconscious commander on the stretcher as the doctor did a quick exam, checking his pulse and listening to heart and lungs.

“What happened?” she asked, without looking up.

“He was shot with a crossbow bolt,” Carter explained, her eyes wide with worry, “two days ago. Daniel removed it…”

Slipping the stethoscope back around her neck as she straightened, Fraiser nodded at the medical team. “Let’s get him down to the infirmary. Stat …” she added, issuing more orders as the gurney was already being wheeled down the hall. “As soon as we get those lines in, we’ll start the transfusion, and I want x-rays…”

The emergency team was standing by. This was what they’d been drilling for, the long hours of preparation and practice being put to work. Fraiser was pleased as her people met her expectations, each one knowing his or her job, chatter kept to a minimum as they set to work efficiently.

“Let Dr. Warner and the OR staff know we’ll be heading their way as soon as he’s stable,” Fraiser informed one of the nurses, who grabbed a phone to relay the message.

O’Neill remained unmoving as they cut away his torn and bloodied clothes. One nurse drew blood samples, while another brought in the portable x-ray unit to get shots of his injured leg and the bruised cheekbone. A catheter was inserted along with a subclavian IV line for transfusions, antibiotics and saline. All the while they were monitoring blood pressure, respiration and heartrate.

Checking for other injuries and finding none, Fraiser finally turned her attention to the ragged thigh wound itself. She felt O’Neill flinch as she sponged blood and dirt away from the injury, and began cleaning it with disinfectant.

He shuddered and a low moan escaped his lips, his hands fluttering against the white sheets as he tried to open his eyes.

“Colonel,” the doctor placed a gloved hand on his chin, tipping his head towards her. “Sir, try to relax. You’re in the infirmary, and you’re going to need surgery to clean up this wound. You are doing just fine,” Fraiser told him reassuringly. His eyelids fluttered, and momentarily she glimpsed confused looking brown eyes staring up at her. “Colonel O’Neill…”

Stubbornly, the eyes opened again, and his lips moved.

She couldn’t hear his words in the noisy confusion, wasn’t sure he was actually even saying anything, just mumbling and, honestly, she’d rather he didn’t. “Sir, don’t try to talk. You’re okay, you’re home.” Even as she spoke soothingly to him, her hands were gently probing the edges of the wound. Pain flashed across his face as she worked, his eyes scrunching tight shut and his mouth going tight with the effort not to cry out. “The pain meds should be kicking in, Sir. Relax, and let them work.”

“Hmmm?” Opening his eyes once more, he licked his lips, and staring at her, tried again. “Home?”

“Yes, you’re home, Colonel.”

“All?” he paused, closing his eyes a moment as he fought to force the words past the confusion clouding his thoughts. “Home? All? ‘Kay?”

She suddenly understood. “Yes, Sir, all of your team made it home okay. No one else was injured.”

He sighed audibly, and let his eyes fall closed.

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

The three uninjured members of SG-1 had stood and watched helplessly after their leader was wheeled away.

“People, what happened? I need details,” Hammond spoke to gain their attention. “Let’s talk on the way, shall we?” he pointed out the door, and after the doctor and her patient.

They updated the general, finished their own post-mission exams, and soon were gathered in the hall outside the medical facility.

The time passed slowly, each lost in thought about his or her own actions during the mission, what they might have done to prevent this or to get him home sooner.

Finally, what seemed like ages later, a tired looking Janet Fraiser emerged from the ICU and updated them. "He’s come through the surgery fine. Barring complications, he’ll recover fully in a few weeks. Now, why don’t all of you go and get some rest? He won’t be awake until morning.”

Sam looked at Daniel who looked at Teal’c who looked back at Sam, wordless communication passing between them. It was Carter who spoke for them all. “If it’s okay, Janet, I think we’d like to stay anyway.”

The doctor nodded. “Okay,” she agreed kindly, knowing it was going to be a long night for all of them.

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

“Colonel O’Neill?”

He didn’t want to wake up yet. He was still tired. Damn. It seemed like he hadn’t slept for weeks, he was so tired. How early was it?

“Colonel O’Neill? Can you wake up for me? Open your eyes, Sir,” said a soft, feminine voice.

Hmmm. Nice dream. But since when did the women in his dreams call him Colonel? Curious, O’Neill decided to open his eyes. He found himself looking up into a face he knew he should know. Hmmm. White coat covering standard issue Air Force shirt and tie… stethoscope. Damn. Doctor. What was her name? New doctor. What idiot had assigned a woman doctor to this unit?

He blinked, still staring up at a worried looking but kindly face. “Colonel?”

Name. Name like the TV show, a doctor, no, shrink sort of, Freeman? Firman? Fraiser!

“Fraiser,” he managed to mumble sleepily.

“That’s right, Sir,” she was smiling down at him, “I’m Doctor Fraiser.”

Good. Something he remembered right then.

“Do you remember what happened to you, Colonel?”

Of course he did. Sort of. They’d gone to that planet and he’d gotten shot with an arrow because Daniel, scientist geek that he was, forgot everything Jack had been teaching him about how to act, and how not to act, in a confrontation. And then they’d ended up in that temple, with that Lord of the Massacres God guy with a dozen names, and damn, but Daniel had got them out of that mess, talked them right out of trouble. “Daniel saved us,” O’Neill mumbled. Funny, though, he didn’t remember going to the gate. “How’d I get back here?”

“Apparently, you passed out on the way back to the gate. Teal’c carried you most of the way.”

“Ah. Don’t remember that.”

“Usually you don’t remember much when you’re unconscious, Sir.”

“Right, Doc,” he agreed, letting his heavy eyes slide shut. “They’re okay?”

“Who, Colonel?”

“Others. Team,” he battled and got his eyelids to slide upward one more time.

“Yes, Sir, they’re home and unhurt. They’ve been wanting to see you actually. Ready for some visitors?”

“Yeah. Sure. Hope they brought the beer.”

She tutted in mock concern. “Sorry, Colonel, no beer.”

Fraiser stepped out into the hallway, smiling at the worried faces of SG-1. “You can go in and see him for just a minute. He’s still feverish and needs rest.”

Captain Carter, Teal’c and Daniel Jackson all marched into the small infirmary room, filling it to overflowing. O’Neill was looking pale and tired, but better than they’d seen him look for days.

“How are you feeling, Sir?” Carter smiled at her CO.

“Peachy, Captain, just peachy.”

“The doctor has assured us your wound will heal soon,” Teal’c added.

“Yeah,” O’Neill was finding it hard to keep his eyes open.

“Look, I uh, think we ought to go,” Danial suggested. “The doctor said you needed rest and you look tired…”

“Humm, hmmm,” O’Neill was finding it hard to stay awake.

“We’ll be back, Sir.”

“Bring beer, would ya’, and food. Real food. Pizza would be good.”

“I do not think Dr. Fraiser would allow it.”

“Probably not,” O’Neill muttered.

“Definitely not,” said Fraiser, peering in from the doorway. “Now, Colonel, time for you to rest.”

The able bodied members of SG-1 started for the door.

“Daniel…” Jack raised his voice.

The young archaeologist paused in the doorway, then turned back to the injured man on the bed, filled with dread. Was O’Neill going to kick him off SG-1 because of what happened? “Jack?”

“Just wanted to let you know you did good, back there, in the temple thingy, the way you talked our way out of there…”

Daniel’s trepidation turned to elation at the praise.

“Course, we still have to work at identifying the bad guys right off the bat, so we don’t end up in the clutches of those priesty types again.” Jack’s eyes were sliding closed. “Good job.”

“Ah, thanks.”

With a contented sigh, O’Neill sank deeply into the soft bed. His team had done well, all of them, even Daniel. He might still be a bit of a square peg, but they’d rounded off a few of his corners on this last mission, and he was fitting in to a place on the team. Yeah, the man had made a mistake, a pretty damn big, painful mistake, Jack thought as he shifted in hopes of finding a more comfortable position for his injured leg, but Jackson had also been the one who’d gotten them out of that mess.

A little knowledge might be a dangerous thing, but it could be a good thing for SG-1.

Smiling contentedly, O’Neill gave in to the need for sleep. A few weeks, and he’d be good as new, and there were many more planets out there to explore, more people to meet, more wonders to find, and more lessons to be learned by all of his team. Himself included.

And when those next 30 days were up, and he had to update the General on the status of SG-1, Jack knew what he’d say.

SG-1 was still more than a little unorthodox, all of them, him, too. It was always going to be like that, because that was what made it work. Each one of them, different as they were, brought their own strengths and yes, weaknesses, too, to the team. But they *were* a team, a team that could get the job done and get home again.

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

FINISH